Sxraphyx

for a chill girl like you, it’s too obsessive to be watching naoya zenin’s stream on your second screen right now, all while you’re timing your queue with him for the past hour. 

his face cam showed the usual look of pure, unadulterated arrogance, his dyed hair messy, and a headset resting over his ears, the other pair of it slid backwards from his ear, showing his piercings there.

he was of course, in the middle of a fucking rant, leaning into his mic to insult a viewer who had the audacity to donate five dollars just to ask for gameplay tips.

“tips? you want tips from me?” naoya scoffed. “here’s a tip: sell your pc and buy a soul, you fucking loser. don’t ever talk to me like we’re on the same level just because you dropped a fiver.”

the chat was moving at light speed. half of them were simping for his degradation, and the other half were spamming ‘lmao’ or ‘classic naoya.’ he didn’t give a shit and just refreshed his queue.

you’ve been trying to snipe his lobby because you hated this prick. he was talented at valorant, sure, but his personality was a literal biohazard. that made you want to see him lose his mind on stream, and you were petty enough to stay up all night to make it happen.

match found.

the map was bind and you checked the scoreboard immediately. 

there he was: ‘zenin_nao’ playing jett, because of course he was. 

you picked chamber to counter then cracked your knuckles. 

“oh, look at this,” naoya muttered on stream, squinting at the screen. “another fanboy in my lobby. ‘guest_01’? what a pathetic fucking name. hope you’re ready to get carried or get flamed, i’m not in the mood for dead weight.”

the game loaded in, and before the barriers even dropped, you hit shift+enter.

all [guest_01]: sup, princess. try not to cry on stream when you lose k?

naoya paused, his character frozen for a second as he read it. then he let out a mocking laugh. “this nobody really has balls. you hear this shit?” he said to his chat, his eyes widening. “humble me? you couldn’t humble me if i played with one hand tied behind my back, you little shit.”

you weren’t done. you knew exactly how to get under the skin of a guy whose ego was his only personality trait.

all [guest_01]: lets make it interesting then. 

all [guest_01]: if i headshot you three times this game, you send a dick pic.

the chat erupted. 

the scrolling text became a literal series of ‘OH SHIT’, ‘WTF’, and ‘CLIP IT’. naoya’s face went from smug to a shade of insulted red in record time. he leaned so close to the camera to the point that his nose was almost touching it.

“you fucking what?” he hissed, voice dropping. “you think you’re funny? i’ll fucking hunt you down. i’m going to make sure you uninstall this game by the time we hit round twelve. you’re dead, you hear me? you’re fucking dead.”

the barriers dropped.

naoya played like a demon, fueled by pure spite. he dashed into a-short, looking for an early pick, but you were holding a tight angle with a headhunter. 

you didn’t panic one bit, his degradations are nothing on you, he can’t possibly kill you with trash talking you like that. 

you waited for that silver hair to peek.

crack.

the kill feed showed your name and a golden crosshair next to his.

all [guest_01]: 1/3.

“fuck!” naoya slammed his desk and the sound echoed through his shitty mic. “that was luck! he was holding a pixel, what a fucking rat! stay in your hole, you coward!”

even now, he addresses you as ‘he’. just imagine his fucking reaction when he learns you’re a girl who’s clapping his ass. 

his chat was losing it, mocking him, which only made him tilt harder. 

by round five, he was playing sloppy, overpeeking everything because he was desperate to kill you and tea bag your corpse.

you caught him again on a mid rotation. he tried to updraft over a smoke, and you clipped his head mid-air with a vandal.

all [guest_01]: 2/3. hope you’re picking a good filter, nao-chan.

naoya was vibrating with rage now. he wasn’t even calling out for his team anymore. instead, he was busy cursing at his monitor while his face contorted. “i’m going to ruin you! i’ll find out who you are and i’ll fucking end you! shut up! chat, shut the fuck up before i ban every single one of you!”

the game went on and your team was winning, mostly because naoya was throwing his life away just to find you. what a pathetic loser.

this time, naoya was tucked in a corner on b-site, waiting. you knew he was there. so you threw a trademark to slow him, then swung wide. he fired and missed by an inch, giving you the opportunity to click.

headshot.

naoya’s face on your second monitor was a deep, humiliated shade of red, his veins were practically popping out of his neck as he glared at the screen. he had just been revived by his sage, only for you to instantly dome him again from across the map with a guardian.

“fuck! are you kidding me with this shit?” he screamed, slamming his fist onto his desk so hard his webcam shook. “he’s cheating! he’s definitely fucking cheating! nobody hits those shots on a moving target, i don’t care who you are!”

the chat was a dumpster fire. they were tagging him, laughing at him, and clip chiming every single death. 

naoya was usually the one doing the bullying, so seeing him get systematically dismantled by a ‘random’ (worse, is a girl) was high-tier entertainment for his miserable followers.

you leaned into your keyboard as your smirk widened. the ‘dick pic’ threat had already turned him into a stuttering mess, but you wanted to see him actually break.

all [guest_01]: you’re playing like a boosted silver, nao.

all [guest_01]: new deal since you’re so easy to hit.

all [guest_01]: if i headshot you one more time this half, the pic isn’t enough. you’re gonna have to go on cam and masturbate for me.

the stream went dead silent for a second. naoya stared at the chat box with his mouth hanging open. he looked genuinely stunned, feeling his ego finally hit a wall. then, the chat exploded into a literal wall of ‘???’ and ‘NO WAY’ and ‘DO IT’.

“you... you sick fucking freak,” naoya spat with his trembling voice. “you think i’m some cam girl? you think you can talk to me like that? i’m naoya zenin! i'll have your fucking ip tracked before the next round starts!”

but he didn’t leave the game. he was too prideful to forfeit, and too obsessed with proving he was better than you.

round nine. 

bind, defense side. 

naoya was playing u-hall, holding the angle with an operator, his hands were visibly shaking on the mouse. 

he was terrified that every time he peeked, he was thinking about your threat. he was tilted out of his mind, overthinking every micro movement.

you didn’t even use a real gun now. you pulled out the sheriff and jiggled the corner, baiting out his op shot. 

thump. 

he missed and the bullet hit the wall behind you.

“fuck! fuck! fuck!” he yelled, frantically trying to cycle his bolt.

you swung wide and you immediately saw his silver haired jett frantically trying to pull out a pistol. you took a breath, lined up the crosshair with his forehead, and clicked.

pop.

all [guest_01]: 4/3.

all [guest_01]: hope you’ve got the lotion ready, princess. i’m waiting.

naoya didn’t scream this time. he just slumped back in his expensive gaming chair, staring at the ‘killed by’ screen with a look of pure, hollowed out defeat. his chat was filled with ‘CAM ON’ and ‘PAY UP’.

he leaned forward on his face cam and his eyes dark and narrowed. “you think you won? you think you can just embarrass me like this and walk away?” he hissed. “i’m going to find out who you are. and when i do, i’m going to make you regret every single word you typed in that fucking box.”

he didn’t end the stream immediately. he just sat there, breathing hard, looking like he was debating whether to actually follow through or just smash his monitor into pieces. 

all [guest_01]: stop barking and start working that hand, nao-chan. everyone’s waiting.

he let out a jagged, frustrated breath and finally ripped his headset off, throwing it against the wall. 

the stream cut to a ‘technical difficulties’ screen, but you knew you had burrowed deep under his skin. 

the next evening, you were just lounging in the main menu while your agent was standing idle. 

you were scrolling on your phone when suddenly, the notification chime hit.

friend request: zenin_nao

the sight of his username made you wheeze. 

the prick actually did it. he probably spent all night scrubbing through the match history and seething. 

you clicked accept, and not even three seconds later, the party invite popped up. of course, you joined and the second your icon appeared in his lobby, his voice cracked through the headset. 

although he sounded harsh, he was obviously incredibly stressed.

“you. guest_01. you better have a fucking mic,” naoya snapped. his voice sounded like he hadn’t slept a wink.

you keyed your mic, leaning back with a grin. “keep your pants on, nao-chan. i’m here.”

there was a deafening silence. 

you could almost hear his brain short-circuiting through the fiber optics. 

naoya, the guy who spent his entire career preaching about how women were ‘naturally inferior’ at everything from breathing to gaming, just realized he got clapped by a girl.

“fuck... you’re a girl?” he stuttered. “you’re kidding me, no fucking way. you’re using a voice changer. there’s no way some bitch hit those shots. you were cheating… you had to be.”

“cry harder,” you laughed, the sound loud and clear. “i clapped you on stream in front of thirty thousand people. you lost the bet. so, are we doing this, or are you a bigger coward than i thought?”

“shut the fuck up!” he yelled, though you can feel his embarrassment have doubled now. “listen to me. i’m not— i’m not doing that shit on cam. do you have any idea what that would do to my family name?”

“not my problem,” you countered. “you talked all that trash, called me a ‘nobody’, and you said you’d ruin me. turns out you’re the one getting ruined by a ‘nobody’. pay up, zenin.”

you heard him pacing. the rustle of his clothes, the heavy, frustrated sighs. he sounded like a cornered animal.

“look,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, desperate mumble. “let’s... let’s negotiate. i’ll give you skins. i’ll give you whatever fucking radiant points or gift cards you want. i’ll even duo with you and carry your ass to immortal. just... drop the bet. tell my chat it was a scripted bit or something.”

“carry me?” you snorted. 

this guy is a fucking loser, indeed! 

“nao, i carried you in that lobby. your aim is shaky and dogshit. why would i want to duo with a loser?”

“i’m not a loser!” he barked, slamming something, probably his desk again. “i’m the best player on this fucking server! you just got lucky! fine, you want something else? money? i have more money than you’ll ever see in your pathetic life. name a price to shut your mouth.”

you let out a low, amused laugh, leaning back in your chair as you listened to the frantic tapping of his fingers against a desk. 

“money is boring, naoya. i want you to actually stick to your word for once in your pathetic life. you lost. and now the whole internet is waiting to see if the great naoya zenin is a liar or a man of his word.”

“i’m not a fucking liar!” he exploded. “but i’m not doing it on stream! do you have any idea how many people are watching? if i do that shit on cam, it’s over. my career, my family name, everything— gone because of some bratty girl who got lucky with a vandal.”

he paused, and you could hear him taking a shaky, sharp breath. 

he sounded like he was pacing his room, cornered and frantic.

“look,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a cautious tone. “i’ll... i’ll do it. but not over the internet. i’m not giving you a recording you can blackmail me with for the rest of my life. i’m not that fucking stupid.”

your eyebrows shot up. “oh? you’re suggesting a meetup? that’s bold for a guy who just got his ego trashed.”

“shut up,” he snapped. “i have a private suite in the city. it’s safe there. no cameras, no recording devices. you come there, i do what you want, and then we never speak again. you delete the chat logs, you tell your friends it was a joke, and we’re done.”

you couldn’t help but laugh. “a private suite? naoya, do i look stupid? how do i know you’re not just planning to have me kidnapped or some shit to save your reputation? you’re a prick, i wouldn’t put it past you.”

the silence on the other end lasted for a few seconds before he let out a insulted scoff. 

“kidnapped? you think i’m some low life criminal? i’m a zenin. i have more pride in my pinky finger than you have in your entire body. if i wanted you gone, i’d have bought your house and turned it into a parking lot by now.”

he sounded genuinely offended, his elitist pride flaring up. 

“i don’t need to kidnap a girl to win an argument. i’m giving you my word because i’m a man who doesn’t owe anyone shit, especially not a coward who’s scared to meet me face-to-face. i’ll send you the address and the keycode. you show up, or you admit you’re just a loud mouthed bitch who’s too scared to collect her prize.”

you could practically hear the smug, challenging smirk returning to his face. 

he was backed into a corner, but he was still trying to find a way to make it look like he was the one in control.

“fine,” you said. “send the address.”

the address was for a high-rise penthouse indeed. 

you rode the elevator up in silence and when the doors dinged open, you walked straight to the suite number he’d sent. 

you didn’t even knock, you just punched in the code and you’re in. 

the place was spacious and clean. 

filled with expensive furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and naoya standing by a white marble kitchen island. 

he was wearing a designer sweater, looking like he was posing for a magazine cover, but his knuckles were white where he was gripping the edge of the counter.

he turned around, ready to spit out some elitist insult about how ‘ugly’ or ‘pathetic’ you probably were, but the words died in his throat. 

his eyes traveled from your boots up to your face, and his smug expression didn’t just fade, it transformed into an obvious wide-eyed bafflement.

“you…” he trailed off, his jaw tightening. 

he clearly expected a stereotypical girl he could bully in person. 

but instead, he was looking at someone who looked like they actually had a life outside of a discord server. 

“you’re guest_01? no fucking way.”

“what? disappointed i don’t have a neckbeard, princess?” you smirked, tossing your bag onto his overpriced sofa. 

you didn’t give him a second to recover. “i’m not here to small talk. i’ve got things to do. strip. now.”

naoya flinched. “don’t— don’t talk to me like that! you think you can just walk into my house and start ordering me around?”

“the bet was the bet, naoya. you lost. your pride is already in the trash, don’t make me wait.”

he went to open his mouth, but a sharp knock at the door interrupted him. 

when it opened, one of his helpers, a guy in a suit who looked more like a bodyguard, stepped in. 

naoya cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of authority.

“your phone, please,” the guy said, holding out a hand toward you.

“and any recording devices,” naoya added. “he’s going to take your electronics to the other room. if you want this to happen, you play by my rules. i’m not having a single pixel of this recorded.”

you rolled your eyes, pulling your phone and your smartwatch off and dropping them into the guy’s hand. 

as the door closed and the bodyguard left with your stuff, you turned back to naoya and let out a mocking laugh.

“are you fucking serious right now?” you stepped closer, watching him instinctively take a half-step back. “a bodyguard, naoya? really? you’re such a fucking baby. you’re so terrified of a girl that you need a grown man to hold my phone for you? god, you’re even more pathetic in person than you are on stream.”

naoya’s eyes flashed with pure, unadulterated rage. “i’m being careful! i’m not taking any chances with my reputation.”

“your reputation is already ‘guy who got gapped by a girl’,” you countered, crossing your arms. “now stop stalling and get those clothes off. or do i need to call your guard back in to help you unzip your pants since you’re clearly too shaking to do it yourself?”

his teeth literally grinded together. 

he reached for the hem of his sweater, his fingers twitching. “i’m going to make you regret this,” he hissed, though the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes told a completely different story.

you walked over to a leather armchair positioned perfectly opposite the island and dropped into it, crossing your legs. you leaned your chin on your hand, watching him strip his clothes for you.

“well?” you prompted. “i’m waiting, nao-chan. clocks ticking.”

naoya let out a frustrated snarl, his fingers trembling as he gripped the hem of his designer sweater and yanked it over his head. 

his hair was a mess, falling over his eyes as he tossed the garment onto the marble floor.

you had to admit, the prick was built. 

he wasn’t just some skinny gamer who lived on energy drinks; his chest was lean but defined, with pale, smooth skin and sharp collarbones. 

his abs were tight, a clear v-line disappearing into the waistband of his expensive trousers. 

he looked like a goddamn model, and the realization that he actually took care of himself made the humiliation of the situation ten times more potent.

“stop... stop staring at me like that,” he hissed, his voice cracking as he reached for his belt.

he stepped out of his pants, leaving him in just his boxers. 

he was stalling, his face a deep, bruised red, but he couldn’t fill your silence with his usual trash talk. he eventually hooked his thumbs into the elastic of his boxers and pushed them down, kicking them away with a jerky, humiliated movement.

your breath hitched in your throat, and for the first time since you entered the room, the smug comment you had ready upon seeing his dick died on your tongue.

the guy was fucking massive. 

even when soft, he was heavy and thick, hanging with a weight that felt completely at odds with his lean, lithe frame. 

as he stood there, completely exposed and shivering from the vulnerability, you felt a sudden, traitorous throb between your own thighs. 

you can’t believe you’re actually wetting yourself from the mere sight of his private part. 

you had come here to ruin him, to laugh at him, but looking at him like this; packing like a monster, made you feel on edge too.

“you’re... you’re a freak,” naoya muttered, though his eyes were glued to the floor, unable to meet your gaze. 

he was shaking, obviously because his pride was at war with the biological reality of being naked in front of a girl who had just spent the last forty-eight hours destroying his ego.

you shifted in the chair, feeling the wetness of your own underwear, your heart hammering against your ribs. 

“you talk a lot of shit for someone who looks like that, naoya,” you said, your voice a little huskier than you intended. “are you just going to stand there and let me admire the view, or are you going to start?”

he finally looked up, his golden-brown eyes narrowed and wet with frustrated tears, his chest heaving. “i hate you,” he whispered, his hand finally reaching down to wrap around himself. 

his fingers could barely even close around the girth of it. “i fucking hate you so much.”

“good,” you breathed, leaning forward, your eyes fixed on his hand. “now show me what those hands can do, princess.”

naoya’s hand finally closed around himself. it was fucking absurd, his body was lean and wiry, built like an athlete, but between his legs, he was carrying a monster. 

the head was already peeking out, pink and thick, and as he started to move his hand in a slow stroke, the skin stretched tight over the shaft, revealing the pulsing veins that made your own pussy throb in sync with his heartbeat.

“look at you,” you purred, leaning so far forward in the chair that you could smell the expensive cologne still clinging to his bare skin. “you’re shaking, nao-chan. is the big, bad streamer scared of a little audience? or is it just because you know how much of a pathetic slut you look like right now, naked and jerking off because a girl told you to?”

“shut the fuck up,” he hissed, his voice dropping into a strained rasp. 

he was starting to get hard, and as he did, the size of him became even more terrifying. 

his dick was lengthening, thickening until it the tip was weeping a bead of pre-cum. 

“i’m only doing this so you’ll leave me the fuck alone. don’t— fuck— don’t think this means anything.”

“it means everything,” you countered, your hand sliding down between your own thighs, feeling the soaked fabric of your panties. 

you were fucking dripping while watching his dick slide in and out of his grip, seeing the way his abs rippled with every strained breath, was making you lose your goddamn mind. 

“it means you’re my bitch. every time you go live from now on, every time you talk shit to some kid in chat, you’re gonna remember sitting here like a dog, tossing your own salad for me.”

naoya’s eyes snapped to yours, full of pure, concentrated hatred, but his body was betraying him. 

his strokes were getting faster, more desperate. the slapping sound of his palm hitting his own thighs was loud and echoing in the room. 

he was fully erect now, making his dick look like it would split you in half if he ever got his hands on you. 

the sight of it made a fresh wave of wetness burst from your pussy, soaking your seat.

fuck.

“you like it, don't you?” he suddenly spat. 

he defininitely saw the way your eyes were glued to his cock, and they way you keep shifting in your seat. 

“you’re fucking soaking wet just looking at me. you’re probably just some lonely bitch who sniped my game because you wanted a piece of this, didn’t you? you’re pathetic.”

“maybe,” you whispered, not even bothering to deny it as you watched him pump that massive dick, his thumb rubbing over the head. “but at the end of the day, i’m the one sitting in the chair, and you’re the one performing like a circus animal. keep going, princess. i want to see you blow that load all over your expensive floor. i want to see how much of a mess a prick like you makes.”

naoya let out a choked, broken sound, his head tossing back as his pace became faster. 

he was close, his entire body tensing up, muscles popping in his arms and chest as he neared the edge, his cock twitching violently in his hand.

naoya was losing his fucking mind. 

he was flushed from his chest up to his ears, a mess of sweat and pure, raw humiliation. every time his palm slapped against the base of his throbbing cock, he’d let out a little grunt that he tried to swallow down.

you didn’t stay in the chair as well. you can’t…

you wanted to make him feel shit as much as you can, to make sure he understands that you were the one totally in control right now… and that he’s just your little bitch with a show right now. 

you stood up slowly and walked over to him until you were standing right in his personal space. 

the smell of his pre-cum hit you immediately.

“you’re losing steam, princess,” you whispered, circling him. “honestly, this is getting a little boring. i thought the great naoya zenin would be a lot more into this. are you not horny enough? or is your dick just too big for your tiny ego to handle?”

“shut— fuck— shut up,” he gasped, his eyes blown out and hazy as he stared at your waist. “i’m... i’m almost…”

“almost isn’t good enough,” you interrupted, stepping directly in front of him. “do i really have to do everything for you? do i have to actually put in effort to get this pathetic little streamer in the mood?”

you reached out and grabbed the collar of his shirt, the one he’d discarded earlier, and tossed it aside, then leaned in. 

you pressed your chest right against his face. 

and he immediately realized that you weren’t wearing a bra, and the soft weight of your breasts smothered his mouth and nose, burying him in your scent.

naoya made a muffled, strangled sound against your skin, his hands pausing on his dick for a split second before he absolutely lost it. 

you shoved his face deeper into your cleavage, allowing his nose to brush against the underside of your tits as he let out a long, shaky moan. 

“there we go,” you cooed, your hands reaching down to cup the back of his head, forcing him even deeper into your chest. “is that better, nao-chan? feel how wet i am for you? it’s almost a waste to let all that go to the floor, isn’t it?”

the contact turned him into an animal. 

his grip on his cock became frantic as he buried his face in your tits like a starving man, turning his muffled moans into desperate, shaky whimpers. 

“that’s it,” you hissed, feeling your own pussy clench and leak another wave of juice down your legs as he nuzzled frantically between your breasts. “show me what a pathetic, needy dog you are. cum for me, naoya. blow it all over yourself while you hide your face like a coward.”

he couldn’t hold back anymore. 

with one final, deep groan, his body went rigid. 

he slammed his hand down the length of his cock one last time, and a thick, hot jet of cum erupted from the tip, hitting his own stomach and the floor. 

he kept shooting, ropes of white splattering everywhere as his massive dick convulsed wildly in his hand.

he stayed buried in your breasts long after he finished, his breath hot and shaky against your skin, his body trembling as the post-nut clarity and the crushing weight of his own humiliation finally started to sink in.

you stood there for a moment, just feeling his breath against your skin as he slumped against you, completely spent. 

his dick was still twitching in his hand, while he kept his face buried between your tits like he was trying to hide from the reality of what just happened.

you let out a mocking laugh and reached down, running your fingers through his messy hair, tugging just enough to force him to look up at you. 

his face was a disaster; flushed, eyes glassy and blown out, and his lips parted as he gasped for air.

“look at you,” you giggled. “such a good, obedient little boy. you did exactly what i told you to do, nao-chan.”

he tried to scowl, tried to find some remnant of that sharp-tongued prick he was on stream, but he couldn’t find the words. 

he was too far gone. “i... i fucking hate you,” he managed to wheeze out, though his hands were still resting weakly on your hips, keeping you close.

“shhh,” you whispered, leaning down. “you’ve earned a little reward.”

you didn’t give him a choice. 

you pressed your lips to his, and for a split second, he froze, his brain probably screaming at him to pull away. 

but then his ego snapped. he let out a desperate moan into your mouth, then his hands went up to cup your face with a violent sort of need.

it wasn’t a sweet kiss. you wouldn’t call it sweet if you shoved your tongue into his mouth, right? 

naoya met you head-on, his tongue fighting yours, twisting as he tried to reclaim some shred of dominance. he was devouring you, his fingers digging into your cheeks.

when you finally pulled back, a thin string of saliva connected your lips before breaking. 

naoya looked absolutely wrecked, his chest heaving, his eyes darting to your mouth as his head instinctively leaned forward to chase you, begging for more without saying a word.

“stay,” you commanded, stepping back and watching his face fall. “and clean up your mess. i’m leaving.”

later that evening, you were curled up on your bed, scrolling through the clips of his ‘technical difficulties’ stream from the day before. the comments were still a war zone of people wondering if he’d actually followed through on the bet.

your phone buzzed on the nightstand. 

a message from an unsaved number.

[unknown]: you’re a fucking witch. i don’t know what you did to me.

[unknown]: my dick is still hard. fuck.

you smiled. 

because he was clearly obsessed. 

the arrogant, untouchable naoya zenin was officially on a leash, and he was the one pulling on it.

[you]: ready for round two, princess? or do you need to buy more lotion first?

it’s been a few weeks since that night in the penthouse, and the internet is basically in a state of permanent cardiac arrest. 

naoya’s stream schedule has completely changed and started revolving around yours. 

he went from swearing he’d have you banned and erased from the face of the earth to being in your lobby every single fucking day.

what’s even funnier is that…

the first time he admitted it on stream, he looked like he wanted to swallow a grenade. 

“yeah, it’s the same bitch,” he had spat at his chat, his face turning that familiar shade of red. “she’s annoying as hell, but she’s the only one in this game who can keep up with my utility. shut up about the bet, or i’m banning the next ten people who type ‘dick pic’.”

now, it’s just your routine. 

not only you, in fact. 

but his too. 

you’re sitting at your desk, headset on, watching his face cam on your second monitor as you both queue for another match.

“buy me a vandal, nao,” you sweetly demanded with a breathy whisper. 

“buy it yourself, you lazy brat,” naoya snaps, though he’s already clicking the buy button for you. “i’m top fragging. i shouldn’t be funding your shitty habits.”

the game starts, and you’re playing sage.

ironic, considering how much he hates being ‘subservient’. 

so you’re now following his jett around, walling off his flanks and keeping his health topped off while he dashes around like a maniac.

“heal! heal me now!” he shot called as he ducks behind a crate with 12 hp.

“what’s the magic word, princess?” you tease, holding the orb just out of range. “you know the rules. every time i save your ass, you bark for me. come on, let me hear it.”

“i am not fucking barking on stream!” naoya yells. he looks at his camera, seeing the chat spamming dog emojis. “get away from me! i’d rather die and lose the round than give you the satisfaction, you psycho!”

“suit yourself,” you chuckle, watching his health bar blink red. “guess you’ll just have to watch me top frag instead.”

he lets out a frustrated sound, more like a half growl and half whimper and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a ‘woof’ under his breath just as you click the heal.

“good boy,” you purr.

the third teammate, a guy playing omen, finally chimes in. 

he’s been quiet all game, but clearly, he’s heard enough. 

“yo, sage... you’re actually hilarious. and your aim is cracked. you got a discord or something? i feel like we’d actually vibe way better than you and this loud mouthed clown.”

naoya’s character stops dead in its tracks. 

on the cam, his eyes narrow into slits, and he leans so close to his mic.

“who the fuck are you talking to?” naoya hisses, his voice dropping, a sign when he’s about to lose it. “did i ask for your input, you bottom-fragging piece of shit? she’s with me. pay attention to the map and keep your fucking mouth shut while we carry your heavy ass.”

“chill, man,” the omen laughs, oblivious to the fact that naoya is actually vibrating with rage. “i’m just saying, she’s a vibe. hey, guest_01, you ever played with a guy who doesn’t scream every five seconds? i could show you a much better time.”

naoya’s face is a mask of pure, unadulterated jealousy. 

he isn’t even looking at the game anymore; he’s glaring at the team chat. “get out,” he snaps. “hey! i said shut the fuck up! she’s mine! we’re in a duo for a reason, you desperate little rat! if you say one more word to her, i’ll find out where you live and personally make sure you never have internet access again!”

“jealous, nao-chan?” you ask mockingly. “he’s being much nicer to me than you’ve ever been.”

“i’m not jealous!” he screams at the monitor. “i just hate losers! and you— you don’t talk to anyone else! you’re my pocket sage, and if i catch you giving that omen a single drop of utility, i’m ending the stream!”

the chat is absolutely losing it.  

‘HE’S OBSESSED’ and ‘JEALOUS NAOYA’ scrolling so fast in his stream chat. 

he’s completely exposed himself, and the best part is, he’s too mad to even realize how much he’s admitting.

the game ended with naoya nearly popping a blood vessel, and ten minutes later, you were both in a private discord channel with him. 

the green light next to his name flickered as he unmuted. 

“you’re such a fucking headache,” he spat. “why didn’t you mute him? you just sat there and let that pathetic loser flirt with you. you probably liked it, didn’t you? getting attention from someone who doesn’t know what a massive pain in the ass you actually are.”

“oh, absolutely,” you hummed, leaning back and spinning in your chair. “he was sweet, naoya. he called me a ‘vibe’ and he complimented my aim. when was the last time you called me anything other than a ‘brat’ or a ‘psycho’? maybe i should’ve given him my discord. he sounded like he actually knows how to treat a girl.”

“don’t you fucking dare,” naoya hissed. “you’re not giving your discord to some bottom fragging nobody. you’re stuck with me.”

“you sound so insecure when you’re jealous, nao-chan. it’s cute,” you teased, enjoying the way he let out a frustrated breath. “it makes me wonder how you’re going to act next month. or did you not check your email yet?”

there was a pause, the sound of aggressive clicking filling the silence. “the valorant invitational expo?” he muttered, his voice shifting from angry to annoyed. “the one in the city? of course i’m invited. i’m the face of the regional server. wait…”

another pause. you could practically see the gears grinding in his head.

“don’t tell me,” he groaned. “don’t tell me they invited a random like you just because you sniped me on stream.”

“not a random, naoya. the top-ranked female player on the server,” you corrected him. “they want us there for a showmatch. they’re even putting our booths right next to each other. isn’t that sweet?”

“i’m going to kill someone,” naoya whispered, but he did not exactly sound angry. “two days of being stuck next to you? with cameras everywhere? with fans watching? i won’t be able to say half the shit i want to say to you.”

“is that right?” you laughed. “and what exactly is it that you want to say to me, naoya? or better yet, what do you want to ‘do’ to me? because the last time we were in a room together, you were the one with your face buried in my chest, crying like a baby while you came all over your floor.”

“i was not—! shut the fuck up!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “that was a one-time thing! a moment of weakness! if you bring that up at the expo, i will personally make sure you never see the light of day again!”

“hmm, we’ll see,” you said, clicking your tongue. “but just so you know, i’m wearing a sundress to the event. the kind that’s real easy to slide up.”

the silence on the other end was deafening. you could hear his shallow, shaky breathing, the sound of a man who was once again realizing he was completely and utterly fucked.

“you’re fucked up in the head,” he finally choked out. “i’m going to make your life a living hell at that expo. just wait.”

“i’m looking forward to it, princess,” you whispered. “don’t forget to pack the lotion. you’re gonna need it.”

then the day of the expo arrived. 

the convention center was a zoo, filled with the smell of expensive cooling fans and energy drinks. 

you could hear the loud cheer of the crowd from the main stage, but you were currently focused on the back entrance. 

you walked toward the ‘pro player’ lounge, and as soon as you pushed the doors open, you spotted him. 

naoya was surrounded by staff, looking bored and arrogant wearing a custom jersey. 

he was in the middle of sipping from a bottled water when his eyes landed on you.

naoya actually choked. 

he sputtered, water spraying down the front of his expensive shirt as he coughed violently. 

the staff around him scrambled to help, but he shoved them away, his eyes locked on you, specifically on the way the sundress clung to your hips and the deep dip of the neckline.

“you…” he wheezed, his face rapidly turning a shade of red. “what the fuck are you wearing? this is a professional event, not a—”

“not a what, naoya?” you asked, walking right up to him and patting his chest with a smirk. “you look a little hot. is the air conditioning not working in here, or are you just happy to see me?”

he looked like he wanted to scream and pull you into a closet at the same time. “you’re doing this on purpose,” he hissed, leaning down so only you could hear him over the noise of the convention. “you look like a bratty little slut. everyone’s staring at you. i can’t even stand up right now because of you.”

“good,” you whispered back, giving him a wink before heading toward the booths.

the day was a series of interviews and showmatches. 

naoya was a mess; every time you leaned over to check your monitor or reached up to adjust your headset, his aim would go to shit, causing his chat to have a field day, clipping every time he got distracted by you sitting just a few feet away.

once the first day wrapped up and the players were heading to their respective hotels. naoya was at the curb, waiting for his private car, looking exhausted and tense.

“where’s your ride?” he muttered as you walked up to him, your small suitcase trailing behind you. “your hotel is on the other side of the district, isn’t it?”

“was,” you corrected him, popping the trunk of his car before he could protest and tossing your bag inside. “i decided my room was too lonely. i’m staying with you.”

naoya’s jaw dropped. “the fuck you are! i didn’t agree to this! you can’t just—”

“i can and i am,” you said, sliding into the back seat and patting the spot next to you. “unless you want me to tell your manager why you were vibrating so hard during the third round of the showmatch. get in, nao-chan. we have a lot to talk about, and i don’t think a discord call is going to cut it tonight.”

the drive to the hotel was silent, mostly because naoya looked like he was one comment away from a total meltdown. 

his hand was resting on his lap, and you could see the way his knuckles were white, his eyes darting toward your legs every time the streetlights hit the car window.

the second the door to his suite clicked shut, he turned on you, slamming his hand against the wood next to your head.

“you’re a menace,” he growled darkly. “you show up in that dress, you humiliate me in front of my fans, and now you’re invading my room? you really think you can just keep pushing me like this without any consequences?”

“i’m counting on the consequences, naoya,” you said, reaching up to trail a finger along the collar of his jersey. “you’ve been acting so tough all day. why don’t you show me if you’re still a good boy when the cameras are off?”

he let out a jagged sound, his pride finally snapping as he grabbed your waist and hauled you flush against him. 

you could feel the hard ridge of his dick pressing into your stomach, even through the fabric of your dress.

“i’m going to ruin you,” he whispered against your lips. “i’m going to make sure you can’t even walk to the booth tomorrow.”

he slammed you back against the door, crashing his mouth onto yours violently. 

there was no teasing this time, no slow build-up. what’s left is just his raw, frantic need. 

he groaned into your throat as his hands flew to your chest, grabbing your breasts through the thin fabric of your dress.

“fuck,” he rasped against your lips, mounding your breast. “i’ve been wanting to rip these out of this goddamn dress since the second you walked into the lounge. you fucking brat.”

“ah— nao, wait—” you gasped, but the protest was swallowed by his tongue forcing its way back into your mouth. 

it was a messy, wet war between your tongues; fighting for space while you scrambled at the zipper of his jersey. your nails dug into his shoulders, pulling at the fabric.

naoya didn’t have the patience for zippers, so he hooked his fingers into the neckline of your sundress and yanked downward with a sharp rrip. 

the yellow fabric gave way, tearing down the middle and exposing your bare tits. he let out a jagged breath at the sight, his eyes dark and blown out.

“oh yes... look at you,” he hissed, his hands immediately cupping your breasts, and rolling his thumbs over your nipples until you let out a sharp, high pitched “ah!”

you didn’t stay still either. 

you fought back, yanking his jersey over his head and tossing it somewhere. 

your hands went straight for his belt, your fingers fumbling with the buckle in your haste. “get... get this off, naoya! fuck, you’re so slow!”

“shut up!” he growled, biting down on your bottom lip so hard you tasted the tang of blood. 

you bit him back, your teeth catching on his lip as you finally freed his dick from his pants. 

it sprang out, already standing proud and throbbing, slamming the head against your stomach.

he was fucking huge, even bigger and harder than you remembered, the thick veins pulsing against your skin. “uhm... god, naoya,” you moaned, your head tossing back against the door as he buried his face in your neck, leaving dark, bruised marks.

his hand slid down, his fingers roughly pushing aside your lace panties until he found your pussy.

 you were a complete mess, dripping wet and your juices immediately coated his fingers the second he touched you.

“you’re soaking,” he muttered. “look at how much of a slut you are for me. you’re practically leaking all over the floor.”

“fuck you, naoya! ah— right there!” you cried out as he shoved two fingers deep inside you while his thumb grinding against your clit. 

you were clenching around him, your walls pulsing with a desperate need to be filled by the real thing. 

“stop talking and... and put it in. i want it now.”

he let out a low, animalistic sound, his teeth grazing over your collarbone. 

he was shaking, his pride is completely gone, replaced by a twitching need to claim you. his massive dick was rubbing against your wet slit, smearing pre-cum all over your folds.

naoya didn’t let you breathe. 

before you could even process the weight of him against the door, he hooked his arms under your thighs and hauled you up, making you wrap your legs around his waist. 

your torn dress hanging off your hips in shreds as he stumbled toward the bed, tripping over his own discarded pants. he threw you onto the mattress, but he didn’t give you a second to recover.

“you’ve been running your mouth all day,” he rasped, licking his lips. “time to put it to better use.”

he stood at the edge of the bed, leveling his throbbing dick which was already standing tall and angry. he reached down, fisting his fingers into your hair and pulling your head toward him. 

“suck it. i want to feel how much you missed me.”

you didn’t need to be told twice. you leaned forward, darting your tongue out to lick the length of himt. 

when you finally took him into your mouth, you let out a muffled “uhm!” the sheer length of him made your jaw ache instantly.

naoya let out a long, shaky groan, his hand tightening in your hair, forcing you deeper onto him. 

“fuck... yes, just like that. you’re so good at this, aren't you? ah! fuck, your tongue—!” 

he was even thrusting his hips instinctively, his breath coming in jagged hitches as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock. 

he held your head in place like he was holding on for his dear life just from the sensation of you giving him a head, his body vibrating with the effort not to blow his load right then and there.

but you weren’t done being the one in control. 

you pulled back with a wet pop, looking up at him with a defiant, hungry smirk. 

before he could complain, you shoved him back onto the pillows and crawled over him. you positioned yourself over his face, your dripping, swollen pussy hovering just inches from his mouth. 

you could see his eyes widen, his breath hitching as the scent of your own juices hit him.

“sit on me,” he choked out, his hands reaching up to grab your ass, fingers digging into your skin. “do it, fuck, i want to taste you.”

you lowered yourself slowly and your wet slit pressed firmly against his lips. “ah! yes... fuck, naoya!” you cried out as his tongue immediately lashed out, making sure he’s darting deep inside you. 

he was eating you like a starving man, kissing your pussy sensually while swirling his tongue up and down your clit. constantly teasing and constantly sucking at the same time. 

“uhm—! ah! right there, nao! fuck!” you arched your back, your hands clutching the headboard as he sucked your clit into his mouth, his fingers reaching around to pull your cheeks apart so he could get even deeper. 

the sensation was overwhelming, his tongue was literally making your pussy lick more from licking to sucking. 

he’s making you see stars while your pussy is clenching rhythmically, splashing more of your juice onto his face.

“you taste... so fucking good,” he managed to gasp out between licks, his voice muffled by your folds. “ah! fuck, look at how much you’re leaking for me. you’re a fucking mess. you’re my bitch, you got that?!”

“shut up and... ah! keep going! yes! ah! ah! ah!” you were losing it, your entire body was shaking as the first wave of an orgasm started to build up, and your internal muscles squeezing tightly around nothing while naoya continued to devour you with a relentless hunger.

it did not take a while before you were screaming stop and holding his face back, forcing him to stop licking because you were literally about to pee on his face. 

the sensation was too much and it was tickling your sexual soul so much that his tongue was doing you all the favors that him eating you out felt much greater than when you were touching yourself. 

he ate your clit and inserted his tongue inside your pussy with intent and naoya didn’t even give you a second to breathe after you came on his face. 

he growled and grabbed your hips, flipping you over onto your back violently. 

he was panting, his face smeared with your juices, his hair a mess, and his massive dick was throbbing so hard it looked like it was about to split skin.

“you’re such a loud-mouthed brat,” he hissed as he pinned your wrists above your head. “think you can handle this? think you’re big enough for me, guest_01?”

he didn’t wait for an answer and just positioned the broad head of his cock against your dripping entrance. you immediately felt the tip of him, thick and blunt, pushing against your folds, and as he began to drive forward, you let out a sharp, strangled “ah! ah! fuck, naoya!”

your pussy was being stretched to its absolute limit. 

you could feel the walls of your vagina being forced apart, the skin of your entrance pulled taut while your hole adjusted around the size of him. 

it felt like you were being filled to the brim, every nerve ending in your slit screaming as he buried himself deep inside you in one long, relentless shove.

“uhm—! god, you’re... you’re fucking huge,” you gasped, your head tossing back against the pillows. “you’re trying to... ah! break me, aren’t you? you pathetic... arrogant... prick!”

“shut your mouth!” naoya snapped, though his own breath was hitching in his throat. 

he started to move, pulling nearly all the way out before slamming back in.

“you’re so tight... fuck! it’s like you were made to be stretched out by me. admit it, you fucking love being filled like this.”

he wasn’t just hitting you; he was hitting everything. 

because of his size and the angle he was driving at, his dick’s head was hooking right against your g-spot with every single thrust.

“ah! yes! right there! oh god, fuck!” you cried out, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even deeper. “you’re hitting it... ah! ah! don’t stop, you bastard! keep going!”

“i’ll stop when i say so!” he barked, his eyes narrowed with a mix of lust and pride as he watched your face contort in pleasure. 

he was hammering into you frantically, just freely letting his massive dick slide through your entrance, creating the sound of loud and vulgar squelch from your wetness. “look at you... moaning like a slut. who’s the winner now, guest_01? who’s owning who?”

“uhm—! you’re still a bitch, naoya!” you choked out, even as your pussy clenched violently around him, milked by the sheer size of his shaft. “you’re just a... ah! ah! a big-dicked bitch! fuck! right there! ah!”

the insults were getting drowned out by the sound of skin slapping skin and the frantic moans escaping your lips. 

naoya was losing his cool too as he felt your internal muscles squeezing him, begging for more. 

he buried his face in the crook of your neck, grazing your skin with his teeth as he delivered deep, punishing stabs that made your vision go blurry.

“i’m gonna... fuck... i’m gonna cum so deep inside you,” he groaned, his voice breaking. “you’re gonna be full of me all through the expo tomorrow. everyone’s gonna see you and know... ah! fuck! know exactly what i did to you!”

“do it then!” you screamed, your nails digging into his back, drawing blood as your own climax began to build again, triggered by the relentless pounding against your g-spot. “fill me up, naoya! ah! ah! yes! fuck! now!”

naoya wasn’t satisfied with just hearing you scream from underneath him. 

as soon as you peaked, your walls twitching and milking him with desperate, wet clenches, he let out a jagged growl. 

he didn’t pull out; instead, he grabbed your waist with bruising force and hauled you upward, flipping you onto your hands and knees in one motion.

your pussy felt wide and raw, still throbbing from the stretch, but he didn’t give you a second to adjust. 

he reached forward, his fingers fisting into your hair and yanking your head back so your spine arched, pushing your ass high into the air.

“you think you’ve had enough?” he hissed into your ear. “i told you i was going to ruin you. we’re just getting started.”

he lined his massive cock up with your opening and slammed with a single, violent thrust.

“ah! fuck! naoya!” you shrieked, your chest hitting the mattress as the sheer force of the impact rattled your entire frame. 

taking him from behind felt completely different. he was hitting even deeper in this position, maybe until your stomach now, you don;t fucking know. all you know was he’s fucking tipping your pussy apart with his thick shaft sliding through the pool of your combined juices with loud squelch.

“uhm—! god, it’s too... it’s too deep!” you gasped, your fingers clawing at the bedsheets as he started to drill deeper into you. 

he was relentless, his hips snapping forward arrogantly and every time he bottomed out, his balls slapped against you.

naoya was a maniac. 

he kept a firm grip on your hair, using it to control the angle as he hammered away at your g-spot. “look at this mess you made,” he mocked as he watched his thick, veiny dick disappear inside you and pull out covered in your cum from earlier. “you’re so fucking wet. you’re begging for it, aren’t you? ah! fuck, you're so tight, i can barely—ah!”

“shut up and... ah! ah! just keep hitting it!” you cried out, your head tossing. “you talk too much... uhm! yes! right there! fuck, naoya, harder! slam into me like you mean it, you prick!”

“you want it harder?!” he barked, his ego flaring at the challenge. 

but he still increased the pace, his thrusts becoming short stabs that sent sparks of pleasure shooting straight to your brain. “i’ll give it to you... ah! i’ll give you exactly what you deserve! hm fuck yeah..”

you were losing your mind from the sensation of his massive cock filling you completely, combined with the sharp pull on your hair and the vulgar sound of your bodies colliding.

your pussy was screaming, clenching around him so hard which made naoya grunt and bite his lower lip because it felt so fucking good. 

he shifted, grabbing your hips with his sweat-slicked hands and dragged you upward until you were straddling him. 

he leaned back against the headboard, his chest heaving, and his still hardening dick guiding you until you lowered yourself down, sliding down onto his full length in one slow, agonizingly deep plunge.

“ah! ah! fuck, naoya!” you gasped, your nails digging into the mattress as he filled you completely. 

being on top lets you control the friction with how you ground your hips down.

naoya didn’t stay still, he was too hungry to be. his hands flew up to your chest, and made his mouth latch onto your breast. 

he wasn’t just kissing; he was sucking, teeth grazing your nipple while he fisted his hands into your hair, yanking you down so you had no choice but to stay close to his face.

“fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his voice vibrating through your chest as he sucked harder. “you’re so fucking wet, you’re drowning me. ah! look at you riding me like a pro.”

“you’re... ah! ah! still a prick!” you cried out, your own hands gripping his messy hair as you started to grind against him. the feeling was electric, every slide of his dick against your internal walls were sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

“you’re still so tight, you’re killing me!” he barked while his eyes rolled back, all while he sucked your other breast, pulling until you let out a high-pitched “ah! ah! ah!”, feeling the sensation of his mouth on your tits while your pussy clenched around his massive cock.

you started to bounce, faster and harder, making your breasts jiggle with every movement. 

his hands never left your hair because he was using it to keep you locked in place. “i’m not... ah! i’m not slowing down for you! fuck, naoya, you’re so big... ah! it feels like you’re splitting me in two!”

“yeah? let me fucking split you then!” his hips were bucking upward to meet your downward thrusts. 

he was hammering into you, and every time you slammed down, he’d suck harder on your nipple, swirling his tongue around the sensitive skin until you were sobbing with pleasure.

“oh god... yes! fuck! ah! ah! ah!” you were lost, your body is now moving on instinct as your pussy milk him, feeling his dick swell even more inside your aching, stretched-out folds. 

he was staring up at you, his eyes dark, his lips swollen and red from your own teeth earlier, looking at you with a mix of pure, unadulterated possessiveness. 

“ride me until you can’t walk,” he ordered, sounding more drunk while his grip in your hair is tightening until it almost hurt. “i want you to remember this feeling every time you look at me on stream. you belong to me.”

“i’m ... ah! fuck! ah! ah!” you screamed, your hips moving in a wild, uncontrolled manner until the pressure finally became too much, and you both shattered into an earth-shattering climax together.

you were bouncing wildly on top of him, your nails shredded through his scalp, and he responded by arching his back and driving his hips upward. 

you felt his balls slap against your pussy with every frantic lunge, and when he finally exploded inside you, it was too much that it started to drip out. 

you clutched his shoulders while your legs were shaking uncontrollably. you spasmed around him, milking every last drop of his cum. then you collapsed against his chest, both of you gasping for air.

the next morning, you woke up so fucking sore. 

you groaned, trying to roll over, but your entire body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder. 

your pussy was swollen and throbbing, and your hips ached with a deep, bruised soreness that made every movement sting.

you crawled out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom to brush your teeth. 

you gripped the sink to steady yourself, your eyes half-closed as you stared at your reflection. 

your neck was covered in hickeys and your hair was a tangled disaster. 

you assumed he was still dead to the world in the king bed, out like a light after the absolute marathon he’d forced you through.

you had just started scrubbing your teeth when the bathroom door creaked open. 

you didn’t even have time to turn around before you felt a heavy weight press against your back. 

naoya was still stark naked with his hair still messy from sleep, and before you could even say out a “good morning”, he grabbed your hips with both hands and jerked you backward so your ass was pressed firmly against his hard, morning stiff cock.

“think you’re getting away that easily?” he rasped against your ear.

you didn’t even get to pull the toothbrush out of your mouth before he slammed his hips forward without warning, no lube, no foreplay, just the sudden, heavy pressure of him sliding into your tight, already-sore slit.

“ah! f-fuck—!” you choked out, the toothbrush clattering into the sink as you doubled over, your hands bracing against the counter. 

his dick was massive, filling you up instantly, stretching you out until you felt like you might snap.

“you’re mine,” he growled, his grip on your hips tightening as he started to drive into you right there in the bathroom. “i’m not done with you yet.”

sure enough after an hour of him absolutely wrecking you against the bathroom vanity, you were left in a state of complete ruin. 

your legs were shaking, your pussy felt like it had been through a car wash, and every muscle in your back were screaming in protest as you tried to even stand straight.

naoya, meanwhile, was glowing with a satisfied energy that made you want to claw his eyes out, if you had the strength.

when you finally left the hotel, the transition to the expo was pathetic. 

naoya didn’t bother with a cab or a shuttle. 

he literally walked through the lobby with his arm hooked firmly around your waist, his grip so possessive and tight that you couldn’t have pulled away if you tried. 

he was practically carrying half your weight, leaning down every few seconds to whisper something lewd into your ear, making sure you felt every ounce of his arrogance.

“look at you,” he hissed, his thumb digging into your hipbone. “you’re so sore you can barely stand. you’re just my favorite little toy, and everyone here is going to know it just by looking at the way you’re struggling to keep up with me.”

you tried to snap back, but all that came out was a breathless, “fuck... off, naoya.”

when the two of you walked into the player lounge, the room went dead silent. 

naoya didn’t give a shit. instead, he steered you straight to your booth, which, true to the organizers’ plan was right next to his. 

he didn’t let you walk to your chair; he literally guided you, his hand sliding down to your ass to give it a firm squeeze before he shoved you into your seat.

he leaned over the small partition between your booths, his face inches from yours, looking like a king who had just conquered a new territory. “stay right there,” he commanded. “don’t talk to anyone. i’m watching you.”

you slumped into your chair, the soreness in your hips making you wince as you sat down, and you saw his eyes track the movement with a sick, satisfied smirk. 

he knew exactly why you were hurting and he knew exactly what he’d done to you in that bathroom.

as he turned to his own setup, you saw him glance at his chat, which was already scrolling past, thousands of people realizing exactly why you were walking so slowly and why naoya looked like he was vibrating. 

“yeah, she’s staying here,” he said, shooting you a sharp, hooded look. “she’s a bit tired today. i gave her a hell of a morning workout.”

you moan out softly; just a roll your hips slower this time, deliberate, feeling every thick inch stretch you open again. his head tips back against the pillows, throat bobbing, pretty lashes fluttering like he’s about to cry or come or both.

“shit— yeah, just like that,” he hisses. one hand slides up your spine, tangles in your hair, yanks your mouth down to his so he can lick into you messy and desperate. “thought you were really gone this time… left me here achin’ f’ you.”

his other palm cracks against your ass— not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you clench around him. you gasp into his mouth and he drinks it down, tongue curling, whining low in his throat when your walls flutter.

“fuck, baby— tight— s’ like you’re tryna milk me dry,” he pants against your lips. hips jerk up to meet your next grind, sloppy wet sounds filling the dark room. “missed this pussy so bad… missed you ridin me stupid.”

you drag your nails down his chest, catch on the pale pink scratches you left earlier when you first shoved him onto the bed and climbed on top. he shudders under you, cock twitching deep inside.

“gonna— gonna fill you up,” he starts babbling now, filter gone, voice cracking on every other word. “gonna stuff this little cunt full till it’s drippin down your thighs— till you can’t walk tomorrow without feelin me. you hear me?”

you sink down harder just to shut him up. his eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent moan, fingers flexing on your waist like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“m’ sorry— fuck— m’ sorry i yelled,” he chokes out suddenly, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “shouldn’t have— shouldn’t have let you storm out— never again, promise— fuck— baby please…”

he flips you so fast your back hits the mattress, knees shoved up to your chest in one smooth motion. the new angle has him slamming in deeper, tip kissing your cervix on every brutal thrust. you cry out, nails raking his shoulders, legs shaking.

“look at me,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his white hair onto your cheek. blue eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the irises. “look at me while i fuck my apology into you.”

and that’s all you did. can’t look away even if you wanted to. he’s wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, that cocky smirk long gone. just raw need staring back at you.

“g’nna— g’nna cum inside,” he whimpers, pace turning erratic, hips slamming so hard the bed creaks. “g’nna breed this pussy— make sure you feel me for days— fuck— c-can’t stop— can’t— baby—”

his whole body locks up. a broken moan tears out of him as he buries himself, his cock making-out with your cervix, pulsing hot and thick inside you. you feel every spurt, every twitch, walls fluttering around him like they’re trying to pull him deeper.

he keeps grinding through it, overstimming himself, babbling nonsense against your throat. “love you— fuck— love you s’ much— don’t leave again— please— m’ gonna be good— swear—”

he collapses on top of you after, still twitching, still leaking, arms caging you in like he’ll never let go. nose buried in your hair, shaky breaths fanning your ear. “stay,” he whispers, voice small now. cracked. “just… stay.”

you card fingers through damp white strands. feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. “of course, ‘toru.”

he exhales like the weight of the world just slid off his shoulders. then a quiet, almost shy, “round two when you’re ready?”

you laugh. he grins against your skin.

possessive fucker.

★ TOJI FUSHIGURO

we all know toji would absolutely haaate you coming home late and try to play it off. he’d be looming over the counter, his facial expression showing all kinds of pissed-the-fawk off but as soon as he sees you he can’t even stay away for more than 5 minutes.

He’d be balls deep making you have your third orgasm scolding you like the naughty girl you are.

“thought you could just stroll in whenever the fuck you want, huh?” his voice is low, right against the shell of your ear while he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter. dishes still in the sink. your coat half-shucked onto the floor. keys somewhere under the table. doesn’t matter. none of it does.

one thick forearm banded across your stomach, pinning you flush so your ass can’t escape the brutal snap of his hips. the other hand’s fisted in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make your spine arch pretty for him.

“late again. no text. no call.” each word punched out with a mean thrust that makes your toes scrape the tile. “had me sittin’ here like some worried bitch waitin’ on his girl.”

“toji—“ you try to moan an apology but it comes out fumbled—muffled against the crook of your own arm.

he’s so deep the head of his cock’s bullying that gummy spot that turns your brain to static. your thighs are already trembling from the first two times he made you come—once on his fingers while he growled about how soaked you were just from hearing his voice on the phone earlier, once more when he shoved you face-down on the couch the second the door clicked shut.

now this. third round. no warmup. no mercy.

“look at you,” he mutters, breath hot on your neck. scarred lips brushing skin. “actin’ all innocent walkin’ in here smellin’ like that bitchy vanilla scent… but this pussy’s still grippin’ me like she missed daddy’s dick.”

he punctuates it with a slow grind—rolling his hips so the fat base drags over your swollen clit. your knees buckle. he catches you easily, hauling you higher onto your toes.

“stay up. you’re gonna take every inch while i remind you who the fuck you belong to.” his free hand cracks down on your ass—once, twice. sharp enough to sting, leaving blooming heat. you clench hard around him on instinct making him hiss through his teeth.

“fuck— there it is. greedy little thing. squeezin’ like you’re tryna apologize with your pussy.”

you’re dripping down your thighs. sticky trails cooling on your skin. the wet slap of his balls against your cunt making you cry out in the quiet kitchen. fridge humming. clock ticking. your pulse hammering in your ears louder than both.

“toji—‘m sorry—”

“sorry ain’t cuttin’ it, doll.” he yanks your head back farther, forces you to look at the dark window—reflection of you two like some filthy portrait. his broad frame swallowing yours. muscles flexing under scarred skin every time he bottoms out. your mouth slack, eyes glassy, mascara smudged from earlier tears of pleasure and pain. that same lewd expression he adores most.

“you see that?” he growls. “see how fuckin’ wrecked you look already? and you still got the nerve to come home late like i won’t do somethin’ about it.” he shifts—hooks one of your knees up onto the counter ledge, spreading you wider. new angle has him carving deeper, tip kissing your cervix on every punishing stroke. your nails scrape uselessly at the granite.

“gonna make this pussy remember,” he rasps. voice cracking just a little now—tell-tale sign he’s losing the cool he pretends to have. “gonna fuck you till you can’t walk straight tomorrow. till every step reminds you who waited up.”

his rhythm stutters when you flutter around him again—walls spasming, trying to pull him under. he curses low, filthy.

“shit— already? you’re comin’ again?” he chuckles.

you can’t answer. can only whimper high, broken—while the coil snaps for the third time. thighs shaking violently. gush of slick coating his cock, dripping onto the floor. he doesn’t slow down. fucks you through it meaner. harder.

“that’s it— give it to me— fuckin’ soak me— good girl— my nasty little slut.” his grip tightens. hips slamming erratic now. balls drawing up tight.

“gonna fill this cunt up,” he starts whining, filter now gone, voice wrecked. “gonna stuff you so full you’ll be leakin’ me all night— gonna make sure you smell like me tomorrow— fuck—”

you reach back, nails digging into his thigh. “inside— please— toji~”

that does it.

he slams home one last time deep inside, groaning long and low like it hurts. cock pulsing, swelling, flooding you with heat. thick ropes painting your walls. so much it spills out around his base, creamy white streaking down your thighs even while he’s still grinding through the aftershocks.

“fuck— take it— take every drop— mine— fuckin’ mine—”

he keeps rolling his hips—shallow, needy—milking himself empty while you tremble under him. overstimulated. his chest heaves against your back. scarred arms caging you in like he’ll never let go.

“don’t do that shit again,” he mutters. quieter now. almost soft. “hated waitin’. hated not knowin’ if you were okay.”

you reach back, thread fingers through dark strands. feel him shiver. “i really am sorry, toji.”

he huffs. kisses the nape of your neck—open-mouthed, lingering. “yeah. you will be.”

then—after another slow grind that makes you both hiss, “shower. now. ‘fore i decide round four happens right here.”

you laugh—breathless. he smirks against your skin. finally slips out with a wet sound that makes you clench around nothing. cum trickles down your thigh. he swipes two fingers through it, brings them to your lips.

“clean up your mess, baby.” you suck obediently. taste salt and him. his eyes darken again.

“good girl.” he scoops you up—effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, carrying you toward the bathroom. your legs dangle. thighs sticky. heart still racing.

“next time you’re late,” he murmurs against your temple, “i’m tyin’ you to the bed before you even think about leavin’.”

you roll your eyes then nuzzle yourself on his chest.

★ KAMO CHOSO

choso would absolutely be the last person you'd expect to corner you against the front door the second you walked in.

we all know choso — sweet, a little awkward, the man who asks "is this okay?" before he even touches your hair, who goes pink behind the ears when you call him pretty, who avoids eye contact for ten full minutes after you catch him staring too long. that's your choso.

and then you stay out three hours past when you said you'd be back, phone halfway dead, still pissed from the argument you'd storm out of, and now you begrundgingly walk through the door to find him sitting very, very still on the couch.

he doesn't yell. that's the thing that gets you first. you were braced for it, shoulders up, already rehearsing your half of the fight, and instead there's just silence.

his hands are folded between his knees, dark hair loose and hanging around his face, and his looking at you with those heavy-lidded eyes drowned in violet like he's been doing nothing but looking at the door for three hours. which, you didn't think about that part.

you open your mouth; an apology, excuse, something, and he's already standing up, you forget what you were going to say because he's so much bigger than you. he's always been tall, but right now crossing the room toward you he fills up all the space in a way that makes your heartbeat do something stupid.

he stops close. too close, not touching, the air between you smelling like him and whatever he'd been drinking trying to wait you out, and he just — looks at you. searching your face, his jaw tight.

"why didn't you pick up?" he asks, and his voice is still quiet, still careful, but there's something unsteady threading through it. not anger, exactly. something worse than anger. "i called you four times, baby."

baby. he only does that when he's upset. your stomach does a full rotation.

"choso, i—" but he cuts you off by reaching up and touching your face. just cupping your jaw with one big hand, thumb tracing your cheekbone, and you can feel that his fingers aren't fully steady.

"you scared me," he says softly, like it costs him something. "you left mad and then you just— you didn't—" he stops. his adam apple bobs. "why would you do that."

it's not even a question, really. it comes out like something he's been turning over in his hands for hours, worn smooth, and the look on his face is so sincere and so quietly devastated that something in your chest caves a little.

you say his name again, softer this time, and you watch his jaw tighten. he only warning you get before he leans down and kisses you, sudden and slow, and it's not gentle exactly, it's— it has weight to it. the kind of kiss that means don't do that again.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are darker now, something shifting behind them that sends heat straight down to your tummy. "i'm still mad at you," he says quietly, and his hand is still at your jaw, tilting you up. "y'know that."

"yeah," you manage, "i know—"

"good." and then his other hand finds your waist and he walks you backward toward the bedroom with this unbearable, focused patience, like he has a plan and he's going to follow it all the way through, and every time your back bumps something — doorframe, wall — he catches you with that big warm grip and keeps you moving, keeps you steady, keeps his eyes on your face the entire time like he's cataloguing every flicker of expression. does he know he's doing that. probably not. probably just choso, just how he looks when he's paying attention, which is somehow more devastating than anything else he could do.

"choso, wait—" you try, half a laugh, half something else entirely, and he pauses in the dark of the hallway, head ducking slightly.

"i'm not yelling at you," he says, like that's clarification. "i'm not— i don't want to yell. i just—" and here he swallows, something flickering across his face, almost embarrassed but not quite. "i need you to let me. okay? let me—" his hands tighten the smallest amount at your waist. "please."

the please ruins you. because it's still him, it's still choso who asks for things softly, who would never just take, and somehow that makes it worse — makes the heat travel from your tummy to you pussy, making it hard to remember why you were mad in the first place or what you'd been so stubborn about three hours ago.

"okay," you say, barely sound, and he exhales like he'd been holding that in, too.

he takes his time. that's the thing you weren't prepared for — this slow, deliberate patience layered over something that keeps slipping through, this tremble in his hands when he pulls your shirt over your head that he tries to steady and can't quite, his breath gone a little uneven despite himself.

"you're so—" he starts, voice hushed, and then stops himself, frowning faintly, this small frustrated furrow between his brows like he resents that you exist and are right in front of him and he doesn't have words for whatever's stuck in his chest. he settles for touching instead. spreads one big palm flat over your ribs, fingers spanning so wide it knocks the air out of you.

"choso," you breathe, and he makes this low sound, involuntary, and his jaw tightens.

"you s-scared me," he says again, quieter, like it keeps escaping him. "i kept thinking— i didn't know if you were—" he doesn't finish it. instead he puts his mouth on your throat and stays there, just breathing for a second, warm and still, and the gesture is so tender and so completely at odds with the size of him that your eyes sting a little. oh no. "i hate when you're gone," he murmurs into your skin. "hate it. even when i'm mad. still hate it."

getting him inside you takes time too... because he goes careful, this trembling careful that he's clearly fighting against, hissing low through his teeth as you stretch and your walls flutter helplessly around him and his whole body goes rigid.

"wait—" he grits out, and you're not sure if he's talking to you or himself, hips stilled, forehead pressed somewhere between your shoulder and the pillow. "wait." you can feel how much that costs him. can feel the tension humming through every muscle where he's pressed against you, thick and filling you so full your thoughts are already liquefying at the edges.

"'m okay," you manage, arching slightly, and he makes a noise like you've broken something.

"i know you are," he breathes. "i just— need a second. you feel—" and then he stops talking, which might be a first for this whole gentle careful thing, and starts moving instead.

slow. devastatingly slow. rolling his hips in this deep, grinding drag that hits something inside you that makes your toes curl and your back bow up off the mattress and a sound come out of your mouth you hadn't planned.

his breathing goes immediately ragged, plp plp plp of his hips meeting yours filling up the quiet of the room, and his hands find your thighs and hitch you up, adjusting the angle, and— fuck. your hands scramble for something to grip, sheet, his arm, anything, and he watches you, watches your face with this expression that's raw in a way that makes it hard to look at directly.

"there you are," he breathes, low and shaky. "that— yeah, that's—" and then he does it again, same drag, same deep roll, and your head drops back.

he gets meaner about it slowly. not aggressive, not cruel — just focused, this quiet intensity that keeps building, the pace still unhurried but heavier, deeper, and his grip on your thighs tightening until you know he's leaving prints and you don't care, can't care, not with how full you are and how the drag of him hits that sweet spot every time like he's learning you, memorizing you the same way he'd been reading your face in the hallway.

"you were gone so long," he says, almost conversational except for the slight crack in it, and his hips roll and you gasp. "why'd you stay out so long." it's not really a question. or it is, it's still a question, still that same wondering hurt from earlier, but now his voice has this low fraying quality like a wire pulled too tight. "why?"

"i don't— i wasn't—" you're already losing the thread of it, hips rolling up to chase him without your permission, and he notices, eyes dropping down to where you're joined and going briefly, almost comically blank.

"you're doing that," he says. faintly accusatory. faintly wrecked.

"why?" he asks again, later, when he's got you folded up and he's properly losing his mind about it, forehead pressed to yours, hair escaped from its tie and hanging around both of you, and the controlled thing has fully slipped now — hips snapping into something erratic that makes the wet slap of it embarrassingly loud and your voice keep breaking on his name. "why'd y-you—" and he stops because his voice cracks too, right down the middle, and he squeezes his eyes shut and makes this low broken sound and you feel him pulse inside you and

"choso—"

"m' sorry," he breathes, "m' sorry, i—" but he doesn't stop, can't, hips still working even as his whole body shakes and his breath comes in ragged little pulls. "baby." and god he sounds— he sounds completely undone, you've never heard him like this, this is new, this is the version of choso that three hours of sitting on the couch waiting for you made, and something about that makes you clench around him and he makes a sound that's almost pained.

"please," you hear yourself say, "please~"

"yeah," he gets out, barely, "yeah— i've got you— you're—" and then the words slip away entirely and he fucks you through it properly, stuttering and shaking and whispering things into your hair that might be your name or might be please or might be both.

overstimulation is a thing that happens to you after, when you're limp and wrung out and certain that you couldn't possibly, and choso is still moving — slowed to something deep and lazy, still filling you and refusing to pull out with this look on his face like he hasn't fully come back to himself yet.

"choso," you try, thighs twitching, "h-hey— i can't, i'm—"

"just," he says. stops. swallows. "just a little more. please. please, baby." and there's the question again, the soft asking even now, even like this, even with you already a destroyed mess underneath him. "you feel so good. can i— just a little more, okay? jus'—"

"mmgfh, choso~"

his face twists. "s-sorry," he starts, "i'm sorry, i'll stop, you just—" and then you clench, involuntary, body giving him the answer that your mouth hadn't gotten around to yet, and his eyes flutter and he exhales, "oh," very small. and keeps going.

★ HIROMI HIGURAMA

hiromi higuruma would absolutely find you still hunched over his desk at eleven-forty-seven at night, lamp cutting a yellow circle across a stack of files you've been reorganizing since he hung up on you four hours ago; you had nowhere else to go with how angry you were, and his office was right there, and spite has its own kind of logic.

we all know higuruma. composed. methodical. the man who won arguments with prosecutors using a single eyebrow raise and twenty seconds of silence. you didn't think he'd come back tonight. you should have thought about it more.

the door opens quiet. he doesn't announce himself, doesn't say your name — you just feel the shift in the room, the way the air changes when someone large and very still enters it, and your shoulders go up before your brain catches up with why. the click of the lock behind him is the loudest thing that's happened in hours.

you don't turn around. pride, mostly. also you're not done being mad, and you need at least another thirty seconds to build the wall back up before you look at him. you hear him set something down; keys, probably, the small ceramic bowl by the door making its little sound and then nothing. just the awareness of him behind you, standing there in that way he has, the way that makes rooms feel smaller without being threatening about it. his suit jacket is still on. he's been somewhere, then. or he sat with it on in the car for a while deciding whether to come in.

"you're still here," he says. low, even. not a question exactly.

"i work here," you say, turning a page you're not reading.

a beat of quiet that has weight to it, the kind higuruma deploys the way other people use words. then you hear him move, unhurried, the soft drag of dress shoes across the floor, and he rounds the desk and you still don't look up and his hand comes down over yours on the file folder — not gripping, just covering, warm and very deliberate. stopping you. "look at me," he pleads.

you do. because you can't not, when he uses that voice. he's close, closer than you'd registered, and his face is doing the thing where it's not giving much away but his eyes are — tired, a little, and something underneath the tired that's been sitting there all day working itself into a knot.

his expression is still unreadable. his tie is loosened exactly one button's worth. "you've been here this whole time," he questions, and it's not what you expect him to lead with, the what and the how of you sitting in his office reorganizing case files out of spite at eleven pm, and something about that catches in your chest.

"i wasn't going to go home while i was still—" you start.

"i know," he states. not dismissive. like he actually does know, like he turned it over the whole drive here and arrived at the same place you did. his thumb moves across the back of your hand, small slow arc. "i shouldn't have hung up."

oh. you blink. you'd been ready for the second half of the argument, had it half-loaded, and now it's just — sitting there unspent and awkward. "higuruma, i—"

"i know," he says again, softer, and then he takes the folder out of your hand and sets it aside and the edge of a brief that took someone three hours to assemble crumples under it and neither of you mentions it. his hands find your face, thumbs at your jaw, tilting you up the way he does when he wants your full attention, which you were already giving him, but that's not really the point of it. the point is the holding. "i'm sorry," he says, looking straight at you, and higuruma doesn't say that lightly, you know that, you've known that for a while now.

you open your mouth and he kisses you before you can finish the thought.

it's not rushed. that's his whole thing, always has been measured, intentional, like he's building a case for something with every action and the verdict is going to land whether you're ready or not. his hands stay at your face while his mouth works yours slow and thorough, and you're already melting by the time he pulls back, lips a little swollen, eyes darker than they were, and he looks at you for a second like he's checking something off an internal list. then he drops to his knees.

oh— "higuruma, wait—"

"sit on the desk," he says, already pushing your chair back.

"the— the papers—"

"sit on the desk." same tone he uses to deliver a closing argument. you sit on the desk. several documents that probably mattered crinkle underneath you and you can't bring yourself to care because he's parting your knees with both hands, slow and very matter-of-fact about it, and looking up at you from the floor of his own office with his tie loose and his glasses catching the lamplight, and the sight of him like that does something genuinely unreasonable to your brain chemistry.

he takes his time working you open through the fabric first. thumb pressing, tracing, watching your face for every twitch while you try very hard to look like you're not immediately losing the thread of every thought you'd had tonight.

god. "higuruma—" his name comes out embarrassingly soft and something in his expression shifts, the composure still there but thinned, something hotter running underneath it. he pushes the fabric aside and puts his mouth on you without preamble and you grab the edge of the desk hard enough that the stapler rattles off onto the floor.

he eats you out the way he does everything — thorough, unhurried, with this awful focused precision that doesn't allow for shortcuts or mercy, his tongue working your folds open before settling flat and heavy over your clit and just staying there, slow pulsing pressure, and you're already slick and aching from nothing but the last twenty minutes of him and the sound that comes out of your mouth is not dignified.

a stack of briefs slides off the corner of the desk. neither of you looks at them. his hands grip your thighs and keep you spread and still while you squirm and he hums against you, low, disapproving, and the vibration of it makes your hips stutter up helplessly.

"higuruma," you breathe, thighs trembling, "please, i need—"

he pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, and his eyes are very dark and very attentive behind the glasses. "come here," he says, rough at the edges now, and he maneuvers you. hands at your hips, repositioning, implacable until you're kneeling up on the desk above him, thighs on either side of his face, and you realize what he's doing half a second before he pulls you down onto his nose and mouth and —

the sound that comes out of you bounces off the walls. his nose presses against your clit and his mouth opens beneath you, tongue finding your entrance, and your whole body goes rigid with how good it is, too good, embarrassingly immediate, your hips rolling forward before you've even consciously decided to and he lets you, hands spread warm on your ass just guiding, keeping you steady, while you grind down onto his face in the lamplight of his own office with important legal documents crumpling under your knees.

oh my god. the wet sounds are filthy and specific and you can feel your face heating even as you can't stop chasing, hips rolling, riding the flat of his tongue and the pressure of his nose against that swollen knot of nerves until you're shaking and saying his name too many times and your thighs are clamping around his ears.

he doesn't stop when you cum. that's the thing. he slows, gentles, lets you ride it out — and then keeps going, tongue lapping patient and thorough while you twitch and gasp and try to pull back and his hands don't let you move far. "too much—" you manage, "higuru— i'm—"

"mm— i know," he groans into you, muffled, and then does something with his tongue that makes your vision go briefly static.

he gets you off twice on his face before he stands up. unhurried. glasses fogged at the edges, mouth and chin devastatingly wet, and he looks at you, completely fucked-out and wobbling on his desk amid the wreckage of the filing system with this expression that's almost quiet satisfaction except for how his chest is moving, how his hands go immediately to his belt with a precision that belies how controlled he's trying to look. there it is. "lie back," he says.

"the papers—"

"i'll reprint them." and he means it, the way he means everything, and something about the casual certainty of it makes you laugh, breathless, and you lie back in the papers.

the press of him in is slow, measured at first, and then your walls flutter around the thick stretch of him and his breath leaves him in a rush. "ah—" undignified, unplanned, and he stops for a second with his eyes shut and his jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk on either side of your hips, and you watch something in his face come loose. "you're—" he starts. stops. swallows. the glasses have slid down his nose and he doesn't fix them. "you feel—"

"hah," you moan, soft, and he opens his eyes and looks at you, and there it is; the thing under the composure, the thing that made him drive back here at midnight, the thing that'd been in his voice even when he was angry on the phone.

he starts moving and stops being careful about it within about thirty seconds.

the desk rocks. something else falls off it; a pen cup, the sound of pens scattering across the floor and you're scrambling to hold onto the edge while he fucks you into it, papers crumpling and tearing under your back, his thrusts rolling into something relentless and deep that punches the air out of you in little broken increments.

his glasses are properly crooked now and he doesn't spare a hand to fix them, both gripping your hips, and his voice when it comes out is low: "you stayed," he says, hips snapping, and it takes your brain a second to parse that he means tonight, means the office, means you sat in his space and reorganized his files instead of going somewhere he couldn't find you. "you stayed here—"

"w-what—" your voice breaks on it.

"don't do that again," he says, not a request, and his hips drive in and you keen, walls clenching, and he makes this rough sound in the back of his throat like it's punishing him too. "don't—" and then he's burying deep and staying there, trembling slightly, forehead dropping to your collarbone while his hips roll slow and grinding and he breathes through clenched teeth, "—god, you're so—" the sentence dies, unfinished, swallowed by the sound of his own breathing and the quiet ruin of every document on the desk.

you cum with your hand fisted in his rumpled shirt and his name said wrong, too many syllables, something that comes out closer to a sob than a word. he follows with his face in your neck, a low rough sound that he murmurs your name into, hips stuttering through it, and you feel the warm spill of him and his whole weight sinking into you and the desk groaning underneath and three case files sliding off onto the floor.

silence, for a bit. the lamp buzzes faintly. somewhere outside a car passes.

he lifts his head. looking at you. fixeing his glasses. "i'm reprinting all of this," he says, very quietly, surveying the destruction, and you start laughing and can't stop, and after a second his mouth curves too; not a smile exactly, but the shape of one, the thing that lives just next to composed, and he drops his head back onto your shoulder and stays there.

★ SUGURU GETO

we all know suguru geto doesn't chase. that's the thing about him — the thing you keep forgetting, keep testing the edges of anyway, like you enjoy finding out where the boundary sits.

he doesn't raise his voice. doesn't beg. and when you'd hung up on him three hours ago and stayed gone he'd sat with it, turned it over, and when you finally walked back through the door he was already standing in the hallway like he'd known exactly how long you'd need.

he didn't say anything. just looked at you.

that look. that specific one, dark eyes tracking your face, reading you in three seconds flat, mouth doing nothing. you'd opened yours to say i'm sorry or we need to talk or literally anything with words in it, and he'd crossed the distance and kissed you instead, one hand cupping your jaw and the other already finding your waist, and it wasn't gentle, wasn't rough either, it was decided. like the conversation was already over and this was just the next paragraph.

"sugu—" you tried, against his mouth.

"shhh," he hushes.

he takes his time undressing you, which is somehow worse than if he'd just ripped something. deliberate. like he's not in a hurry because he doesn't need to be, because you're not going anywhere and he's already decided how this ends. his earring catches the light when he ducks his head to mouth at your throat and your hands find his hair on instinct; loose tonight, the tie gone, black silk of it slipping between your fingers — and he hums against your pulse point, warm and approving, and your knees do something humiliating.

"you're so annoying," he murmurs, into your neck, without heat. just a fact. and then he bites down soft and you gasp and he soothes it with his tongue and keeps moving.

on the bed he gets his mouth between your thighs first, because that's suguru, because he'll take the thing apart slow before he's anywhere close to done. chin tilted up watching your face while his tongue works your folds open, flat and thorough, the wet sounds of it slp slp slp embarrassingly audible and he doesn't stop, not even when you're already shaking and grabbing at his hair and saying his name wrong, sugurusugurusugu— like it'll do something. his eyes stay on yours the whole time. that's the meanest part.

he edges you twice before he's even inside you, pulling back each time with this patient, infuriating composure, lips slick and dark eyes blown, watching you fall apart at the removal of his mouth like it's something he's particularly interested in studying.

"please," you manage, thighs trembling either side of his head.

"please what, pretty girl," he says, voice dropped to something that scrapes right down your spine.

when he finally pushes in the sound that leaves you is not attractive. not even a little. his cock stretches you open inch by slow inch and he watches your face the whole way, jaw tight, the composure held together by what looks like significant effort.

his breath heavier than he'd like, a muscle in his cheek pulling, and when he bottoms out he stops, hips flush against yours, and just. stays there. forehead dropped to yours. both of you breathing.

"you pissed me off," he mumbles, very quietly. "don't do that again."

your throat goes tight. "sugu—"

"i mean it." and then he pulls back and drives in and the words dissolve completely.

he fucks you with this horrible focused intensity — not punishing, not exactly, but not gentle either, hips rolling deep and grinding in a way that finds that spot every third stroke like he has it memorized, like he's been thinking about exactly this angle for three hours on the couch waiting for you.

plp plp plp of skin meeting skin fills up the room. his hair falls forward around both your faces and you reach up to grip it and he lets you, makes a low rough sound at the pull, hips stuttering into something harder before he catches himself and smooths back into that devastating rhythm.

"you gonna run off again?" he growls, above you, not quite a threat, not quite a question.

"no—" and your voice breaks on it because he angles up and hits something that makes your whole body jolt, "no, no, i'm sorry, i'm sorry—"

"i know you are," he says, low and raspy, like he was always going to get here, "i know, sweetheart, you always are—" and then his fingers find your nipple, pinching and caressing the sensitive bud.

he doesn't stop when you cum. the composure fully slips somewhere around the second time, hips losing the careful measured drag into something erratic and urgent, his breath coming apart in short rough increments against your temple.

"fuuuck—" quiet, almost surprised, like he resents how good you feel, voice cracking clean down the middle, "too tight, you're always so—" and he buries deep and grinds and his whole body shudders and the warmth of him spilling into you punches a moan out of you both. "fuckin' tight, my love."

he stays inside. grinds it slow. keeps going.

"sugu," you breathe, wrecked, "i can't—"

"you can," he says, into your hair, but it comes out rough-soft, the mean edge gone, and his arms pull you closer, hold you there, and it's not really an argument anymore.

★ NANAMI KENTO

nanami would be so fucking careful about it. that's the part that gets you. the part that's almost meaner than if he'd just been angry — because he is angry, you can feel it in the way his hands grip your hips with this controlled, deliberate pressure, can hear it in how measured his breathing is, how even, the specific even that means he's working very hard at it. he told you to be home by nine. it is past midnight.

and now he has you folded underneath him with his shirt half-untucked and his jaw set and his hips rolling into you in these long, thorough strokes that are technically gentle, paced, deep, no wasted movement, while your thighs shake on either side of him and you babble apologies into the dark of the bedroom that he doesn't acknowledge and doesn't stop.

"i-i'm sorry," you manage, wall flutter pulling a short exhale out of him that he smooths over immediately, "kento, m' sorry, i didn't mean to— i lost track of—"

he rolls his hips on the next thrust and the words collapse into a sound that isn't a word at all, just air, just the squelch of him working into you plp plp plp in the quiet room, unhurried, relentless in the way that only nanami can be relentless about something like it's a task, like the apology goes in one ear and out the other because you're saying it into his cock and not into his face and he knows the difference. "kento—"

"i heard you," he says. low. not unkind exactly. not kind either.

his thumb finds your clit and presses and you jolt, thighs snapping around his waist, and he looks down at you with this expression that is so carefully neutral that it circles back around to devastating, and keeps the pressure steady and keeps his hips moving and watches you come apart underneath him like he's noting every detail for the record.

fuck. you're already so wet it's embarrassing, has been since he'd pulled you in by the wrist the second you'd walked through the door — no yelling, no lecture, just his hand around your wrist and his eyes finding yours and something in his face going quiet in a way that was worse than any argument. you'd said his name. he'd said, very quietly, bedroom, and that had been the end of the conversation.

"you worried me," he says now, into the space between you, not quite looking at your face and not quite not looking at it either, gaze somewhere at your collarbone, and his voice does something strange on the last word; a slight roughness that he smooths out immediately after. the thumb at your clit circles once. you keen, high and broken, hips chasing without your permission.

"don't do that," he says, flatter now, though the hand at your hip tightens the smallest fraction. whether he means don't do that, stop chasing or don't do that, don't worry me again, you cannot parse with his cock buried this deep in you. probably both. nanami is efficient.

"m' sorry," you slur, wet-eyed now, his next thrust knocking it out of you in a rush, "m' sorry, kento, i know, i know i should've—" and then he shifts the angle, just slightly, just a precise deliberate tilt of his hips that drags the head of him across something that makes your vision white at the edges, and you stop making words and start making sounds.

he keeps going. same pace. same depth. same controlled roll of his hips that is technically, technically, not punishing you — except that it absolutely is, except that he knows exactly what he's doing and how it lands, and the smallest thing is happening at the corners of his mouth that might be satisfaction and might be guilt about the satisfaction and is definitely both. "can't— kento— please—"

"please what," he says. quiet. curious, almost. like he genuinely wants to know.

your brain presents you with nothing. please more, please stop, please don't stop, please say you're not mad, please keep looking at me like that — all of it jamming up in your throat at once while your walls clench helplessly around him and he makes a low sound and his jaw tightens and his hips stutter, just once, the first crack in the composure, before he smooths it back out and keeps going.

"you don't know," he observes, and there's something in it; gentle, ruthless, both, the nanami special, and his thumb presses down on your clit and holds and you cry out and your whole body arches up into him.

"i hate when you go quiet on me," he says, above you, and it takes you a fuzzy second to realize he means the argument, means the part where you'd gone cold and hung up and disappeared for three hours — not the current situation where you are physically incapable of coherent speech because he's fucking you through the mattress with his shirt still half-buttoned and his glasses somewhere on the nightstand and his face doing a very poor job of being expressionless.

"i don't—" and here he stops. his hips keep moving, the pace finally slipping into something less controlled, a little harder, a little less technically gentle, and you feel it in your teeth. "i don't like not knowing where you are," he finishes, very quietly, and the admission costs him something you can see him paying. his forehead drops to your shoulder. the careful breathing is gone. "i don't like it."

"kento—" and your voice breaks clean in half on his name, hands scrambling to grip something, his arm, the sheets, landing on both.

"i know," he says, into your neck. "i know, just—" and his hips snap and you both make embarrassing sounds and he mouths something against your skin that might be your name or might be stay.

you can't tell, you're too far gone, thighs shaking and cunt clenching rhythmically around him while he loses the careful measured pace entirely and fucks you like he's been holding it back since you walked through the door, which he has, which you both know, slap slap slap of his hips meeting yours filling up the bedroom while you babble his name and sorry and please into the dark above his shoulder.

he cums with his face still pressed to your throat, a rough bitten-off sound that he muffles immediately, hips buried deep, grinding slow through it, big hand spread at your lower back holding you against him like you might drift away if he doesn't. you feel the warmth of it and your walls flutter and he makes another sound, smaller, helpless, and his grip tightens.

"don't," he says, strained, into your neck. "don't move. give me—" and he doesn't finish that either, just holds you there, both of you breathing too hard, your lashes wet and sticking, his dress shirt damp at the collar from where his neck has been sweating through the last forty minutes of technically gentle.

the silence stretches. his thumb moves, small idle arc at your hip. slowly the grip loosens into something that's just — holding. the kind that doesn't have an agenda.

"i'm sorry, my love" you say again, into his shoulder. meant more, this time.

a long beat. "i know," he says, finally, and you can feel some of the tension leave his back under your hands. "next time." just that. next time — and you know what he means, have learned enough nanami to translate: next time call. next time don't go quiet. next time let me know you're alright. you press your face into his shoulder and nod into the fabric and he exhales, long and slow, and his hand moves to the back of your head.

he stays inside you until you both stop shaking. doesn't pull out. just — stays; somewhere outside it starts to rain and nanami breathes, even, finally, actually even, and his fingers card through your hair once like he's not doing it on purpose.

★ SUKUNA RYOMEN

sukuna would find it genuinely hilarious. that's what gets you first, not the anger you'd braced for, not the cold shoulder you'd half-wanted so you could stay righteous about the whole thing.

no. you walk through the door still rehearsing the second half of the argument and he's sitting there with that look on his face, the one that means he's already decided something, already filed it under your fault, my problem, and the laugh that comes out of him is low and short and not actually funny at all.

"there she is," he mumbles, like you're late to something he arranged. like he wasn't the reason you left.

you open your mouth. wrong move. he's off the couch before you finish the first word, and sukuna in motion is something your body responds to before your brain weighs in — every nerve pulling toward him even when you're still pissed, even when you're already saying.

"don't—" and he's already got a fist in the back of your hair, not cruel, just absolute, tilting your head back so he can look at your face properly.

"you left," he says, like it's an observation about the weather.

"you were being—"

"you left." same tone. lower. and the hand in your hair tightens and you feel your pulse jump.

he walks you backward into the bedroom without ceremony, lips at your jaw, your throat, the hinge of it, not kissing exactly, just pressing, sampling, the way sukuna touches things he considers his. the black marks on his chest are warm against your palms when you grab at him and he hums, pleased, like you've done something correctly by accident.

"always gotta make it difficult," he mutters, into your neck, and there's something in it that's almost fond and almost annoyed and fully neither.

your back hits the mattress. his weight settles over you and blots out the ceiling and you. shit, you stop being mad about the argument for approximately one full second.

he's not gentle about getting you open. two fingers, then three, working you slick with this bored, efficient focus while he watches your face like he's looking for something specific. the exact moment your hips start chasing, the exact shape your mouth makes before the sound comes out. finds both. says nothing about it. just pulls his fingers free and wipes them on the sheets and lines himself up and — oh.

the stretch of him pulls a sound from your throat that you immediately hate yourself for.

"every time," he says, pushing in slow, watching your expression fall apart in real time, "act like you didn't miss it." another inch. your thighs are shaking already. "like you didn't come back for this."

"that's not— kuna~"

"finish a sentence," he suggests pleasantly, and drives the rest of the way home.

oh fuck. white at the edges. you grab at his forearms, thick, tattooed, not moving anywhere, and your walls clench helplessly around him and he makes this rough sound through his teeth, jaw set, eyes gone a little dark, which is the only tell he has and he'd be furious if you said it out loud.

he stays buried, lets you feel all of it, lets the stretch of him sit there in your nervous system like a fire alarm, and when your hips twitch up toward him his smirk sharpens.

"there it is," he says.

he fucks you mean and slow, which is worse than fast, the drag of him pulling out and pushing back in at this deliberate grinding pace that has you leaking slick down your thighs and babbling in under four minutes.

plp plp plp. the headboard knocks the wall. he doesn't care about the headboard. he's got a hand spread at your lower tummy, pressing down just enough to feel where he's hitting, and the filthy sound he makes when he feels it from both sides does something genuinely embarrassing to you.

"look at you," he murmurs, not unkind, "couldn't even wait to fight properly—" and he rolls his hips in and you arch up and he watches that happen with the expression of a man who feels very correct about something.

"wasn't— my fault—" you try, breathless, which is the wrong thing because—

"whose ring are you wearing," he says, flat, hips snapping once and your whole body jolts.

you stop arguing after that. he works you up to something that sits right behind your eyes, all squelch and wet heat and the low grunt of his breathing, and you're holding onto his shoulders with your nails probably leaving marks and he doesn't mention it or stop — if anything he fucks harder when you grip, because of course he does, because that's sukuna, because of course.

"gonna cum f' me?" he breathes, above you, and it's not quite a question, it's more like he's narrating what's about to happen because he already knows.

"yes—" and it comes out wrecked, barely a word, more just the shape of one.

"yeah," he says, very low, and his thumb finds your clit and presses and that's all it takes.

he cums with his face in your throat, biting down, not enough to break, enough to bruise, enough that you'll feel it tomorrow in the exact shape of his mouth, hips buried and grinding through the aftershocks of both of you, a rough sound that he muffles against your skin like he resents needing to make it.

you feel the heat of him spill and your walls clench again and he hisses, "don't—" and then does three more thrusts anyway, short and grinding and involuntary, because obviously.

silence. his weight settles. not off you, just — settled. which is sukuna's version of a blanket.

after a long moment: "you're not leaving again," he says. not a question. not really possessive even, just stated. the way he states everything that's already been decided.

your throat is dry. "that's not really how—"

"you're not," he says, into your hair, and the arm across your waist tightens by about ten percent.

you don't finish the sentence.

★ SHIU KONG

shui kong would let you walk through the door still hot with it. still jaw-set, still convinced you had the moral high ground, still replaying the argument in your head in the satisfying way where you win every time.

he'd be right there, jacket off, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, cigarette burning between two fingers like he's been sitting with it since you left, and he wouldn't say a word. just watches you come in. takes a drag. exhales slow.

that's it. that's the whole greeting.

the silence does something to you that you don't want to examine too closely, because it's infuriating and also your pulse has already picked up and you know he can tell, knows he always can, which is also infuriating. "don't start," you warn him, which is a stupid thing to say to someone who hasn't started anything.

the corner of his mouth moves. barely. "didn't say a word," he says, smoke still curling from the cigarette, voice doing that thing where it sounds perpetually bored and perpetually amused at the same time, pitched low and even, the kind of voice that gets under your skin precisely because it doesn't try to.

"you were thinking it," you say.

"yeah," he agrees, pleasantly. "i was."

he stubs the cigarette out. stands up. and there's a certain category of problem that shui kong moving toward you creates, because he's not fast about it, he's unhurried, which is different, which is worse and by the time he's close enough that you can smell the stale smoke and something sharper underneath it, the argument is already losing structural integrity in your head.

he looks down at you for a second. something in his half-lidded gaze tracking your face the way he tracks everything, cataloguing, unreadable.

"you done?" he asks.

you open your mouth. he tips your chin up with two fingers, not gripping, just placing, and kisses you, and the answer dies somewhere between your throat and the open air.

he gets your clothes off in a way that's efficient and sort of humiliating, like it's a task with obvious steps, like your indignation is a minor inconvenience he's accounting for. your skirt's gone before you've fully processed his hands at the zipper.

he backs you into the wall with one palm flat between your shoulders and mouths at your throat while his other hand slides between your thighs, and you're already embarrassingly wet and he finds it immediately and makes this low unimpressed sound directly against your pulse.

"how long you been like this," he murmurs. not a question.

"shut up—"

"since you left?" and there it is the meanness, the specific shui kong meanness that doesn't raise its voice, just turns the thing over in its hands and examines it while you want to dissolve through the floorboards.

his fingers move and you grab at his forearm and he keeps going, two fingers crooking inside you while his thumb finds your clit and applies exactly enough pressure to make your knees do something unreliable.

"shui—" and your voice comes out wrong, high and broken at the seam, and you feel him smile against your throat.

"there she is," he says, quiet, satisfied. "the version of you that's not full of shit."

you want to say something cutting. what comes out is a moan, squelch of his fingers working into you, plp plp plp embarrassing in the quiet of the room, and he brings you to the edge and keeps you there with this infuriating focused patience — just enough, never quite enough — until you're grabbing his shirt and making small desperate noises into his shoulder and your pride has fully evacuated the premises.

"please," you get out.

"please what," he says, mild.

"please just—"

"use your words," he says, "you were so good at them twenty minutes ago."

he fucks you up against the wall first, which you suspect is partially because he enjoys watching you scrabble for purchase, fingers dragging against the paint, heels slipping, entirely dependent on the arm hooked under your thigh to keep you from sliding.

the angle is something that rearranges your opinions on several subjects, his cock thick and pressing in deep where he holds you open and your mouth falls open on nothing, just air, just the squelch and slap of it slap slap slap and his breath rough at your temple, finally a little rough, finally something, the composed thing going uneven at the edges in a way that you'd feel smug about if you had any working brain cells left.

"still mad?" he asks, against your ear, hips driving up.

"—yes," you moan, which is technically a lie but also the only piece of self-respect you have left.

he makes a low amused sound and angles his hips and hits something that has you crying out, thighs locking around him, walls clenching so hard you feel him shudder, the first real crack — his jaw tensing, a rough "fuck—" that he doesn't quite swallow, muffled in your hair, hips stuttering before he pulls himself back into the rhythm.

"sure," he says, slightly strained.

he moves you to the bed at some point, not gentle about it; drops you onto the mattress, hooks your ankles up over his shoulders, and the new depth makes you sob a little which he watches with this expression like he's deeply privately satisfied by that.

the composure is mostly back. mostly. his hair's messed up and there's a flush along his neck he's definitely not acknowledging and his thrusts have that particular roughness that means he's closer than he wants to admit — slap slap slap and your whole body rocking up the mattress with each one, headboard kissing the wall, the sound of you soaked around him absolutely filthy in the quiet room.

"shui— shui, i'm—" and you're already shaking, thighs trembling either side of his head, clenching and fluttering and making his breath stutter again, "gonna cum, please—"

"i know," he says, and the certainty of it is so irritating and so hot that it tips you right over the edge.

he follows close behind, hips grinding in deep and staying, hand gripping your hip hard enough you'll see it tomorrow, a low rough sound that he breathes out through his teeth. the warmth of him fills you and your walls flutter uselessly and he hisses, grinds once more, twice, working it through with his eyes closed and jaw set like he's annoyed at himself for it.

silence. the ceiling. both of you breathing.

after a while he reaches over to the nightstand and picks up a new cigarette. doesn't light it. just holds it between his fingers and looks at the ceiling, chest still moving too fast for someone who'd like you to believe he's completely unbothered.

"we're not doing that again," he says finally, meaning the leaving part. the whole leaving part.

you turn your head to look at him. he's still staring at the ceiling. the unlit cigarette taps once against his knuckles. "which part," you say.

"all of it," he says, which means the leaving and nothing else, and doesn't elaborate, because that's all he was ever going to give you and somehow it's enough.

★ NAOYA ZENIN

naoya zenin would be insufferable about it. that's the whole thing — he'd be insufferable, leaned against the doorframe when you finally walked in, arms crossed, that particular smirk sitting on his face like it'd been waiting there specifically for you. hours. you'd been gone hours, long enough to cool down and heat back up again for entirely different reasons, and you walk through the door and the first thing out of his mouth is "took you long enough."

not i was worried. not where were you. not even a proper argument continuation. just that, delivered like a verdict, like you'd failed a test he'd designed.

you should not find it as hot as you do. you genuinely hate that about yourself.

"don't," you start, already bristling, dropping your bag.

"don't what," he says, tilting his head slightly, light eyes doing that thing where they track you with this lazy attention that isn't lazy at all, not really. "finish a thought, at least."

"don't be a dick about it—"

"i'm always dick," he smirks, like it's a point of pride, and it is, that's the problem, "that's not new information." he pushes off the doorframe. "you done sulking or d' you need another hour?"

"i wasn't sulking—" but he's already moved, already closed enough distance that you have to tilt your chin up to hold eye contact, and naoya at close range is a specific kind of problem because he's taller than you clock him for and meaner than you're ever fully braced for; his hand finds your jaw before you finish the sentence, not hard, just — there, thumb pressing the corner of your mouth, tilting your face exactly where he wants it.

"yeah you were," he says, eyes dropping to your mouth, "you always do that little thing where you go quiet and disappear and wait for someone to come find you." the smirk shifts into something with a sharper edge. "m' not doing that. you know where i am."

it's the closest naoya zenin gets to i was waiting for you to come back and you both know it and neither of you are going to say it.

he kisses you before you can respond, which is basically naoya's solution to any conversational situation where he's running out of winning moves — not that he'd frame it that way, not that he'd ever admit the conversation had gotten close to him at all.

his hands move fast. not frantic, nothing naoya does is frantic, but efficient in a way that has your shirt gone and your bra following it before your brain's fully caught up, and when you grab at his collar he makes this low approving sound like you've done something correctly.

"there she is," he murmurs, against the side of your face, "been waiting all night for the version of you that shuts up."

"naoya—"

"shhh," he says, which is incredibly rude, and his hand slides down your stomach.

he doesn't bother with the bed immediately. backs you into the wall, slap of your shoulders hitting it, and gets his fingers into you while you're still standing, two of them, crooking like he already knows exactly where to press which he does, he always does, which is its own humiliation.

you're already wet and he finds it and laughs, short and low, right next to your ear. "you went all the way out there," he says, fingers working a slow drag, "this pissed at me—" and you clench around him and his breath hitches, covered fast, "—and came back this worked up. what were you even doing out there, thinking about it?"

"i hate you—" and it comes out wrecked because his thumb grazes your clit.

"no you don't," he says, certain, almost bored about it, and crooks his fingers again and you bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound.

when he finally gets inside you it's with your legs around his waist and the wall doing half the structural work and his face buried somewhere between your jaw and your shoulder, the composed thing shredding at the seams almost immediately because you're tight and you clench the second he bottoms out and his whole body stutters.

"fuck—" not covered, and you feel his hips jerk forward on instinct like he can't help it. like he's been thinking about this since you walked out. he probably has. he'd rather die than say so.

"oh," you breathe, walls fluttering, and he makes a sound that is not remotely as composed as he'd like. "f-fuck"

"don't," he grits, jaw tight.

"don't what," you mumble, deliberately copying him, and feel him twitch inside you.

he fucks you mean after that, which was inevitable. slap slap slap of his hips against yours, rough and deep, one hand fisted in your hair yanking your head back so he can watch your face, which naoya always does — he wants to see it, wants to watch you come apart specifically for him, and he gets meaner about it the closer you get, running his mouth in this low relentless way that's half degradation and half the closest he gets to losing it.

"look at you," he breathes, eyes dark and fixed, "couldn't even stay mad properly— pussy' this desperate the whole time and you thought leaving was gonna—" and you clench hard around him on accident and his sentence dies, "shit—" hips snapping brutal once, twice, rhythm breaking into something rougher, less controlled.

"mmmgh— naoya~" your voice wet and high.

"yeah," he says, strained, "yeah, that's right—" and his free hand moves between you, thumb finding your clit without breaking pace, and your vision goes sideways.

you cum loud and messy and undignified, thighs locking around his waist, and the clench of it drags a genuine broken sound out of naoya zenin; not a grunt, not a controlled exhale, a sound, cracked right through the middle, his hips driving in and grinding, stuttering through it.

"f-fuck—" and then again, quieter, helpless, face pressing into your neck while he pulses inside you warm and deep and his whole body shakes with how hard he's trying not to make it obvious how gone he is.

he stays inside. breathing hard. the smirk is gone — just his face, flushed and wrecked and younger-looking somehow, eyes shut.

a long beat.

"you're not doing that again," he says, finally, into your shoulder. hoarse.

"what, leaving, or making you—"

"either," he says, fast, and the tips of his ears go pink and he absolutely does not acknowledge that you noticed.

★ MAHITO

mahito would think it was funny.

that's the first thing. you walk back through the door still pissed, still running the argument on a loop, still convinced you were right and he's right there, cross-legged on the floor like he'd been sitting exactly like that since you left, head tilted, those mismatched eyes tracking you from across the room with this expression like you're the most interesting thing he's seen all week. wide smile. the kind that doesn't mean what smiles usually mean.

"you came back," he says, and he sounds delighted.

not relieved. not apologetic. delighted, like you'd passed some test he'd set without telling you, like the whole three hours was a game with a conclusion he'd already predicted. you want to say something cutting and instead you say "don't make it weird—"

"i'm not making it weird," he murmurs, already unfolding from the floor, already moving, the way mahito moves was always so fluid and too-casual, like joints work slightly differently for him, like he's interested in the trajectory of a thing before it knows it's moving. "you left mad and you came back. that's just what happened." he's close now, head dipping slightly to look at your face, smile gone smaller and more specific. "you missed me."

"i didn't—"

"you did," he says, and the certainty of it is disgusting, and correct, and you hate everything.

he kisses you the way he does everything — like it's a new thing he's curious about, too much attention on it, one hand coming up to hold your face in place with his palms flat against your jaw so he can look at you while he does it, which shouldn't be as intense as it is.

his hands are always slightly cooler than they should be. you notice it every time. his thumbs press your cheeks and he pulls back just enough to study your expression at close range, eyes moving across your face like he's cataloguing something.

"still mad?" he asks, conversational.

"yes—"

"good," he says, and means it, and walks you backward toward the bed.

mahito likes you angry. that's the honest truth of it, the part you've stopped being surprised by — he likes the fight still in you, the flush of it, the way your eyes go bright when you're pissed off at him.

he says it makes you more interesting, which is terrifying on a fundamental level and also the most sincere compliment he has the architecture to give.

he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and uses the other to get your clothes off with this absorbed, intent focus, like unwrapping something he's genuinely curious about, and when he spreads you open with his fingers and finds you already wet his whole face does something that cracks the grin into something softer and much worse.

"heh," he breathes, delighted again, "you were thinking about it the whole time."

"mahito i swear—"

"you were," he says, fingers curling in, and your back arches off the mattress.

plp plp plp of his fingers working into you in the quiet room, the wet sounds of it embarrassingly loud, and he watches your face with this open fascination that would be uncomfortable in any other context and is uncomfortable in this one too.

his thumb finds your clit and circles and you stop caring about comfortable. "there," he says softly, more to himself than you, tracking the specific shape your face makes, the way your thighs want to close and his hand keeps them open. "there you are."

he edges you once. just to see what happens. pulls back when your hips are chasing and your voice has gone high and broken and watches you come down from it with his head tilted and his eyes bright. "mahito~" his name comes out lewd, "please—"

"please what," he says, genuinely curious, like he's collecting data.

getting him inside you makes him go briefly, wonderfully, undone — the composed curious thing cracking open at the stretch of you around him, a rough sound against your throat that he doesn't bother covering, just feels them and reports back.

"fuuuck—" drawn out, honest, his hips grinding the last inch in while his fingers dig into your thigh. you feel every ridge of him, the slight upward curve, and your walls clench helplessly and he makes another sound, this one shorter and more surprised, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"you always—" he starts, and stops. tries again. "every time you—" and stops again, which for mahito, who always has something to say, is saying something.

he starts moving before he finishes the sentence.

slap slap slap, his hips meeting yours, the pace building into something relentless and deep that knocks the air out of you in short punched increments.

his hair falls around both of you, long and bluish-grey and falling out of whatever loose hold it'd been in, and when you grab a fistful of it he groans loud, hips stuttering hard. his hand finds yours and keeps it there, keeps the grip, like he wants you pulling.

"yeah," he breathes, "yeah, mmm— harder—" and you're almost laughing except he snaps his hips and hits something deep that dissolves the laugh into a keen that bounces off the walls.

"mahito—" wrecked, too many syllables, your voice doing something it's not supposed to do.

"i know," he says, "i know i know, you're—" and he bites your shoulder, sharp, and you clench and he shudders and the rhythm breaks into something desperate and stuttering and completely out of the neat curiosity it'd started with.

he gets you off twice, which you were not prepared for, the second one rolling directly into the first before you've caught your breath, and he watches both of them happen up close with this half-lidded focus while his own breathing comes completely apart.

the second time your walls lock around him and your voice cracks on his name he tips over too — a low grunt sound, hips buried, grinding through it with his face in your neck and his hands gripping your hips hard enough you'll feel it tomorrow in the shape of his fingers.

warm spill of him, deep, and he keeps rolling his hips through the aftershocks because he can't quite stop, little involuntary rocks that drag sounds out of both of you.

silence. both of you breathing.

he lifts his head. looks at your face. the smile that comes back is smaller than usual, something genuine underneath it that mahito doesn't always let sit on the surface. "you're not doing that again," he says, meaning the leaving.

"that's not really your decision—"

"you're not doing that again," he repeats, patient, and his nose touches yours, and it's the closest he's getting to please don't leave and you both know it and he'd never say it with different words.

Naoya wasn’t a man that showed up for holidays. They often passed you by without fanfare or comment unless you planned something. If the deigned to show up, that is. His birthday was of course the exception to this, as that was a day entirely about himself. Being married to a man so self-centred was simultaneously exhausting and freeing. Every responsibility was on you if you wanted to celebrate, but there was no expectation to. Some men would expect you to handle everything and for it to be perfect, but if you truly did nothing for any given holiday, Naoya wouldn’t even flinch. Wouldn’t bat an eye that it was another normal day. For his birthday, you simply ensured that the servants were making his favourite meal, and that was considered enough. Birthday head without him asking, if you were feeling generous. On your own birthday, you generally got the same, though you suspected that wasn’t something Naoya planned or did himself. It was a quiet life you led, and while it had been strange at first and even a little disheartening, you’d become accustomed to it.

Which was why you were so confused to wake up to flowers on Valentines day, and your husband nowhere to be found.

In fact, you were concerned.

You took them and handed them to a member of the staff to be properly treated and put into a vase, because in fact the bouquet was beautifull and comprised of all your favourites so of course it deserved to be properly cared for despite your disconcertion.

You roamed the grounds of the compound looking for your husband. It was quiet, it always was since everything happened with Maki. You could still hardly believe it, that almost the entire family was gone. If you hadn’t gotten to Mai in time, you can’t imagine how much worse it could’ve been. You had always done your best with those girls. Naoya might be your husband, but that didn’t mean you followed the Zenin family ideals, of course not.

You wondered sometimes if coming back from the brink of death at his cousin’s hands had changed him. It showed in the little things sometimes, and the looks you caught. The way he’d sit on the opposite side of the room, and you could feel his eyes on you, but only as long as you weren’t looking at him - whenever you attempted to make eye contact, tried to ask what was wrong, he’d not just look away but often leave the room. If you didn’t know better, you might think it was shame.

When you did eventually find Naoya, he was knelt in the gardens beside the pond. You said nothing as you approached, nor as you knelt down beside him. A long moment passed before either of you spoke, and once again you found yourself surprised, as it was Naoya that broke first.

“Did you see the flowers?” He asked, voice soft, and you had a feeling he was fighting to keep it steady. “I did, they’re beautiful. Thank you, Naoya.” Came your equally soft reply. Like you were both afraid of breaking this fragile moment between you. The air between you wasn’t quite awkward, wasn’t quite tense, it was just.. new. You weren’t sure if new excited or frightened you.

You could tell in the quiet that came after that Naoya was struggling. Emotional displays were another thing that he just didn’t really partake in, so the idea that he’d even tried was incredibly touching, and a part of you wanted to tell him he didn’t need to continue. But you wanted him to, so desperately. You needed to know where he was going with this, what had compelled him to have such a drastic change in heart. To anyone else it may feel like a small change, but to you, it was like the very world had changed on its axis.

“You saved my life.” Naoya finally said, and those quiet words seemed to echo around the gardens, only to settle heavily on your heart.

That wasn’t strictly true, not really. That was the doctors and Maki’s own restraint that had done that. But, you couldn’t deny your involvement. Weak and struggling, eyes brimming with desperate tears, you’d carried Mai’s barely breathing body up from the weapons vault and collapsed at Maki’s feet. You’d begged for Naoya’s life, and offered her sister in return, who you’d just revived. You hadn’t held Mai over her head, you’d offered her freely because girls so young shouldn’t have to die for their ideals, but you’d asked that please she show mercy that none of them deserved, certainly not Naoya, and let your husband live.

She’d accepted, if only for your sake. Because you’d always tried. Because for just a moment, maybe she’d seen a world where Naoya could change, with your gentle guidance.

“Naoya, I didn’t-” “You had no reason to do what you did. I have not been a good husband,” he said, cutting you off, “you could have been free to pursue someone better, someone who would treat you with kindness. But you didn’t. You collapsed at her feet and you begged for my life.” “I didn’t think you were conscious enough to remember that.” “It haunts me. The vision of you weeping and pleading on my behalf.” It was like a knife in your heart, made a void open in your stomach. What were you supposed to say to that? “So, that’s.. what’s caused this change?” You asked, hesitant in case it made him retreat from you again. You watched as he dipped the tip of his finger into the pond, the fish swimming closer to inspect before swimming away again.

“I suppose so,” he finally said with a sigh that spoke of there being a lot more on his mind, “I had a lot of time while I was healing, and I did a lot of thinking. Thought about the sort of things I usually avoid thinking about.” You remained silent, letting Naoya take his time to put his thoughts into words coherent enough to share with you.

“I developed feelings for you, at some point. I couldn’t tell you when, but it was a startling realisation. Laying there, half dead, and realising I’ve been in love with my spouse for a long time and I almost never got the chance to tell you. I almost let.. everything else get in the way.” He finally finished, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, as if he was swallowing down all the negative thoughts and harsh things his lips wanted to spit on instinct. “I knew what I was getting into when I married you, Naoya. I knew I’d never be your number one priority, but I made you mine anyway. I was okay with that, because I knew.. somewhere inside you was a heart that cared for me, on some level.” You replied softly, just brave enough to shuffle slightly closer. “It doesn’t bother you? That you’re married to a man who bought you flowers for the first time today, because he had to nearly die to realise what you mean?” “I’m just interested in learning who this new version of you is, and whether I can grow to love him just as much as the old one.”

Silence followed again. You didn’t mind. Naoya took his time to process that, eyes still fixed on the pond in front of you. Time seemed to pass slowly, you looked up to watch the clouds pass by, looking for shapes in them.

“I want to do better.” Naoya finally said, looking at you for the first time since you’d knelt beside him. “You already are.” You lowered your eyes from the blue sky above you to meet his, finding the depth of his sincerity there clear as anything. “Be my Valentine?” He asked, and he clearly felt ridiculous for it. You almost laughed, but resisted for his sake. You wouldn’t want him to think you were rejecting him. “Of course.” You agreed. When he kissed you, it felt like a promise, and a new start.

Tag list: @claryeverlarkf @uselessboots @cainnoable @hyperfixationthingss @queenmimi2817 @fanaticsnail @villainousace @hellkaiserinphoenix @satorusrealm

𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐭. 3 — five x reader | smut

𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐮𝐦 𝐟𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 — five x reader | smut

Bon Appétit — multiple fives x reader | smut

Dinner for Two (Eventually) — five x fem!reader

Taking Five to the library

Five Hargreeves in a relationship headcanon

CIA, PMS, and WTF? — five x fem!reader

I swallowed a glow stick! — five x reader

Yandere! Five Hargreeves Headcanons

dance with me — yandere!five x reader

overprotective yandere!five headscanons

first time cooking dinner — five x reader

Endearing — five x reader

Touch games — five x reader

Drunk! Five Hargreeves Headcanons/One-shot

Dating Headcanons F.H — five x reader

Klaus Hargreeves NSFT Headcanons💓

Dating Number 4/ Klaus Hargreeves would include

So Long, Farewell, Good Evening and Good Night! — klaus x reader

"Can't choose between us? Just choose all of us." — multiple fives x reader | smut

👁️ Wednesday:

braids — xavier thorpe x reader

xav tries a tattoo gun on you — xavier thorpe x reader

rainy days — xavier thorpe x reader

unexpected — xavier thorpe x reader | smut | enemies to lovers

I don’t want you like a best friend — xavier thorpe x reader

being cheeky in the library — xavier thorpe x reader

🏆 The Mortal Instruments:

Heavenly Fire — jace x fem!reader

grumpy! jace herondale x sunshine! reader

🔎 Dead Boy Detectives:

flirtatious!charles headcannon — charles x edwin

^^ bonus AO3 fic link: It's not fair (cause you make me ache, you bastard) — charles x edwin

💤 The Sandman:

Imagine being a Dark Fae and saving Morpheus

🦸🏾‍♀️ Marvel:

Loki having a crush on you: Headcanons

🌩️ Misfits:

CALL ME — nathan young x reader

Swept off my feet — nathan young x reader

Ba-bum!

"Testing, testing, mic check."

You scroll on your phone, curled up on your oversized gaming chair. "You don't need to mic check every time," you mumble into your headset.

"Discord's shit these days," is all he says. His voice is gentle as ever, even if his words cut. "I pay up the ass in internet and it still lags."

"Add me to your family plan," you say, just like you do every time. You don't know his exact expenses, but you do know that Kozume Kenma doesn't spare when it comes to his gaming setup.

"I'll add you if you promise not to use it for League."

You scoff, reaching for your coffee. You won't hear his usual admonishments about taking care of yourself — if he wants to do overnight stream challenges, he gets to deal with a malnourished moderator.

"My ping would thank you greatly, Koz."

"Your ping can suck my dick."

You grin, tossing your phone on the desk and glancing at the time. "On that note-"

"Yep. See ya."

You both end the call, only thirty-two seconds long. Your phone immediately buzzes.

[10:00 PM]

kozuken is live!

You're the first in the chat, your monitor split between his video feed and the chat box.

"Hello, hello," he says. "Mic check, testing, testing."

You roll your eyes.

"Marco's rolling her eyes. I can feel it."

You grin, leaning in to type a response.

[10:02 PM]

Marco: eat my ass

He grins, eyes dragging over the chat before looking away so he can set up his game. "Time and place, baby."

The chat goes crazy, the way it always does, when you two talk to each other like this. Purposely walking the line between platonic and flirtatious — once just a joke, made a regular dynamic. Once you'd noticed that his fans loved it, it was easy enough to continue, especially since Kenma's so fond of egging you on in his streams.

"Roll call, moderators," he mumbles into his mic, his eyes flitting back and forth between monitors while he loads in his screen recorder and audio buff.

[10:04 PM]

Marco: marco

"Polo," he responds, an afterthought. "Looks like everyone's here, so we can get started."

The comments filter in, your eyes trained to skim quickly. The brand new fans are easy to pick out, questions coming in about why he does roll call if you're his only mod. The old fans are busy spamming the word 'marco' over and over again in the chat, a joke long turned habit.

At one point, he'd considered having more than one moderator. It's just so much work for you. But you know — he'd told you — that he can't trust anyone else. That he wouldn't be able to keep track of anyone else in is DMs, not when you take up so much of his time.

"You're always yapping," he'd jokingly complained once, when the two of you were in college. "You're a full-time job."

You wouldn't let him have another moderator, anyway. This is yours. You made this place for yourself without meaning to, and both of you know — unacknowledged, unconscious — that no one else can have it.

Things had always been that way for you and Kozume Kenma. Unspoken, inexplicable.

—

He's ten when you meet him. You're ten, too. Way too young to be playing games online with strangers, but internet safety isn't really on your mind at that age.

And he doesn't try to chat you up, doesn't try to get any personal information out of you. You happen to play a single round of a game together, and you happen to add him as a friend afterward, because he's good. He happens to accept it.

He also sounds ten. He types in short, clipped phrases, simple DMs that say 'party?' when you're both online. After a few months, that single word turns into adding each other on Discord, which you're both still too young to have but do anyway. It turns into near-silent phone calls, where you both make simple requests of each other in-game and nothing else.

It isn't until months later — almost a year since meeting him — that you're brave enough to send a meme. He responds with a reaction. You think that'll be it, and then you're surprised the next morning to find he'd sent one, too.

He turns eleven, and you send a quick 'hap birth', which he responds to with a cake emoji. You turn eleven a few weeks later, and he just sends the emoji again.

And then, one night, he texts a quick 'party?' and you respond with 'tired :/', expecting that to be it. Expecting, at most, a thumbs up.

He calls. You answer, thinking maybe he hadn't gotten your text.

"Hello?"

"Hi."

He says nothing else. You just get the notification that he's streaming his screen. He's playing a cozy game, something low-stakes with gentle background music.

You fall asleep like that, watching his stream on your phone, no words shared between you.

It becomes a habit — first, only when one of you is too tired to play, and then scheduled. Every Wednesday night, when you're both most tired from school, and then Fridays, too.

Friday streams turn into Friday movie nights, and those turn into Friday 'play something in the background and talk over it' nights.

You turn twelve on one of those nights. He spends two hours building you a house-sized cake in Minecraft, telling you in that deadpan voice to shut up when you start making insane requests.

"I just think if we put a river through it-"

"No."

"But it could be like one of those molten lava cake things-"

"Stop it."

"I'm just imagining-"

"No imagining. Less imagination from you."

You fall asleep before he's done, your face sore from laughing. You wake up to a picture of the finished block-cake, a stupid little river running through it.

You grow up like that, middle school passing with your closest friend only accessible behind a screen. He tells you about his friend Kuroo, and you tell him about your school friends, too. He starts playing volleyball, and you spend some Friday nights watching pro-volleyball matches with him so he can learn.

And then one day, when you're both fourteen, Kuroo logs on while Kenma's in the shower and calls you. You answer, of course, but you're completely unprepared for the video feed to be turned on.

"Oh," you say. "That's not what I thought you'd look like."

The boy on the other end furrows his brow, a scoff leaving him. "You guys haven't video called before?"

It's not hard to figure out that this is not Kenma.

It's even easier when Kenma does come into view, a blur of dark hair and Kuroo tackled to the floor, out of sight.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

You listen as they wrestle, watch as the real Kozume Kenma appears in the video, wide-eyed and panicked.

"Holy shit," he says, frantically trying to turn his camera off. "I'm so sorry."

You just laugh, watching him mute-unmute-mute-unmute himself instead of pressing on the camera icon. He swears again, beet-red, so you just turn your camera on, too, your nerves fluttering.

He freezes, stares. Opens his mouth, closes it, blinks.

"Hi," he says, voice quiet.

You swallow, feeling your face burn and hoping it doesn't show in the camera. "Hi."

The moment is interrupted by Kuroo, who starts to laugh in the background. "This story is going in my best-man speech at your wedding."

Kenma turns an insane shade of red within milliseconds, and then he hangs up. You have to sit for a long time staring at the dark screen just to catch your breath.

One good thing comes out of Kuroo Tetsurou's intervention — video calling.

High school marks the era of sending exhausted morning selfies and late afternoon study calls, your cameras on and your mics muted. He calls after practice every day, only half his face showing as he walks home, and you bring him with you for post-midnight snack searches of the kitchen, all the lights off around you.

He's there when you move into your college dorm, his voice echoing from your back pocket as he complains about the view. You're there when he decides to start streaming professionally, your smile knowing and silly when you offer to be his moderator. Both your grins full of mischief when he actually considers it.

He starts out slow, quiet, but he's good at what he does — what you both do — and his fan base grows quickly. He hits 100,000 followers within a year, and he's at a million by the time you graduate. You run his chat with a firm hand, banning viewers after one warning and spending your free time accepting and denying requests to be unbanned. He spends his time editing VODs and posting them to Youtube, and he brings on a friend — Lev Haiba — to run his accounts. The guy's a model, apparently, and knows the ins and outs of social media better than anyone.

And then Kenma starts his own company — Bouncing Ball Corp. — and suddenly, his face and name are everywhere. You see him on bus ads and in storefronts, sports outlets marketing him and his sponsored players — Hinata Shouyou the most famous of all — until you can spot a cutout of him at least once a day on your way to work.

You always send him a picture. He always responds with a middle finger emoji.

Your days are spent working your boring office job, Discord open on one monitor as you speed through your work on the other. Your lunch breaks are spent on the phone with him, complaints sent in spam texts on the few days your coworkers actually invite you to join them.

It passes through your mind a few times — the fact that you haven't met him. You're 25 years old and have yet to meet your best friend of 15 years.

You wonder sometimes if he thinks about it, too.

—

[10:00 PM]

kozuken is live!

"Mic check, testing testing. Roll call, mods?"

Marco: marco

"Polo." Kenma scrolls through his Steam library for the viewers, humming contemplatively. "Not sure what I wanna play today. I want something lowkey. It was a rough day."

You grin evilly, typing out something quick without thinking.

Marco: i can make you feel better :')

His smile is immediate, his tongue poking out as he shakes his head. "Got enough space for you under my desk, Marco."

Marco: i pray for days like these <333

Marco: god is real <333

Marco: lemme get a hair tie real quick

He purses his lips, his laugh escaping anyway. "That'll take too long, just borrow one of mine."

The chat is responding at a rate that even you can't follow, but you do catch one comment.

'BE SO HONEST WITH US, HAVE YOU GUYS FUCKED???'

You know Kenma's seen it because he starts choking, fist beating down on his chest. You fire off a response, ignoring the flaming heat in your cheeks and that the swirl of nerves in your gut.

Marco: omw as we speak

He barks out a laugh, nodding. "Yeah, she's got a key to my place. That's how this whole mod thing happened in the first place."

Marco: aftercare is just stream ideas

"We talk about hiring VOD editors while I'm rearranging her guts."

You gasp, face searing hot as you switch to your DMs and message him.

You: YOU CANNOT SAY THAT ON STREAM!!!!!!!!!!

His eyes flick to the next screen, and then he beams, his grin a little too pleased. "Uh oh, I'm in the doghouse. Do you guys think she'll still let me hit?"

You text again.

You: NO I WILL NOT!!!!!!!!!!

His brow furrows for a moment, and you realize that you should have said that in the stream chat, not in his DMs. You groan aloud, burying your face in your hands in humilation. You only lift your eyes when you hear the ping of his text.

Koz: what if im not in the doghouse?

You freeze, staring. Eyes flicking to the video feed, watching him closely. Watching those little mannerisms that only you can see, the ones that make it clear he's nervous about that text. When you don't answer fast enough, he starts to chew on his bottom lip and his eyes take on a distracted glaze as he pretends to read the stream chat.

You watch him type again quickly.

Koz: joke

You exhale shakily, typing with trembling fingers in the stream chat.

Marco: chat, tell koz to stop begging for nudes in my dms

He finds it immediately in the sea of messages, eyes going wide and then flicking away. His laugh is full of relief, and he just shakes his head.

"One day," he says. "One day, Marco." You ignore the heat building in your gut and watch as he switches topics, scrolling through Steam again. "Alright," he eventually sighs. "Let's play Stardew."

You pin a chat that catches your eye, your fingers still shaking.

'co-op farm with marco???'

Kenma smiles, small and sweet this time, and shakes his head. "Marco's too busy running this shit like the Navy. She won't be able to focus."

You pin another chat.

'what if you guys play off stream and upload to yt???'

He nods, shrugging. "I don't see why not. We basically just play games in our free time, anyway."

One more pin, your nerves at an all-time high.

'film irl??? even if it's not games???'

His smile takes on a curious quality, brows furrowed as he hums and launches the game. It's obvious that you're interested in the idea, because you wouldn't be pinning the messages if you weren't. Everyone watching can see it, too, an influx of support crashing through the chat.

"What'do you wanna see us do, then?" he asks, attention turned to his Stardew file. A message flies by that says 'WE WANNA SEE YOU FUCK!!!', and he laughs, but his voice is tight. You understand why, your skin breaking out in a cold sweat. You type fast, trying to play it off.

Marco: lets do plushy tour

"What're you gonna do, haul your shit all the way to my place?" he jokes. "I've seen your plushy collection. It's semi-truck-requiring."

The chat continues to be spammed with ideas, and he pauses every few minutes to glance at them. You put out a few polls here and there, most having to do with his gameplay, but one of them is titled 'MarKoz Youtube Collab Ideas'. It stays up for a while, votes flooding in. He examines it for a moment, and then you watch him type.

Koz: you wanna meet up?

Your nerves peak and crash, your skin covered in goosebumps at the thought of meeting Kenma.

You: could be fun

He swallows, takes a sip of his drink. Types again.

Koz: could be

Koz: soon? or

It strikes you then that you have no idea where he lives. It can't be far, but…

You: depends

You: train tickets can get pricey

Koz: stfu

Koz: you know i'll pay

A few minutes go by with you distracted by the chat and him playing his game.

Koz: send me your address

You flush, realizing this is actually happening.

You: [location attached]

He chokes on his drink, in the middle of his livestream. You watch the chat react, a range of concern and 'Marco finally sent the nudes' jokes.

Koz: wtf

Koz: what the fuck yn

You: ????

Koz: thats ten fucking minutes from here

Your whole world comes crashing down.

—

You exhale in disbelief, staring up at the high-rise with a small grin tugging at your lips.

"Of course," you whisper, shaking your head and hauling your tote bag higher up on your shoulder. You push your way through the revolving door, glancing around as you approach the front desk. "Hi… I'm… I guess I'm here to see a resident?"

The girl behind the counter smiles up at you, humor lacing her voice. "Okay. Can I get a name?"

"She's with me."

His voice feels like a cord was wrapped tight around your spine when you weren't looking. Like he was baked into your DNA, his life intertwined with yours.

Your eyes fly to his. He's staring back at you like he feels the same way.

Disoriented. Shocked. Unsteady.

You clear your throat, smiling briefly at the girl as you drift away, your grip on the strap of the tote bag almost painful.

You meet him at the elevator bay, your legs shaking. "Hi."

He inhales, eyes flicking between yours rapidly. "Hey."

You're not sure how to greet him. If you should hug him — you've known him most of your life — or if it would be weird — this is your first time ever meeting him. He steps away to call the elevator, so you take it as a sign not to hug him and just wait beside him.

"Was the walk okay?" he tries, voice quiet and hesitant. You shift awkwardly, just shrugging.

"Yeah. It was alright."

God, this is uncomfortable. What is it? What's making this so weird?

You follow him into the elevator, taking stock of the situation. What you know about him and what's new.

His voice is familiar, but it's different in person. It affects you more. His stance — lazy with a slight slouch — is comfortable to you, but his height is new. His hair and face are the same, but now you can see his skin, his eyes. You can smell his shampoo. His cologne. You can feel his warmth, gentle and washing over you.

Your eyes dart over his form once, twice, and then they return to his face.

He's doing the same to you. His face is tinged pink with embarrassment, and you realize that your cheeks are warm, too.

His eyes catch yours, widening slightly. "Uh," he starts, gaze flying away. You see the spread of warmth across his ears and down his neck. "I was thinking we could eat first and then film… Maybe play a game or something?"

You nod quickly, following him out of the elevator. "That sounds good to me." You wince internally, imagining how awkward the video would be if you started filming right away. You can only hope that some buffer time before then would ease the tension.

When you enter his apartment, your jaw drops, eyes scanning the luxurious space. "Damn," you whisper. "You sure I can't join your internet family plan?"

He smiles, shooting a glance back at you as he leads you to the kitchen. There are bags of takeout already there, the smell of food wafting wonderfully over you. "You gonna use it for League?"

Your grin is comfortable, and there's a wave of relief crashing over you. You can feel the tension fading just a little bit, which means there's still hope.

"What're you gonna do if I do?" you joke, leaving your bag by his couch.

Golden eyes find you, and there's a flash of something there — something that warms the knot underneath your navel — before he looks away, his smile tighter than before.

"Guess you gotta find out."

You flush with warmth, all the way down to your toes. Had that transferred over as well? The jokes that lean a little too far away from platonic? The one-liners that hold more than they should?

You don't hate the idea. Not at all.

You help him unpack the food – he’d gotten your favorite, despite only ever seeing you eat over a discord call – and join him on the sofa, his massive TV and multiple game consoles collected on his TV stand. He untangles two controllers, passing one to you as he crouches by the stand and plugs one of the consoles in.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. You watch him tilt his head, watch his hair cascade down like a waterfall, feel the urge to tangle your fingers in it. “The only people who come over are Kuroo and Hinata. I can never get them to game with me.”

You cross your ankles, uncross them, look around his place some more. “I can come over more, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You hear him laugh through his nose, and then he nods. That urge to tangle your fingers in his hair grows stronger.

"Yeah, that's what I'm asking," he jokes. "Want you here every day."

"Get me a key, then."

He turns, eyes finding you. He doesn't say anything, just rises and hits the power button on the console. Then he joins you on the couch. You try not to notice that he sits close enough that his thigh touches yours.

The Mario Kart soundtrack fills his living room, so you force down the thought of his body heat. Of his cologne, washing over you. Of the hyper-sensitivity on the right side of your body, the side that's pressed to his.

You manage to fake your way through the nerves, the game relaxing you and the food delicious. Jokes fly easily, the bump of his elbow on yours easy and the shove of your shoulder into his when he's winning all too comfortable.

You don't even realize that several hours have passed, not until you glance out his floor-to-ceiling windows — he's way too rich, you think — and see that it's completely dark out.

"Oh," you breathe, looking around. The food is long-finished, and you've gotten completely comfortable in Kenma's home. Legs kicked up on the coffee table, hoodie removed from the warmth of pushing and shoving and yelling about the game for hours on end, your weight slumped heavily against his.

He shifts, moving you in the process, and stares out the window. "Damn," he says, slightly out of breath from screaming his head off at you hitting him with a blue shell. "We should film, huh?"

You laugh. "Yeah, probably." You set the controller down and rise, stretching your arms high above your head and groaning quietly. When you open your eyes, you find Kenma's gaze latched onto the slip of skin you're showing, just above your jeans. He looks away quickly, but you'd still caught it, the same way you're catching the pink tinge in his ears.

You swallow, warm, and clear your throat. "Shall we?"

"Yeah."

You follow him down the hall, your tote bag weighing you down. It's full of your makeup, the consensus on the last stream that everyone wants to see him do the "boyfriend does my makeup" trend.

You stop at the door he steps through, staring.

It's his bedroom.

"Oh-" you start, eyes wide. "I thought we would be in your office."

His eyes fly to yours, panic seeping into his expression. "Oh. I thought it would be more comfortable on the bed." He blinks, and you see his brain working overtime. "We can-"

"No!" you laugh, entering and setting your bag on the floor by the foot of his bed. "It's okay, you're probably right."

He's silent while you unpack all your makeup onto his bed, and then he sighs quietly. "Okay," he breathes. "I'll get the tripod." He scurries from the room with the pace of someone incredibly nervous, and you can't blame him. You feel the same.

He returns after a moment, tripod and camera in hand, and sets up next to the foot of his bed. When he's done, he looks to you expectantly. "Ready?"

You climb onto the mattress, nodding. "Let's do it."

He settles down next to you and presses record. "Okay," he says, examining the view in the little side panel. "We're good."

You grin, waving at the camera. "Howdy."

You see his brows furrow, watch the grin slide across his face as he looks at you. "'Howdy'? That's what we're doing?"

"Just start the damn video."

"It's started!" he laughs. "Be normal!"

"This is normal!"

"Oh, my god," he sighs, addressing the camera. "Hi. Kozuken here," he starts. He gestures to you. "Marco, as you probably guessed."

You wave again. "Howdy."

"I'm gonna kill you."

You shove him. He shoves back. When you try again, he catches you by the wrists with one hand, dragging them down into his lap. You gawk at him, flushing, and then remember that the camera is on.

You turn to it, one eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at your lips.

"And that, ladies-" you say. "-is how you get a man to do what you want."

You can't help it — falling back into what's comfortable. It's unfortunate that this is what's comfortable.

Kenma leans into it, too. He can't help it, either, then.

"She thinks I don't know what she wants," he jokes, shaking his head. "I'm always ten steps ahead." And then he lets you go with a quiet exhale. "Let's get to the point of the video, please." His voice is light, but you can see the warmth in his cheeks.

You can feel the warmth in yours, too, but you push on. "Okay, so by popular demand, we're doing the 'boyfriend does my makeup' trend!"

He smiles, giving you a purposely pointed look. "You gonna clarify for the masses, or are you just gonna let them think I'm your boyfriend?"

You grin, shrug. "I'm gonna let the masses think what they want."

"Whatever you say," he gives in easily. He turns so that one leg is hanging off the bed, the other ankle crossed under his knee as he faces you. You mirror him, getting as close as you can and leaving your leg overlapped with his.

"Shall we?" you say, gesturing to your mountain of different products. "I brought everything I own, just because I want to make your life harder."

"You certainly do like to do that," he says, shaking his head at the pile. "Fuck, this is a whole store." He glances around and then up at you. "Alright," he sighs. "Let's see what I can fuck up in the next hour."

And then he pulls a hair tie off of his wrist and cups your face with both hands. You gasp quietly, eyes trained on his in confusion. He smothers a smile and slides his hands into your hair, looping his arms around your neck and gathering it all up in one hand. He ties your hair up like that, your breath mingling in the minimal space between you and his eyes locked tight on yours. His eyes flick down to your lips quickly and then come back, and you know he sees how you warm because his smile grows before he bites down on his bottom lip to cover it.

He leans away, examining your makeup. You turn to the camera while he does, staring hard. "You guys saw that, right?"

"I'm sure they're rewinding over and over again as we speak," he jokes, yanking a bottle from the depths. "'Foundation'," he reads. "Well, that seems promising. Buildings start with the foundation, don't they?"

You grin, staring up at him while he reads the back of the vial. "Good boy," you tease. "Using your wittle bwain."

He glares at you through his lashes. "Say it again. Go ahead."

You shrink away, just beaming at him while he uncaps the bottle and starts to smear foundation all over your face. He uses far too much, enough that you feel a whine build in your throat.

"You're wasting it. That was expensive-"

"Shh," he whispers, drawing on your forehead. "I'll buy you more later."

"You better."

"You know I'm good for it," he mumbles, focusing hard. You try not to flush, but you can feel his voice — deep, low, close — dripping down your spine like honey. "Now be quiet. I'm making art."

Now that you notice, you realize he actually is drawing. He's writing something on your face with the wand. You start to pull back, but he catches your chin with his other hand.

"Where you goin'?" he breathes, still focusing. "I'm not done."

You grimace. "You're writing weird shit on my face, Koz." You hear it, the bratty whine that trickles out with your words. But you can't help it, not when he's gripping your face like that and talking to you like that. Like you're his.

He just chews on his lip, that grin still threatening to spill out. "Just be patient."

"I'm not good at that."

His teeth flash briefly when he snickers. "I can teach you, if you'd like."

You push him away, huffing petulantly. He just laughs, the sound bright. You use the opportunity to lean into the camera, examining the side panel.

Property of Kozuken

Your tongue pushes against the inside of your cheek, nostrils flaring. You know the camera catches it all, that it catches the look you shoot him over your shoulder.

He's still smiling, all too pleased and not nearly embarrassed enough.

You find your spot again, glaring up at him. "Fix it." When he just coos, cupping your face teasingly, you lean forward, pressing your hands into his thighs and filling his space with your presence. "Fix it, Koz," you breathe, your pout poking out for him.

You're close enough that you hear his breath stutter. You feel his body twitch in response to you. You watch his eyes flick between yours and down to your lips, lingering too long to be accidental.

"Okay, okay," he mumbles. His thumbs spread over your cheeks, wiping away the Kozu and ken in two gentle swipes. "Don't get mad. I was joking."

You don't know what to do with the fact that he'd said it quietly enough that there's no way the camera caught it. That he'd said it for you, just for you.

"Not mad," you whisper, still leaning on his thighs, still pressing your face up toward his. "Definitely not mad."

His eyes widen, and then his eyelashes flutter, his lips parted and his breath shaky as it leaves him. He glances at the camera, laughing nervously.

"Chat, she's whispering nasty shit in my ear."

You push off of him with a roll of your eyes, ignoring the fingers that snag on your wrist, the thumb that swipes over your pulse once, twice, before leaving your hand in his lap. He shuffles through the rest of your makeup, starting to organize the bottles by type.

You talk to the camera while he works. "I think next time, we should do something that doesn't involve wasting all my makeup. Like a plushy reveal!"

"I told you no," he says right away, still sorting. "You have a storage unit's worth of plushies in that bed."

"Okay, then you come to my place. We can rank them together." You lean over, off camera, and snag your fingers on the single plush he has on the armchair. It's a cat, orange and squishy and totally messed up from years of tugging and kneading at it. "But bring this with you."

He snatches it, smacking you on the head with the squishy butt of it before tossing it up to the head of his bed. "You're biased. You bought it."

You nod, contemplative as you tell the story. "He had a bit of an anger issue with games when we were kids. But he would just punch the air and scream, so I sent him a little stress toy." You reach for it again, showing the camera how disfigured it is. "Look what he did, guys! He's a monster."

"I have a lot of cute aggression to get out of my system."

You turn over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. "Oh, yeah? About what?"

His gaze is steady, even when a single eyebrow lifts.

You look back at the camera, your face noticeably warmer. You look away, the sight of yourself in that camera tugging at the fluttering nerves in your stomach.

Kenma moves on without comment. "These all say concealer," he says, turning a few over and reading them. He glances at you when you stay quiet. You know he can see the burn of your cheeks, that your gaze is distant. That you're clearly still embarrassed about how things are falling into place between you.

"Too much?" he finally says, eyes still reading labels and hands still separating vials into different sections. You get the sense that he plans to cut this part out of the video.

You shake your head. His knee is starting to bounce anxiously. You let your fingers dance over his jeans, pressing down on his knee to calm him. "Not too much," you say, chewing on your lip and staring down at the spot where your leg overlaps with his. "Just nervous."

He stalls, fingers hovering a tube of lipstick. You hear him swallow.

"Yeah," he eventually breathes. "Me, too."

You both move on.

He clears his throat and raises his voice for the camera again. "I'm gonna try one of these concealer things."

"Okay."

"Where do I put it?"

You just smile. He rolls his eyes.

He ends up slathering it in random spots. The only one he gets right is the spot under your eyes, where he ends up putting way too much.

"Wow, this is ass," he jokes, trying to rub it in with his thumbs. You make choked noises, leaning away in fear that he's going to stab you in the eyes. He ends up bent over in laughter, hands still cupping your face, and you end up straining to look at the camera, the panic in your eyes obvious.

He moves on, leaving you caked in foundation and concealer as he picks up a pile of pencils. All lip liner.

"These look like they go on your eyes." When you stare at him in horror, he smiles innocently. "Eyeliner, right?"

You just smile, full of fear, and turn to the camera again. "Yeah."

"Close your eyes, then."

You keep smiling at the camera. "Don't wanna."

"C'mon," he laughs, nudging you. He's wielding a red pencil. You just stare. "Close your eyes."

You whimper dramatically, letting your eyes fall shut.

He's gentle, but that was never a concern, really. The real concern — the one that sits at the back of your throat as your eyes are sliding shut — is how close he's going to choose to get.

It's close. Really close.

You feel his breath on your lips, feel his hair tickle your face, feel his fingers holding gently to your chin, keeping you steady.

"While he fucks this up," you start, voice light but slightly shaky. "Let me talk about the games I wanna play that we can record off stream and upload later."

"Mhm," he hums. You wonder if he's nervous about your breath on his lips, too.

"Well, I wanna play Stardew. I also think people would have fun watching me try games I suck at."

"Like League?" he jokes quietly. You gasp, ignoring the fact that you can feel when he speaks, feel the bass in his voice and the slide of honey that comes with it.

"Take that back right now."

"No."

"Koz," you whine. "Be nice to me. I'm letting you mess up my face."

There's a long pause, one where you feel him start to laugh, the bed shaking slightly. Your skin warms dramatically under his touch.

"Shut up," you bite. "You have such a dirty mind."

"I didn't even have to say anything for you to get there, too."

"You just wanna see me under your desk."

He chokes, leaning away from you quickly. "Shit," he coughs. "Warn a man."

Your eyes are still closed. "You never warn me!"

He comes back after a moment, drawing lightly on your eyelids for just a little longer. And then he sighs.

"Fuck," he jokes. "I don't think I should have picked a red one."

You smile, trying not to shiver when he cups your jaw with his free hand, fingertips pressing softly into your cheeks. "I think," you start, breathing deep when his fingers twitch in response. "That you should have picked an eyeliner."

He pauses, and you just know he's staring at the pencil in confusion. "What are you?" he whispers, loud enough for the camera.

You keep smiling, your whisper just as loud. "Lip liner."

"Ah, shit," he laughs. "Well — Since I'm here." His fingers push at your cheeks, forcing your lips to pucker for him.

You stop breathing, and your eyes snap open in surprise. He meets your gaze evenly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and then he refocuses his attention on drawing the outline of your lips.

"You look ridiculous," he comments while he works.

You just roll your eyes. "I wonder why," you mutter, your voice muffled by his grip.

He leans away when he's done, humming pleasantly. "I think I'm done."

"What?" you laugh, turning to examine yourself in the camera. "Koz, I look so stupid."

"I'm too scared to try anything else."

"You didn't even do lipstick," you complain. "Or mascara. I look like a fool."

"I think it suits you." He just laughs when you smack him, his hand rubbing at the spot on his chest that you'd hit. "Say bye to the masses."

"Koz," you complain, lamenting your appearance in the camera. "You've got to be fucking with me-"

"Bye!" he calls, his hands coming down on the camera and shutting it off.

You just stare. "Do you see me?"

He laughs, squeezing your cheeks together with one hand. "You look like a dumbass."

"Yeah!" you laugh back. "My foundation's splotchy, there's concealer caked under my eyes, and you used lip liner all over the place!"

He just stands, tugging a box of tissues over and wiping his hands diligently. You swipe one, too, scrubbing at your skin. He gasps.

"My art!"

"I'm not going outside like this," you say, standing at the full-length mirror in the corner and working at your face until, though red and splotchy from scrubbing, it's clear of makeup. You don't say anything about the fact that Kenma's just been watching from the bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle while he leans back on his hands.

"You wanna stick around a little?" he asks quietly. You glance at him in the reflection, smiling shyly.

"Next time? It's late."

He looks reluctant to nod, but he does anyway. "Yeah. Next time." He turns, packing your makeup away while you wash your hands in his en suite bathroom.

He walks you to the door quietly, hauling your tote bag for you and waiting while you put your shoes on. "Want me to walk you?"

You smile at him, taking the bag. "I'll be okay."

"I don't like that you're walking in the dark. Let me call an uber at least."

"I'll be fine," you say. "Want me to call you while I walk?"

He flushes. "No."

"Would it make you feel better?"

"… Yes."

You laugh. "Okay. I'm gonna go."

He looks like he's searching for any reason to keep you here. You purse your lips, the nerves coming back. But you set the bag against the door for just a moment, anyway.

When you hug him, it surprises him. You feel his inhale, sharp and quiet, as you wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in the crook. His hands find your waist easily, gentle and trembling slightly. He slips his arms around you after a moment, pulling you flush to his body.

You let your urge from earlier win, fingers finally tangling into his hair.

He shivers. It flies down his spine almost violently, shaking you in the process. The breath he lets out is mixed with a sound that you desperately want to call a moan.

"Fuck," he whispers, laughing nervously. "Sorry."

Warmth floods your skin, seeping low into the spot under your navel. You cling to him, feeling when his hold on you tightens.

"'s okay," you whisper back.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You feel him swallow, the sound dragging past your ear.

And then he presses his lips to your shoulder. Quietly. Gently.

You inhale harshly, your exhale just as hard.

He does it again, against your pulse. His fingers dig into your skin when a whine flies past your lips.

"Kenma," you breathe.

His chest is rising and falling unevenly. "You should go," is all he says.

It takes all your strength to pull away from him. He looks as unsteady on his feet as you feel. His pupils are blown wide and his face is burning red and he's carding his fingers through his hair and letting out a sigh that speaks of distress and feelings he doesn't want to voice.

"Bye, Koz," you say, wanting him to look at you again.

He does. You wonder if he can even help it anymore.

"Call me," he says, his voice rough, thick with emotion. "Soon as you leave."

"I will," you promise.

You do, the moment you step foot in the lobby.

He doesn't sound any less overwhelmed. You know you don't, either.

—

"Oh, my god," you laugh, scrolling through the comments. "This is nuts."

"It's only been up 12 hours," he says, equally amazed. He's watching your shared screen so that you can react to the same comments at the same time.

'you cannot physically convince me that these two arent secretly in a relationship and are just gaslighting us.'

You laugh. "Should I like it, just so people crash out?"

"You know my answer."

You leave a little heart on the comment and scroll.

'WHY DO THEY LOOK AT EACH OTHER LIKE THAT. SOME OF US ARE SINGLE.'

Another like.

'property of kozuken??? are you joking??? are you kidding?? are you playing??? you think this is a damn joke, markoz??????'

Another like, and you add a heart in a comment, too, just because it's that funny.

'the way she whines his name whenever he does anything stupid?? you just KNOW he loves it.'

You stare at the comment, your mouse hovering over it. Kenma says nothing. You scroll without liking it.

"Go back."

You jump, a shock running through you. "What?"

"Go back," he says again, his voice soft as ever but his words tugging on that cord he has wrapped around your spine. "And like it."

You want to tease him. You want to make some stupid joke. You want this to be part of the running bit between the two of you.

But you can't do it.

So you just scroll back up and like the comment.

You rush to scroll down again, your face burning and your ears starting to ring.

'every time she sasses him he looks like he cant decide if he wants to kiss her or do so much worse'

You scroll quickly.

"Go back."

You go back and like it.

'if you look hard enough you can see the moment koz pops a boner'

"Oh, my god," you mutter, your face burning. You scroll, praying he doesn't say those two words again. Praying you can move past it, because you're not sure you can handle it if he doesn't.

"Y/n."

That's worse than telling you to go back.

You sigh, the sound stuttering. "Koz," you whisper. "C'mon."

"Go back. And like it."

"You have to be joking."

"I'm not," he says, his voice still soft, even though he's saying something truly terrible. "If you don't do it, I'm gonna go in there and write a response."

"What could you possibly say?" you joke, your laugh desperate.

"That they're right."

Your skin breaks out in goosebumps.

"And then I'm gonna leave the timestamp."

You bury your face in your hands. "Kenma," you whisper.

"4:52."

You're shaking. You can't deal with the fact that he has an answer. That he's telling you to go look.

"Y/n."

You shudder, hand clamped over your mouth and the warmth under your navel burning hot, dangerously so.

You find the timestamp.

'Fix it,' you're saying. You're leaning onto his thighs, your eyes big and your pout petulant as you push your face into his. 'Fix it, Koz.' The words property of kozuzen are half-visible on your face. He's looking down at you like he's losing his mind. You hadn't realized it at the time, but the pained expression is plastered on his face.

You swallow. "That was super early on."

"I know. It was torture."

You hang your head, breathing hard. "I regret meeting you in person, Koz."

He's silent, completely silent.

"What?" he finally says. His voice is thick. You can hear the fear in that single word. "Why?"

You laugh pitifully. "I knew I wasn't going to be able to handle it. That I wouldn't be able to be normal about you afterward."

His breath is heavy in the mic of his headset. "Normal about me?"

"I like you so much," you whisper, almost hoping he doesn't hear it. "It's so much worse now." You dig the heel of your hand into your eye. "I want you so bad, Kenma."

You hear when his breath stutters, when he whispers 'oh, fuck' to himself.

"You mean that?"

You haven't ever meant something this strongly in your whole life. It's been three days, and you haven't stopped thinking about him for even a second.

"Kenma," you whine, tears pricking behind your eyes. "Please."

You hope he gets what you're saying.

He hangs up.

Your heart jumps. He got it.

—

He makes it to your door in under ten minutes. You don't say anything about the messy hair or the way his chest is heaving or the wild look in his eye.

You don't say anything at all. You just grab him by the collar of his hoodie and drag him into your apartment.

He crowds you against the wall immediately, barely managing to kick his shoes off in the process. His eyes are flying across your face, checking your gaze and the flush in your cheeks and the way you're chewing on your lip.

"Please don't take it back," he breathes, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. "Please."

You just shove your fingers into his hair, tangling tight and pulling him to you. A moan rips out of his throat and his hands slam down on the wall on either side of you as you push your lips against his.

He kisses you like he's been thinking about it for years. You let yourself admit that you've been thinking about it, too.

His lips burn on yours, the push and pull full of desperation, urgency. He pushes his body against yours, and you feel so clearly that he's shaking. That he's leaning on you like he's worried you'll disappear. You cup his face, kissing him deep and then whispering into his mouth.

"I'm not goin' anywhere, Kenma."

He shudders, drops his hands to your waist and pulls you impossibly closer. "I know. It's just been so long." You don't have to ask what he means. You just wrap your arms around his neck, letting him haul you up, letting your legs wrap tight around his waist. Feeling when he presses you into the wall and pins you there with his hips. "I've known you my whole life," he breathes. "Had you my whole life."

"Wasn't enough," you mumble, a little distracted by the way his lips get rougher, the way his grip on you gets possessive.

"Yeah," he mutters, teeth tugging your bottom lip into your mouth. His tongue presses to it hard, tasting you. "Wasn't enough."

"Always kinda hoped you weren't joking," you admit, clinging tight when he starts to walk you through the room. He pauses every few feet, pushing you against the nearest surface so he can kiss you, like he can't help it. "When we started messing around on stream."

He laughs into your mouth. "The first few times, I was sure you could see how red I was." You couldn't, but you remember your own reactions so clearly, back in college when you and Kenma were just starting to realize you were both adults.

"Why did this take so long?" you breathe, shuddering when his lips trail down the line of your throat, his tongue searing into your skin. "We could've been doing this the whole time."

He nibbles on your pulse, passes his tongue over it. Starts to suck on that spot. "I dunno," he mumbles. "We were socially stunted kids on the internet?"

You giggle, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging. He grunts, marking you in another spot now. You tug again, and he pushes his hips against yours, a warning. You sigh, your eyes shut and a smile on your lips when you feel how hard he is.

"I think I like pulling your hair," you admit, tugging again. He uses his grip on your waist to pull you into him harder.

"I think you think you're in charge."

"Am I not?" you sigh. "You're so soft. You let me do whatever I want. You always have."

He lifts his head away, golden eyes locked tight on yours. His gaze glints with the edge of something sharp.

"You just said it," he breathes, smiling. "I let you do what you want." He tilts his head when you start to shrink under his gaze, his smile stretching wide. "You didn't notice?" he coos.

You purse your lips, staring up at him. "Shut up, Koz," you grumble, tugging on his locks again.

He sets you on your feet before you can blink, and you realize in that moment that playing volleyball regularly since high school wouldn't have left him without something to show for it.

Your hands are ripped from his hair and pinned above your head without a single word from him. He just holds you there, trapped against the living room wall, his smile entirely too smug.

"Wanna take it back?" he teases, eyes passing over your embarrassed flush with glee.

You pout at him. "C'mon, Koz."

"Say 'please'."

You sigh. "Please, Kenma."

He lifts his brows. "Now say 'pretty please'."

You glare. "Fuck you."

You can't decide if that look in his eye — pleased, smug, victorious — makes you want to kick or kiss him.

"Not 'til you say 'pretty please'," he says, starting to laugh.

You groan, laughing because he is, and put on your best pout.

"Pretty please, Kenma?"

You watch his brain stop working. It's a beautiful sight.

You use the chance to rip out of his grasp. He blinks, surprised, but it's smothered by you throwing your arms around him and dragging him into another searing kiss. He moans, relenting and just pulling you close.

You stumble down the hall like that, half-blind and knocking things over without care. He slams his hand down on the wall multiple times to keep you from falling over and dragging you down with him. You just keep doing it, too busy kissing him to care if you end up on the floor. It's a dance — a clumsy, stupid dance — but you eventually make it to your room, shoving your back against the door and pulling him in with you.

You collapse on the bed together, the desperation taking over again now that you're here. Now that this is real.

His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shorts go next.

Nothing else makes it off of you.

He starts to moan openly, and you start to whimper into his mouth, his hips rocking you into the mattress again and again. You fist his t-shirt in your hands, keeping him close. He slips his fingertips under the band of your panties, tugging while he rubs his tongue against yours.

"Can I…" he whispers, his breath warm against your lips and his mouth falling back on yours right away. You nod, expecting him to pull them down.

He doesn't. He doesn't have the patience for it. He just slides his fingers between your legs and presses them against your clit. Your back arches, and you whine loudly into his mouth. His breathing grows more ragged while he touches you, and his moans fall out in time with yours, like he gets as much pleasure from touching you as you do from being touched by him.

Your high approaches too soon. "Kenma," you breathe, high-pitched and full of warning.

He stops immediately, shaking his head. "Not yet," he mumbles, still kissing you. You don't understand how it's possible that you haven't gotten tired of kissing him yet. "Wanna feel you around me when it happens."

You whimper, nodding. "Please? Now?"

He smiles against you, nodding along. "Yeah. Now."

He shoves his pants down blindly, barely letting them hit his thighs before he's reaching between your thighs again. A wave of chills crashes down over the crown of your head, flooding your body when you feel him pull your panties to the side and slide the head of his cock through your folds.

"Oh, my-" You shiver, moans falling past your lips without your permission.

He's no better, his breath shaky and quiet groans building in his throat. He shoves his lips against yours again, moaning down your throat when he nudges against your entrance. You hear yourself begging, hear yourself mumbling his name over and over again while you beg him to do it.

When he pushes into you, it comes with a moan that gets caught in his throat, his voice cutting off and his breath going with it. Your vision goes white, and you just cling to him, knowing he's going to have nail marks in his skin and holes in his shirt later.

"Please," you breathe, almost inaudible. "Yes, please, fuck-"

He isn't patient enough to bottom out. He just starts to thrust, bullying his cock into you little by little with each push of his hips. "Oh, fuck," he moans. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

His pace isn't steady or even or anything remotely controlled. His hips stutter and twitch, and his moans get louder every time you clench around him. It's messy and desperate and neither of you cares nearly enough about making this perfect. You're too lost in each other, too lost in the fact that this moment was built over years of loving each other, of learning each other.

When he comes, it's with a trapped whine and your name, his forehead pressed to yours and the words 'I love you' slipping out as he pushes his lips against yours. When you come, it's much the same, his name on your lips like a mantra, your love washing over him in time with the flutter of your walls around him.

It takes several minutes — maybe even hours — for you to move, your body trapped under his and your mind completely content, warm.

You both fall asleep, sweaty and messy and completely at peace.

As you're drifting off, curled up in his arms, you mumble a question.

"How're we gonna break the news to chat?"

To the nobles, you were power dressed in beauty. To the people, you were their beloved and feared rose — all sweet scent and sharp edges. And to your father, you were the very pulse of his legacy, the sun that rose and set within the walls of his empire.

You were spoiled.

But not stupid.

You were five feet of indulgence and command, honeyed brown skin glowing beneath sunlight, long curls untamed like the kingdom’s ancient banners in the wind. Your mouth could cut sharper than steel, and your beauty… gods, your beauty had started wars in courtrooms — dukes dueling over dances, heirs turning on one another for a glimpse of your smile.

But none of it impressed you. You had learned early that beauty could be a weapon if wielded correctly — not a gift, not a curse, but a blade.

The court called you spoiled, yes — but only the foolish ones said it to your face. The rest bowed deeper than necessary and offered gifts you would never use.

Because behind the rouge and finery was a mind sharp as obsidian. You remembered everything, from the names of your maids’ children to the number of pomegranate seeds on your plate. You spoke four languages. You could out-negotiate any ambassador who dared cross you. Your mother had once whispered that you were born with a crown already in your blood.

Your father called you his pride.

Which is why his absence now — after nearly six weeks at war — was a storm in your chest.

Solaria had not seen war in a decade. The realm had prospered, growing fat off trade routes and rare gems mined from the golden cliffs near the southern coast. Their ships were swift. Their taxes, fair. Their borders, defended by a navy feared across seas.

But peace made men lazy. And to the Northern clans, it made Solaria appear ripe.

The Barbarian Kingdom of Drakhor — a brutal, ice-clad land where snow never melted and men were forged in blood — had grown bold. They had crossed the Iron Crest mountains and swept down through border villages like wolves in winter.

They took no prisoners. Burned what they could not eat.

They called them barbarians, but that was too soft a word for what they were. These were not mindless beasts — they were warriors, ruthless and ancient, raised to worship the gods of flame and stone. Their heir was said to be worse than any before him: a golden-haired monster who could rip a man in half with his bare hands.

Solaria had prepared for diplomacy.

But the North had brought blood.

And so your father — King Alaric the Sun Lion — had ridden out with ten thousand men, leaving his velvet throne and his silk-robed court behind, trading them for steel and smoke. His last words to you had been:

“You will rule if I don’t return. You already do.”

You hadn’t cried. You only kissed his ring, nodded once, and watched him ride into the fog.

He’d left you the crown regent in his stead — a quiet move that shocked the council, insulted his generals, and thrilled you. He had three sons, from different mothers, bastards, but all raised on swords and ambition. But none were named ruler.

Only you.

But now the palace sat in strange stillness — waiting. No news had come. No ravens. No wounded men crawling back with stories of fire.

Just silence.

You stood by your balcony now, fingers gripping the cool marble, your eyes on the horizon where land met sky. You were thinking of the North. Of the strange smoke that had begun to rise beyond the ridge. Of the stillness in the wind that told you something was coming.

Letters that never came.

Rumors that shifted with the wind.

Prayers whispered over candle flames every night.

The war against the Barbarian Clan of the North had stretched longer than anyone expected, and with each passing day, the grand palace of Solaria seemed to hold its breath. Courtiers spoke in quieter tones. Advisors passed scrolls with shaking hands. Even the musicians played slower now, as if their strings mourned something yet unnamed.

“Where are the ravens?” You snapped one morning, voice sharp as a whip as you stood by the eastern tower. “Six weeks and nothing but dust and silence. The North is not so far.”

“The wind is unkind, Your Highness,” murmured a steward. “And the mountain passes—”

“Are nothing my father hasn’t conquered before.”

Still, no word.

At night, you would visit the Temple of Solara — alone. Hooded, silent, slipping past guards under cloak of darkness. There, beneath the great sun-gilded statue of the Fire Mother, you would kneel. Not as a princess. Not as a jewel. But as a daughter.

You lit a candle every evening.

One for your father.

One for your people.

And one for the gods to remind them: You would not be ignored.

Your mother, Queen Ilyana, tried to soothe you.

“Your father always returns victorious,” she said gently, brushing your curls away from your cheek. “He is the Sun Lion. The barbarian clans are little more than howling dogs.”

You wanted to believe her. You really did.

But there was something about this silence… something wrong.

The barbarian clans of the North were not like past enemies. They were no wandering brigands or disorganized rebels. They were heirs of ancient war, born in snow and stone, their kingdom of Drakhor as feared as it was misunderstood. A realm of black forests and bone-filled halls. Where boys became warriors at ten and leaders bled beside their men.

Their prince — unnamed in most reports — was said to be a creature of wrath. Untamed. Unbowed. A beast carved from ice and fury.

Some called him the Howling Heir. Others whispered darker titles: The Flame Eater, The Golden Death, The Wolf-Blooded.

And this was the man your father rode to fight.

You had never met a barbarian, but you had read every scroll, every map. You knew their war tactics were unpredictable. That their loyalty to blood and clan outmatched coin or politics. That they worshipped no gods save for strength itself.

You had argued with the council before your father left. Told them they didn’t understand what they were provoking. That the North did not bluff — it bled. And it would bleed them if they weren’t careful.

They laughed.

“You worry too much, Your Highness,” one noble had chuckled. “What is a pack of wolves to the lion’s teeth?”

But lions could still die. Even kings.

Even fathers.

And then, one late afternoon, the sound of horns split the sky. The notes rose, clear and unmistakable — a royal call of return, of victory.

You rushed to the palace balcony, silks brushing the floor, hair tumbling loose from its pins, heart pounding against your ribs like a war drum. Below, the gates were thrown wide, and the banners of House Solaria unfurled in the wind like tongues of flame — crimson and gold, stitched with the roaring sun-lion that marked your bloodline.

And there — at the head of the procession — rode your father.

King Alaric, the Sun Lion. Home.

His armor gleamed like molten gold beneath the setting sun, dented and dirtied with war but no less magnificent. His helm was clutched in one hand, the other raised in salute. His face, weathered and proud, cracked into a grin as the crowd roared with joy. Dust rose behind the legions of men who followed him — battered but alive, singing victory songs that rang through every corridor and courtyard of Solaria.

From your side, your mother let out a choked gasp — a rare, unguarded sound.

Queen Ilyana grabbed your hand with an uncharacteristic lack of composure, both of you smiling so wide it hurt. You were both a queen and a heir, yes — but in that moment, you were only wife and daughter, desperate to feel his warmth again.

You didn’t walk.

You flew down the steps of the great hall, skirts flying as if you were both children again, half-laughing, half-weeping, desperate to meet him at the entrance. The palace doors were flung open. Guards bowed as the royal family reunited beneath the last golden light of day.

You threw your arms around your father the moment he dismounted, burying your face in his chestplate, not caring if the metal dirtied your face or if the entire court watched.

“You came back,” you whispered, voice trembling.

“I always do,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your temple. His voice was hoarse from war, but warm — steady. “You held the kingdom well, my jewel.”

“And you held the line.”

"We have won," he declared, voice booming as courtiers and servants gathered. "The North bends to us. Their banners burn, their warriors lay broken in the field- some even ran for the hills." His grin was fierce, a conqueror's grin. "Tonight, we shall celebrate. A feast so grand the gods themselves shall hunger."

Your mother, radiant even in her worry-worn state, cupped his face. "And what of them?" she asked softly.

“They fought like beasts,” he murmured. “Relentless. But disorganized in the end. Once their prince was captured… they lost their will.”

Your brows lifted. “Their prince?”

Your father gave a slow nod, jaw tightening. “He did not go easily. He killed seven of my men before they took him alive. I wanted his head, but… there is power in trophies.”

The king's eyes glinted with something darker, a flash of cruelty and triumph. "You shall see." His gaze flickered to you, lingering long enough for your stomach to twist with curiosity. "Prepare yourselves. Dress in your finest silks, your brightest jewels. Tonight, the court shall marvel at what it means to win."

And you were to do exactly that.

The hall buzzed with excitement. Musicians were summoned, the kitchens thrown into chaos, maids rushing to fetch gowns and polish gemstones. Your heart thrummed with anticipation as you allowed herself to be ushered away by your ladies. You laughed breathlessly, tugging at their hands, demanding your mother's diamond combs and the gown spun from sapphire silk that clung like water to your figure.

But beneath the giddy excitement was something sharper — unease, perhaps, or instinct. The king's words echoed in your head. A prize. A trophy.

You did not yet know that the trophy was not gold, nor jewel, nor crown. It was flesh and blood. It was fury in chains. It was the barbarian prince himself.

—

The great hall blazed with light and sound, a thousand candles trembling in their crystal holders, their glow mirrored against polished floors of marble veined with gold. The long banquet tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, spiced pheasant, sugared fruits, and silver goblets brimming with wine.

One by one, courtiers and lords drifted into the hall, their laughter bouncing against the vaulted ceiling. Jewel-bright gowns rustled as noble ladies swept in on their husbands’ arms, hair glittering with pearls and gemstones. Knights fresh from battle paraded their scars like trophies, their armor shining beneath the chandeliers.

At the high table, you sat beside your mother, draped in sapphire silk that shimmered like water. Your throat and wrists glittered with diamonds, and your hair had been swept high, secured with a comb shaped like the sun. You leaned against your chair with an almost feline poise, chin tilted, every inch the spoiled jewel of the court. But your eyes never strayed far from your father, seated proudly at the head of the table.

He raised a goblet, voice booming above the roar of celebration.

“To victory!”

The hall erupted in cheers. Goblets clinked, trumpets sounded, and the musicians struck up a triumphant tune. Wine sloshed over the rims of cups as laughter and song swelled.

He raised his hand, the hall stilled almost at once. The musicians faltered, strings trailing into silence. His shadow stretched long across the dais, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with relish.

“My people. My loyal lords and ladies. Tonight we do not only celebrate our victory…” His eyes gleamed, wolfish in the candlelight. “We shall look upon it. In flesh.”

At his signal, the great doors at the end of the hall groaned open. The clank of iron filled the air before anything else—chains dragged heavy against the stone. Gasps rippled like wind across the hall.

And then he entered.

A man—no, a beast—dragged forward by four armored guards straining against him. He towered above them all, standing near 6’5”, shoulders broad, chest carved like stone beneath the torn furs still clinging to him. His wrists were shackled in thick iron, chains biting into skin rubbed raw. A streak of dried blood trailed across his jaw, his body, his golden hair wild and untamed, eyes burning red like fire set loose in a storm.

Prince Katsuki Bakugou.

The barbarian savage of the North.

He did not bow. Did not stumble, even with chains dragging at him. He sneered, lip curling to show teeth, every inch of him fury barely contained. His presence crackled through the hall, primal and electric, as though some predator had been loosed among pampered hounds.

Your breath caught.

Infatuation struck you not in soft strokes, but like a blade through silk—sharp, sudden, impossible to deny. You had never seen a man like him. Not among the perfumed courtiers, not among the knights who begged for your favor. He was brutal strength wrapped in defiance, a storm that would not bend even when caged.

Around you, whispers erupted. Some shrieked at the indecency of displaying a barbarian in their sacred hall, others muttered prayers, still others stared wide-eyed in fascination. But you sat straighter in your chair, your glistening-bright eyes drinking him in.

Your father’s grin spread wide.

“Behold,” he thundered, “the barbarian prince. The son of the North, now broken before us.”

But you thought, pulse fluttering at your throat, that he looked anything but broken.

The chains clinked like a grim rhythm as Bakugou was dragged to the center of the hall. The guards forced him to his knees on the stone dais below the king’s table, but even then he seemed taller, broader, more alive than anyone else in the room. His shoulders were corded muscle, his head bowed just enough for his hair to shadow his eyes.

The courtiers gasped, whispered, some even laughed nervously — wine-slick voices calling him beast, barbarian, savage. But Bakugou did not so much as flinch. He held himself with the rigid pride of a man who refused to break, every line of his body promising violence if his chains slipped for even a second.

Wine was poured, laughter spilled again, the musicians struck up another lively tune. Slowly, the hall forgot to be afraid. He became a trophy on display, something to jeer at in between toasts and mouthfuls of roasted boar.

But you.. couldn’t possibly look away.

Your gaze traced every detail of him — the thick ropes of muscle in his arms, the raw skin at his wrists where iron bit, the sharp line of his jaw tight with restraint. You swore you could feel the heat radiating from him even from where you sat.

As though sensing you, his head lifted.

Eyes like wildfire swept the room, scorn dripping from every glance cast upon jeweled nobles and perfumed ladies. And then they landed on you.

You stilled.

The music, the laughter, even your own breath seemed to fall away. His gaze pinned you as though nothing else in the hall existed. Fierce, defiant, alive in a way no one else dared to be. He didn’t bow, didn’t soften — but he looked at you, truly looked. A brief eternity in a single glance.

Your chest rose too sharply, your lips parted without meaning to. Heat licked up your throat, as if you were the one in chains beneath his fire.

“Y/N.”

Your mother’s voice snapped the spell, making you blink, forcing you to look away as the weight of court returned. The queen leaned closer, speaking in that sweet, low tone she reserved for her daughter alone.

“A dreadful sight, isn’t it? But one your father insists upon. Better we display him than spill more blood tonight.”

You hummed softly, your eyes flicking — unwillingly — back to him. “Mother…” you began, fingers tracing the stem of your goblet. “What do you know of his people? Of his… kingdom?”

Your mother followed your gaze, though she did not linger on the chained prince, as if he were beneath her notice. “The North?” she said, voice airy with dismissal. “They are a force, brutal and untamed. Hunters, raiders, fighters bred in the snow and stone. For years, they’ve pressed at our borders — fierce, yes, but never unified enough to stand against us. Their prince…” She shook her head with disdain. “He is said to be their fiercest warrior. Power incarnate, they whisper. But what is power without order? Without refinement?”

The queen smoothed a hand over your arm, unaware of the spark now glowing in her daughter’s eyes. “You needn’t trouble yourself with barbarian matters. Tonight is for celebration, for silk and jewels, not savages in chains.”

You forced a smile, nodding as your mother turned her attention back to the lords clamoring for her opinion. But inside, you felt something coil, something dangerous and delicious.

Because while the hall laughed and feasted, while your mother dismissed him as nothing, you knew the truth: power radiated from him, untamed and undeniable.

And when his eyes found yours again, just for a heartbeat, you knew you wanted more.

The feast stretched deep into the night, a blur of laughter and wine, of dripping candles and clattering goblets. Roasted meats were picked clean, pastries dusted in sugar collapsed beneath jeweled fingers, and the court grew loud and merry with its victory.

But still he knelt.

Chained in the center of the hall like a beast, Prince Katsuki Bakugou did not bow his head, did not soften under the heat of their laughter. He stared, unbroken, his broad chest rising slow and steady while their songs and jeers washed over him. Every so often his eyes drifted, like fire seeking fuel — and each time, they found you.

You felt it, that pull, that burn. You reclined like a queen already crowned, your gown spilling like liquid around you, your diamonds catching the candlelight. You lifted your goblet with the practiced grace of someone who knew every eye adored you — yet your gaze never strayed too far from the one man who refused to kneel, even in chains.

At last, your father spoke of his plans.

The room fell into reverent silence. The king lifted his goblet high, his voice rolling through the hall like thunder.

“My people,” he began, “tonight we dine as victors. Our banners fly higher, our borders stretch farther, our enemies lay broken at our feet.”

Cheers rattled the rafters. He let them rise, then fell silent again, savoring the weight of his next words. His gaze dropped to the chained figure below.

“And here,” he continued, voice sharp with triumph, “is the North’s greatest treasure — their prince. Their pride.” He sneered, lips curling as he raised his goblet in mockery. “Once hailed as their fiercest warrior. And now…”

He let the silence stretch, the court waiting, breath held.

“Now nothing more than a dog on a chain.”

The court erupted in laughter, cruel and high-pitched, echoing off the vaulted ceilings. Goblets slammed the tables, feet stamped, and all around him, Bakugou was reduced in their eyes from a prince to a beast.

Your father’s voice cut above the din. “At dawn, he shall meet his end — broken before the gods and the world. Let all who dare rise against us remember this fate.”

Gasps of approval swept through the hall. The lords nodded, some ladies clutched pearls in mock fright. The air itself seemed heavy with the king’s authority.

And then—

A clear, sweet voice cut through the noise.

“No.”

The single word silenced everything. Laughter froze. Heads turned as if pulled by strings, all eyes snapping toward the princess seated like a jewel at the king’s right hand.

Your goblet rested delicately between your fingers. You did not raise your voice, yet it carried with the weight of someone used to being obeyed. You tilted your head, curls gleaming, lips painted in the faintest smile.

“Father. You cannot waste him.”

The king’s brows furrowed, the hall holding its breath. “My daughter—”

“I want him.”

The words dripped like honey, shameless and unapologetic. You leaned forward, eyes glimmering with spoiled delight as though you had asked for a new gown, or a rare gemstone. “As my personal guard. My footman. My…” you let the pause linger, watching the murmurs ripple through the crowd like wildfire, “…toy.”

The court gasped as one. Scandal bloomed, ladies whispering behind jeweled fans, lords choking on their wine.

The king’s jaw tightened. “Y/N,” he said low, warning in his tone. “This creature is no toy. He is—”

“Exactly what I want,” you cut him off, voice bright with practiced sweetness. You stood then, diamonds catching every flame in the room, your presence filling the hall like sunlight pouring through stained glass. “What better way to display our triumph than to have the barbarian prince himself serving at my heel? What greater humiliation to the North than their warrior bowing to me?”

Your words dripped with a spoiled confidence, your smile sharp as a blade. The king hesitated, but you knew your father — he had never denied you, not when you wanted ponies gilded in ribbons as a child, not when you demanded gowns imported from foreign lands. He adored you too much, let your whims reign too often, some may argue. And now, you pressed that power like a dagger to his throat.

Your mother looked horrified, lips parting in a whisper, but you only smiled, eyes never leaving her father’s.

The king’s expression shifted. At first, disbelief. Then, slowly… amusement. Cruel amusement. A laugh rumbled from his chest, spreading into the hall.

“Ah,” he said, grin cutting across his face, “my daughter is wise beyond her years. What finer punishment than this?”

He gestured grandly toward Bakugou, who glared up at him with fire in his veins.

“From this day forth, the barbarian prince shall serve no throne, no kingdom, but the whim of my beloved daughter. A slave, a guard, a footman — whatever she desires. Behold, our victory.”

The court erupted again, though hesitant at first, this time in shocked laughter and scandalized glee. Whispers flew like arrows, all eyes darting between the jeweled princess and the snarling barbarian.

And you — spoiled, radiant, unflinching — lowered yourself gracefully back into your seat, the faintest smirk curling your lips.

For the briefest moment, your eyes found his again. His fury burned hotter than the torches on the wall. But beneath it, something else smoldered.

You had saved him. You had humiliated him.

You had claimed him.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast. You didn’t understand the language, but you understood the weight of what he was saying. You really....had no choice.

You were away from home, in a cold land, with a cold language, married to their chief who you barely understood. The truth of it pressed against your ribs harder than the cold ever could. He stood first, towering over you again, and set the dagger carefully back on the table instead of tossing it aside. That small act of restraint did not go unnoticed. Then he picked up the dress once more and held it out. Not aggressively this time. Just waiting, not pushing, in your own time.

Your pride screamed at you to refuse again. To fight. To make him drag you outside in your own colors just to prove you would not bend.

But pride would not warm you.

Pride would not change the fact that the wind outside howled like something alive. Pride would not send you home. You stepped forward slowly and took the garment from his hands. His fingers brushed yours for only a second before he pulled away.

He turned his back without being asked.

You hesitated, studying the rigid line of his shoulders. He stood like a soldier awaiting inspection, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the hut wall. He wasn’t watching you, but was giving you privacy. You stripped out of your lighter dress with stiff movements, folding it carefully before setting it aside. The new garment was heavy when you lifted it, the weight settling over your arms like an unfamiliar responsibility.

It took a moment to figure out the wrapping. The layers crossed differently than what you were used to. The ties were thicker, meant to be knotted tight against wind and snow. You fumbled once, twice, cursing under your breath. Another tug at the fabric and you managed to secure the inner layer, then the heavier outer wrap. The fur lining brushed against your neck and down your spine, surprisingly soft beneath its rugged exterior. It was annoyingly warm.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, assessing not your body but the fit of the garment. The way it sat on your shoulders. Whether the collar covered your throat. Whether the layers overlapped properly. He stepped forward before you could retreat and reached for the front tie.

His fingers worked deftly, tightening the knot you had left too loose. The backs of his knuckles brushed your sternum in the process, and heat flared beneath your skin that had nothing to do with temperature.

He stepped back once finished and gave a short nod.

He moved toward the entrance of the hut and lifted the heavy flap. A blade of icy wind cut inside instantly, swirling ash from the fire pit and sending a chill through the space. Then jerked his chin towards the outside of the hut. The cold hit differently outside. Sharper. Wider. The sky stretched endlessly overhead in pale gray streaked with distant mountains. Smoke curled upward from scattered huts, all built from dark timber and hide.

Men moved between structures carrying tools and weapons. Women tended fires and scraped hides clean. Children ran barefoot across packed snow like they had been born immune to frost. As soon as you came into view conversations lowered, eyes were on you. Curious glances followed your every step as you emerged at Katsuki’s side, dressed in their colors. Katsuki stepped forward without hesitation, walking into the open center of the camp. You had no choice but to keep pace beside him. Your boots sank slightly into the snow. The hem of the heavy dress brushed against your calves with each step. Feeling restrictive compared to your lighter clothes.

A group of women paused near a rack of drying pelts. Their eyes flicked over you openly, taking in the way the garment sat differently on your frame. One of them muttered something under her breath that you couldn’t understand, but the tone was unmistakable.

Judgment.

You moved to walk slightly behind Katsuki, but his hand shot out suddenly and caught your wrist. His gaze didn’t meet yours. Instead, he gently pulled you forward until you were back at his side. The message was clear, you were here, his equal. He guided you toward a larger central fire where several older men stood speaking. Their clothing was even darker than his, marked with thicker red lines and heavier adornments.

Several pairs of eyes moved over you in open assessment. Not cruel. Not welcoming either, just… measuring. Taking in the way the unfamiliar dress rested on your shoulders, the way you held yourself a little too rigid in the cold. One of the older men stepped forward, his beard streaked with gray and tied with small red beads. He said something in their language, low and deliberate.

Katsuki answered without hesitation. His voice was steady, firm, the same tone he used when giving orders inside the hut. You glanced at him, trying to read something in his expression, but he kept his gaze fixed on the elder. The older man spoke again, slower this time, his eyes flicking toward you as though expecting a response.

You felt the expectation land squarely on your shoulders. Even in this cold you could feel the heat creeping to your face. The cool wind contrasting against your skin.

“I… don’t know what he’s saying,” you admitted quietly, the frustration clear in your voice. The elder’s brows pulled together, clearly understanding that something had been spoken even if he did not grasp the meaning. Katsuki let out a short breath through his nose, a sound that carried mild irritation but not anger. He shifted his weight and placed his hand lightly at the small of your back. The contact startled you a bit.

His palm was broad and warm even through the thick fabric of the fur-lined dress. The touch did not push or steer you forward, but it grounded you in place beside him, as though he meant to remind both you and the men before him exactly where you stood.

"Shi nak rakh grav-khar. Shi-drok vek oth khar. Oth vok." (she does not speak our tongue,Her people use different words. Different sounds.)

“Threk grav zhur-sek. Threk vrath nak shi-vok. Vrath — shi zhur akh-nar now.” (that much we can see, the question was not of her voice but whether she understands where she stands now.)

“Shi zhur len.” he said sternly (She understands enough)

Another man beside the elder, broad-shouldered with deep lines etched across his face, chuckled quietly under his breath.

“Oth-drok shi, vor vel-grin sun, vrakh vor drak-thor.” (A woman taken from another tribe may smile at you one day and slit your throat the nex)

His voice directing the statement firmly toward the men

“Shi nak akh-nar krath-bound…Shi akh gra-vek” (She stands beside me, She is not here as a prisoner)

He begins to walk about the area, circling you once then twice as he spoke out. Without knowing a single word, you knew what he said was directed at you.

“Shi drath… drok drath shi vrakh. Shi vel-grav… vor vek shi grav-dor.” (She will learn… and the tribe will learn her in return. She will become one of us… and you will accept her as such.)

Another man nearby snorted softly, "Vor vok vel-len… vor gor-fel vrakh dreth half-drok." A few quiet laughs followed. (You sound very patient for someone whose temper used to frighten half the camp.)

He glanced down at you again, his red eyes studying your face as though measuring something silently. Then he gestured toward the fire burning between the stones.

"Ur,"Your gaze followed his hand. You blinked at him, confused by the sudden shift. He repeated the gesture more deliberately, pointing again at the flames "Ur..." (Fire)

"U-ur..." you repeated carefully. A murmur moved through the men standing nearby. One of them mumbled , sounding mildly impressed

"Nar." Katsuki pointed toward the ground beneath your boots next. (Ground)

"...Nar." you said a bit more confidently, take a glance around at those listening. The elder nearest the fire gave a slow nod. Katsuki allowed the faintest hint of satisfaction to cross his expression.

“Shi drath zek. Shi nak lenk.” (She learns quickly. She is not weak)

He pointed toward himself and said "Katsuki, Rakh-var", his finger then points towards your chest "Y/N, Rakh-shi" (Katsuki, husband. Y/N, Wife)

The elder beside the fire chuckled, if anything he seemed to be the kindest among them, one of the few whose expression softened instead of sharpening when he looked at you. The deep lines beside his eyes creased further as he watched the two of you standing there, awkwardly navigating words like stepping stones across a river neither of you quite knew how to cross. The murmurs around the fire slowly resumed as the men returned to their earlier conversation, but the air had shifted. What had begun as scrutiny now carried a quieter curiosity.

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, though the watchful edge in his posture never fully disappeared. He stood beside you a moment longer as if making certain the lesson had settled before he finally gestured with his chin toward the edge of the camp.

"Drav," he said, his voice lower now, meant only for you even though you could not understand the word itself. You caught the motion of his hand instead, he turned, expecting you to follow. It must have meant to follow him, you were mentally trying to memorize these words as best as you could. (Come)

The camp spread wide around you as the two of you moved away from the central fire. Smoke drifted through the cold air from dozens of smaller cooking pits, carrying the rich scent of roasted meat and damp wood. Children darted between huts with loud laughter that seemed completely unaffected by the bitter wind. Women scraped hides against wooden frames while warriors sharpened blades near racks of spears.

You watched all of it as Katsuki guided you through the narrow paths between the huts. The longer you stayed outside, the more aware you became of how exposed you felt among so many strangers. Every new sound and unfamiliar voice pressed against your nerves.

Eventually Katsuki slowed, turning toward the darker structure that you had come to recognize as his hut...well, it was yours too. Whether you admit it or not, it was the reality of things. He lifted the heavy hide covering the entrance and stepped aside, gesturing for you to go in first. The warmth from the banked fire inside met your face immediately. Compared to the sharp wind outside, the hut felt almost comfortable. You stepped inside and rubbed your hands together as the cold slowly left your fingers. Behind you, Katsuki lowered the hide flap and secured it, shutting out the wind and the noise of the camp.

Katsuki moved toward the fire pit and crouched, using a small stick to stir the embers until a few faint flames licked upward again. The shifting light danced across the red markings on his skin. He glanced up at you. He stood and gestured toward the low table where the bone-handled dagger still rested.

"Dro," more words to learn already? Well you may as well try. (wood)

You walked over and placed your fingers against the table’s rough surface.

"Wood.." you said softly and slowly,

“Wud,” he repeated.

You shook your head immediately. You repeat and break down the word "No. Woo-d.”

His brow furrowed slightly as he tried again, "Wood."

“Better,” you said, folding your arms nodding with a smile. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. The faint look of irritation that crossed his face made it clear he was not used to being corrected so often, but he said nothing about it. Instead, he simply exhaled through his nose and glanced around the hut as though searching for the next thing to test you on.

What began as a stubborn exchange of single words slowly stretched into something longer.

You and Katsuki spent hours into the night going over words as though you were children learning how to speak for the first time. The fire burned low and steady between you while the wind howled outside the hut walls, but neither of you seemed eager to stop. The lessons shifted from the simple things around the room to broader pieces of the world outside. Sky, hair, eyes, snow, mountains. colors, seasons, tools, animals. Sometimes Katsuki would point toward something and give the word in his language, watching carefully as you repeated it back. Other times you would say a word first, forcing him to try shaping unfamiliar sounds with his rough accent while you tried not to laugh when he butchered them.

Not that he made it easy either. Every time you laughed too openly, his eyes narrowed just enough to remind you that you were still dealing with a warrior who could probably split a log in half with his bare hands. Still, the frustration never quite outweighed the strange excitement that came with understanding something new.

At one point he gestured toward the red markings across his arm and said a longer word you struggled to pronounce three times before he finally gave a rare, quiet chuckle. You pointed toward your hair and said the word from your language, forcing him to repeat it until the harsh edges of his accent softened enough for you to nod in approval. The faintest hint of pride crossed his expression. And though neither of you would have admitted it out loud, there was a shared understanding growing in that small hut.

Eventually the fire burned low enough that the flames softened into glowing embers. The hut had grown quieter with the deepening night, the noises of the camp fading into distant murmurs and the occasional bark of laughter from somewhere beyond the walls. The long day had begun to settle into both of your bones.

He rose from where he had been crouched near the fire, stretching his shoulders once before stepping over to add another log to the pit. The flames caught slowly, casting new light across the hut. His gaze flicked toward you as if measuring whether you were still awake enough to continue. Katsuki watched your movements carefully, understanding more from your posture than your speech. After a moment he gave a short nod, as though reaching the same conclusion himself. He gestured loosely toward the furs laid out near the back of the hut.

"Vel..." you knew that one, and it was time to rest. You felt worn out, socially and physically. You stood slowly, stretching your stiff legs as you moved toward the sleeping furs. Katsuki extinguished the stronger flames, leaving only the warm glow of embers to keep the hut comfortable through the night. When he joined you moments later, the two of you settled onto opposite sides of the bedding like you had the night before. The distance between you remained, an invisible line neither of you crossed.

But it no longer felt quite as hostile.

____

The days that followed settled into a rhythm neither of you had planned but both slowly began to accept. Morning came early in the tribe. The sun barely crested the distant mountain ridges before the camp was alive with movement. Smoke curled from dozens of cook fires while warriors prepared for hunting runs and patrols beyond the valley. The cold bit hard in the early hours, but the people of the tribe moved through it as though it were simply another part of life. At first, you remained close to the hut, partly because you did not know where else to go. Partly because the language barrier made every interaction feel like walking into a wall.

The women of the tribe were the first to approach you. Some watched from a distance, their expressions skeptical or quietly curious as they passed by your hut. An older women who had already raised families and weathered enough winters to lose interest in petty suspicion—began to draw you into their daily routines.

One morning a woman with thick braids of dark hair simply appeared at the doorway and motioned for you to follow her. You had glanced at Katsuki, unsure, he gave you a simple nod knowing this would benefit you. That was how you found yourself learning the slower, quieter rhythms of the tribe. You helped scrape hides stretched across wooden frames while the women worked beside you, their hands moving quickly with tools worn smooth from years of use. They spoke often while they worked, their language flowing around you in long strings of unfamiliar sounds. At first you understood none of it, but slowly and surely you started making connections. They pointed when they spoke, just as Katsuki had.

Tool, Keth

Knife, Drak

Hide, Thur

Water, Vash

Sometimes they would laugh when you repeated a word incorrectly. Not cruel laughter, but warm amusement that made the frustration easier to bear. In return, you offered the words from your own language. The exchange became a game of sorts. A short and round-faced woman took particular delight in teaching you the names of every animal the hunters brought back. She would point to the carcasses hanging from the racks and say the word slowly until you repeated it correctly. You carried water buckets from the stream, gathered kindling for fires, and learned how to wrap the thick winter garments properly so the wind could not slip inside.

Some days were easier than others. Some days the frustration returned in sharp bursts when the words refused to come. But each evening you returned to the hut with new pieces of language clinging to your thoughts. And every night, when the camp quieted and the two of you sat beside the fire again, those words found their way back into the small lessons you and Katsuki continued in private.

The hut was already familiar territory. Fire, bowl, fur, knife, wood, wind. You had gone over them so many times that even Katsuki no longer stumbled over the sounds.

The fire crackled low between you while the wind pressed softly against the hide walls outside. Shadows stretched across the ceiling beams as the flames shifted. Katsuki leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. His gaze stayed fixed on you with the same focused intensity he had during every lesson.

Then he tried something different, "Y/N… cold?" almost like trying to form a sentence in your language. His accent wrapped awkwardly around the word, but the meaning was clear. You understood it immediately.

You looked down at the fur wrapped around your shoulders and nodded once, “A little cold,” you said slowly, making sure to exaggerate the words.

Katsuki listened carefully, his brow knitting as he tried to follow the structure of the sentence.

“Cold… little?” he tried again

"Yes...little," you smile and turn your body to him. He nodded once, satisfied that he had followed correctly. The fire shifted between you, sparks rising briefly before fading into the smoke hole above. For a moment the hut was quiet again except for the wind pressing against the walls and the steady crackle of burning wood. Maybe you both were not on the best of terms but he was making an attempt. If he was going to attempt sentences… then so were you!

Any embarrassment, caution or anxiety you had was pushed to the side in seconds. You felt bold enough to try and speak his tongue! You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on your knees the way he often did when concentrating.

“Okay,” you said slowly, mostly to yourself. “My turn.”

His eyebrow lifted. You took a breath and tried to build something from the words you had learned.

“Gra… vel, vek Katsuki. Katsuki… warm. Len good… uh… grav vel-vek… very nice.” you tried your best. You really did! Yet this giant of a man was laughing more than you had ever seen before. (“I sleep with Katsuki. Katsuki is very warm… We...sex together. Very nice.”)

His shoulders shook once as he dragged a hand across his mouth, trying to regain composure. Your eyes narrowed immediately recalling the words you had used.

“What?” you demanded

He shook his head, still half laughing “Vor… len gor.” (You're very bold)

You had no idea what he said, but the amusement in his voice was obvious.

He tried to repeat it in your language, still grinning.

“Katsuki warm… very good.” You squinted at him, not understanding.

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

He shook his head again, chuckling quietly before leaning forward slightly. Then he pointed at you.

“Y/N…” He gestured toward the furs. “…sleep.”

Then he pointed at himself. “Katsuki.”

His grin widened. You stared at him for a moment before realization hit.

Your face immediately heated. “That is not what I meant!” you were on the verge of fisting your hands and stomping like a toddler "That's--No! No!"

The protest only made him laugh harder. And for the first time since arriving in this frozen place, the sound of Katsuki laughing filled the hut.

___

Two months passed faster than you expected. The new season enters, the cold still lingers. Winter still ruled the valley, but the sharp hostility you once felt toward the tribe had softened into something far more complicated. The language that once sounded like nothing but rough noise had slowly begun to shape itself into meaning. You no longer needed to watch every hand gesture to understand the simplest instructions.

You could follow most conversations now....at least the slower ones. You find conversations with children the best if you were honest. The same round-faced woman who had once laughed while teaching you animal names now corrected your pronunciation with a patient patience that surprised you. Another showed you how to braid the thicker winter cords used to tie hunting gear. Some mornings you worked beside them in near silence, other mornings the lessons returned in bursts of pointing, laughter, and the occasional gentle shove when you misused a word badly enough to earn it.

You carried water.

You prepared herbs.

You learned which furs needed scraping and which needed drying.

And slowly, almost without noticing, you stopped feeling like a stranger walking through someone else's home. Almost as if you WERE home...

Katsuki noticed the changes before you did. He noticed the way you moved through camp without hesitating now, the way you spoke small words to the women when you passed them, the way the children had begun greeting you with curious smiles instead of wide eyed stares.

The lessons never stopped.

Every night the two of you returned to the hut, the fire burning low while words passed back and forth between you like carefully traded tools. Except now… the words were not the only things being exchanged. It started small.

A brush of his hand when he passed you a bowl.

Your fingers lingering slightly longer when you corrected his pronunciation. The way your shoulders sometimes touched when you sat too close to the fire. None of it was deliberate.....not at first.

But both of you noticed.

And once you noticed… it became impossible not to feel it, and to not want more. Sometimes you caught him watching you when he thought you were focused on something else. The way your hands while you braided cords, the movement of your hair when you leaned forward over the fire. And sometimes you caught yourself doing the same.

Watching the way his shoulders moved when he worked. The quiet focus on his face when he sharpened blades. The heat that seemed to radiate from him whenever he stood close.

It was subtle, but the tension between you had shifted into something undeniably charged. You noticed it the moment you stepped into the hut. The wind outside had grown stronger again, rattling the beams above while the fire cast restless shadows across the walls. The air inside was warm but heavy, filled with the quiet familiarity of shared space.

Katsuki followed you in moments later, lowering the entrance flap behind him. Securing it into the ground, already knowing what kind of night it would be. You moved toward the fire to stir the embers, crouching slightly as the flames rose again. Behind you, you could feel his gaze.

Not the casual glance you had grown used to, it was something deeper, hungry even. You turned slowly, he was standing near the doorway, arms resting loosely at his sides, watching you with that same measuring look he had worn the first night you arrived. Except it no longer felt like judgment.

“What?” you asked, the familiar word slipping out before you thought about it. He stepped closer, carefully but making sure to close the space between you. You had grown used to his presence by now, but standing this near always carried a strange heat with it. The firelight flickered across the red markings on his skin, making them shift like moving shadows. His hand lifted slightly, for a moment it hovered near your arm, then his fingers closed gently around your wrist.

“Katsuki?” you murmured. He studied your face carefully, as if making sure you would not pull away. His fingers rested against your cheek, rough from years of work and battle, yet the touch itself carried a careful gentleness that still surprised you every time it appeared. The fire behind you cracked softly, throwing long amber light across the hut walls while shadows moved like slow breathing things around you. For a long moment he simply looked at you.

He took in a breath and spoke in his tongue "Gra nak threk mor-nar vek gra vor. Gra vrakh vek rakh-shi… dor-drok vel. Var grav-drok vek rakh-shi. Grav keth. Grav hunt. Grav vek-shor…Grav vek shi gor, shi akh grav-vek. Vor… threk oth. Gra nak threk zhur vor nar" (I never thought the mountains would give me something like you. Because that is what men of my tribe do. We build, we hunt, we protect… and we choose someone strong enough to stand beside us. But you…You were not what I expected to find)

"Vor drav gor…Morgh. Vor ready drak gra vrakh-vrakh." (You came angry, ready to fight me again and again)

Your lips parted slightly, “I was kidnapped,” you murmured.

He huffed softly under his breath, though the sound carried more amusement than offense. “Yes,” he admitted. “You were.”

His gaze drifted over your face again, lingering in a way that made your pulse quicken.

“But you stayed.” his accent was almost never absent...but his words. What he meant, what he felt...it was all so clear.

"Vor…..Vel-shi…. Vor rakh-shi gra… “ (you are....beautiful….and you are my wife)

The silence that followed felt thick with something neither of you had dared acknowledge until now. You could feel his warmth even without touching him, the quiet strength in the way he stood in front of you.

He had said something to you in his own language. Something longer than the usual short phrases you had learned. The words had come low and steady, his voice carrying a weight that made your chest tighten even though you hadn’t understood most of it.

You recognized pieces.

Your name.

The word for wife.

“You say a whole speech,” you muttered, gesturing between the two of you, “and I only understand three words.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“You understood the important ones.”

“That is not helpful,” you shot back, with a soft smile

He watched you for a moment longer, the faint humor in his expression fading into something steadier. Then he tried again.

Slower. Carefully choosing words you might recognize.

“Katsuki… thought… wife, strong, beautiful…gift?,” He lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles lightly along your jaw, as if the gesture might help the meaning land where the words failed. Something warm and nervous twisted low in your chest. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, the back to your eyes.

The fire cracked behind you, shadows shifting along the walls as the distance between you seemed to disappear without either of you stepping closer. Your hand was still resting lightly against his chest from earlier. Touch no longer feeling foreign or dangerous with him.

“Vor… stare gra. Threk… what?” You asked as best as you could in his language. (you're staring, what is it?)

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, rough fingers settling carefully against your skin. His thumb brushed once along the side of your neck, the small movement sending a strange warmth through your chest. As he gaze upon his face and seemingly get lost in his now, soft, red eyes, he means in. Your nose is brushing ever so slightly as his lips touched yours softly at first, almost cautiously, as though he were testing something he had thought about far longer than he intended to admit. The kiss was gentle, but it was not uncertain.

Warmth spread slowly through you as his hand remained at the back of your neck, rough fingers resting against your skin with surprising care. You could feel the restraint in him, the deliberate patience of someone holding himself back even though the quiet heat between you had been building for far too long. Your fingers tightened slightly in the fabric at his chest without you realizing it.

The small movement seemed to encourage him, the kiss deepened. The warmth of his mouth against yours carried a quiet hunger, the kind that had grown slowly through weeks of shared glances, brushed hands, and words learned beside the fire. When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Your foreheads rested together, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. His thumb had begun tracing a slow, absent circle against the back of your neck, as though he had forgotten the motion entirely.

For a moment neither of you spoke. His hands came down to your waist, pulling you closer. His breath becoming ragged as if he were holding himself back. You could not help the sudden grip that was on his clothes. He felt it…and so did you. The storm outside raged on, wind howling against the hut's walls, but inside, the air thickened with heat from the fire and the press of your bodies. Katsuki's large hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your thick shift, sending sparks straight to your core.

He captured your lips again, this kiss deeper, more demanding, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to taste you fully. You melted against him, your grip tightening as you felt the hard length of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh through his pants. A soft moan escaped you, vibrating into his mouth, and he answered with a rumble from his chest, his hips grinding forward in a slow, teasing roll.

Breaking the kiss, Katsuki's mouth trailed down your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck.

"So beautiful," he murmured, mixing his words with yours, the praise husky and reverent. His hands worked quickly now, yanking your shift up and over your head in one fluid motion, exposing your bare skin to the warm glow of the fire. He pulled back to look at you, his eyes devouring every curve. The swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, your thighs clenching together in want.

"Goddess," he breathed, one hand cupping your breast, thumb circling your hardening nipple. "Gra Deva-shi." (my goddess)

You arched into his touch, heat pooling low in your belly as his mouth followed his hands, lips closing around your nipple to suck gently at first, then harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. Your fingers tangled in his wild hair, urging him on, and he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, worshipping with his tongue and lips until you were trembling.

"Katsuki… please," you whispered, the plea universal despite the barrier.

He lifted his head, eyes locked on yours, and stood, pulling you up with him. He effortlessly carries you to your shared furs and lays you down gently. In a swift motion, he stripped off his tunic, revealing the broad expanse of his muscled chest, scarred from battles but beautiful in its strength. Never would you have thought he would be so defined....so chiseled, and such a delicious sight to see. His bottoms followed, his thick cock springing free, heavy and veined, already leaking at the tip. Your throat dried, your heart raced in your ears, your skin shuddered in the best way. A shiver ran from your spine to your pussy, already starting to throb at the sight of him.

You reached for him instinctively, wrapping your hand around his shaft, stroking from base to head. He groaned, head falling back for a moment before his hand covered yours, guiding you in a firmer rhythm.

"Vel… vek gra...Vek threk vor." he urged, voice strained. (Yes...good...touch what is yours)

He backed you to lay back on the soft furs, following he kneel between your thighs. His hands spread your legs wide, calloused palms stroking the soft skin of your inner thighs before his thumbs parted your folds, exposing your slick pussy to his gaze.

"Threk keth vel gra, threk nak? Rakh-shi" (this pussy is ready for me, isn't it my wife?)

He said, a note of awe in his tone, and dipped his head to lick a long stripe from your entrance to your clit. Your back almost instantly arches off of the furs as you cried out, hips bucking as his tongue delved deeper, lapping at your juices like a man starved. He sucked your clit into his mouth, flicking it with precise strokes, while two thick fingers pushed inside you. Pumping and stretching your tight walls, you could only image what his cock was going to be like.

"K-Katsuki! R-righ there! Oh… Deva…" you wanted him to know just how much pleasure you felt, throwing in some words to get your message across. (Oh gods!)

A deep groan from his chest urged him on, the pleasure built fast, your body coiling tight under his relentless attention. You gripped his hair, pulling him closer, and he hummed against you, the vibration sending you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, pussy clenching around his fingers as you came with a shattered moan, flooding his mouth with your release. He drank it all, not stopping as he lapped at your wet folds. Feeling the delicious throb of your clit against his hot tongue, until you were limp and panting.

He pants as he sat back on his heels. Wiping the rest of your cum on the back of his hand. His cock throbbing as he positioned himself at your entrance. He leaned down, forehead pressing to yours again, that intimate connection grounding you both in this moment. He whispered against your lips,

"Sun-nar vel… gra vek vor gra. Y/N." and you nodded, wrapping your legs around his waist. (I will make you mine tonight… Y/N.)

With a slow thrust, he pushed inside, his thick cock stretching your still-pulsing walls. You both groaned at the fullness, the way he filled you completely. He paused, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, his hands roaming your body. Stroking your sides, your hips, worshipping every inch wordlessly. He starting to move in deep, measured strokes. The rhythm built gradually, his hips snapping forward with increasing force, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the hut. His low groans in his chest only made your pussy clench tighter and your juices coat his cock more and more. The howling of the wind the only other noise to muffle it out.

Your nails digging into his back, the language barrier forgotten in the symphony of your moans and his grunts.

"Please...Please oh god harder! Please Katsuki~" you gasped, and he understood, pounding into you with a ferocity that shook the furs beneath you. Pulling back to the tip and slamming back into you, the force of his cock making your tits bounce with every thrust, the tip kissing your cervix.

"Gor! Len vel! Gra rakh-shi! Threk — gra Keth!" he groans as he gripped your hips as he fucked you deeper. (Fuck! So fucking good! My wife! This is my pussy!)

Your second climax ripping through you as your pussy clamped down on his cock, milking him. Katsuki followed with a roar, thrusting deep one last time as he came, hot spurts of cum flooding your depths in a creamy rush. He held himself there, grinding slowly as he emptied inside you, his breath ragged against your neck. You could feel the way your walls milked his cock, drips of his cum slowly seeping out. His lips kissed your shoulder softly as pushed himself up again. He was far from done...

After a moment, he pulled out, a mix of your juices and his cum leaking from your pussy. He flipped you onto your hands and knees, hands gripping your hips as he admired the view.

"More," he said simply, and slid back in, the new angle letting him go even deeper. His large hand grabbed your ass cheek roughly, spreading the flesh to watch his cock pump in and out of your tight hole. His cock covered in your juices and his cum as he pushed himself in to the hilt. This round was rougher, more primal, his pace relentless as he fucked you from behind, one hand reaching around to pinch your nipples, the other spanking your ass lightly to punctuate his thrusts.

All these sensations at once filled your senses, losing control, and letting him have his way with you . Your hands fisted the furs, you jaw slack, nothing but whimpers came from your lips. Every thrust, every inch was pure ecstasy.

"Vor vek gra len vel," he praised, leaning over you to kiss your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin. (You take me so well)

The intimacy of his body covering yours, the emotional pull of his voice. You pushed back against him, chasing the building pressure, and he reached down to finger your clit again, drawing out whimpers in your tongue that he echoed with his own. Your third orgasm built slower but hit harder, your walls fluttering around him as you body shook. You came over his cock as he made sure you rode it out completely. Giving you a few final deep thrust, almost as if he were telling you who owned your pussy. Katsuki chased his release, hips stuttering before he buried himself deep, another creampie spilling into you, warm and abundant. He pulled out slowly and carefully, savoring the moans that spilled from your lips. His cum still attaching your cunt and his tip even as he watched his seed drip out of your pussy.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, bodies slick and spent. As the storm quieted to a rumble, he traced patterns on your back, murmuring soft praises in a blend of languages,

"mine,"

"Rakh-shi" wife

"Vara" Love

"Kelth" Treasure

The crackling swells, like dried wood tossed into a blazing inferno. After a moment, it fades, and out comes a quiet, "What you are, I was. What I am..."

"You will be." Dottore huffs and taps the outer shell. "You sound...scattered."

"Oh, forgive me," you sneer, voice now far sharper, "but there's been quite the disturbance on my end due to someone's interference."

Dottore scoffs, though his amusement is palpable in his voice. "And who was it who assisted you in achieving such a state in the first place?"

"...Fuck off." Your voice still ripples with amusement, as it did centuries ago. If he still had any doubts it wasn't you, it would have vanished at the swear. "Now what do you want?"

"How has your memory been?"

"As well as it can be, all things considered. Why?"

The scientist smirks and begins sorting through the binder of papers he'd brought with him today. Much of it contains historical accounts of Inazuman politics Post-Cataclysm, broken up by handwritten entries of Sumeru's own Post-Cataclysm period of academic darkness. He spreads the former across his desk in neat rows as he says, "I believe someone's been replicating your research."

"Oh my, how flattering." The device crackles, a stack of papers rustling as if someone had brushed them aside. It shifts from pile to pile, pausing only when he sets down an old clipping of the Akademiya's newsletter about the disaster at Tataratsuna. "And concerning. What the fuck did you do?"

Dottore scoffs and glares at the open air. "You know how I felt about our replication assignments."

"You always were a little baby about them," you sigh. "Still, I can't believe someone managed to pull a stunt like this. I thought the Sages burnt all of my records after my trial."

"They did."

"Then...the Greater Lord's doing?"

There is a hint of awe in your tone that makes the researcher's eyes roll. "So many years spent beyond the veil and yet you're still so taken by her stolen authority?"

"Yeah, because I don't have my head up my ass. I know how to respect my peers, unlike you." Another stack of papers ruffles, this one covering blacklisted thesis topics. "How else does one become a genius without reading the works of others?"

Dottore huffs again, tidying up the scattered sheets. "If you're hoping to fish a compliment out of me, you're wasting your time."

"Oh, trust me," you sigh, "I have nothing but."

Something grazes his arm, so featherlight and gentle he would have ignored it in any other case. Instead, he turns to his side and makes out the faint outline of your form. In the centuries since your experiment, you'd never figured how to conjure a fully corporeal form. You're already pushing your luck, reaching through your domain and into the Ley Lines to interact with this decaying world.

And yet here you are, standing at his side, poring over information like you had when you and he were mere students.

As 'enlightened' as you've become, Zandik can't help bit think you're still too eager to respond to him whenever he turns on your anchor. But he knows you. You'll just say you took pity on his small mind and deigned to bless him with your infinite wisdom.

At that, Il Dottore retrieves the last key report from the confines of his coat: a weathered journal, treated to maintain its integrity. There is no reason to have it - he's memorized its contents centuries ago. It still makes your laugh ripple from your anchor.

"Compliment received," you say as your spectral form sharpens. "Now, what do you need help with, Zandik?"

It sends a tizzy through the lab.

"I still think it won't matter," 18 mutters as the older segment slips by.

8 rocks on his feet. gripping the edge of the table for support. "Why not? They were the only one who actually kept up with our research."

"Which is precisesly why they won't react when they hear the news. They'd understand." 18 adjusts his mask and nods towards 25, who's still cleaning the scalpel in his hand. "You agree, don't you?"

"Of course," 25 hums. "They weren't exactly reticent when it came to their feelings towards him."

"Vitriol fueled by hormones and academic rivalry," 35 adds with amusement. He eyes his youngest self, whose wide, innocent eyes belie his depravity. It still makes him chuckle. "You'll understand when you're older."

8 frowns behind his mask and turns to the eldest segment. "What do you think, then?"

65 tilts his head, light reflecting off the red lenses of his mask. Age never begets wisdom, they all know that, but 65 was still the one created with the most of Zandik's memories. He would be the best segment by which to base off the original Zandik's feelings.

Unfortunately, they all know that too many variables have been introduced to really be a control, but still.

"They knew Zandik well enough," is his answer eventually. "If they didn't, he wouldn't have bothered to keep that ridiculous machine for so long."

"The old man is sentimental," 35 sneers.

"He was desperate," 18 adds.

65 just pounds his cane against the floor. "And now he's dead."

Rattling draws their attention, 45 returning with a small, mechanical beast in hand. Its one eye flashes as it snaps its beak, and the lab falls impressively silent as your voice filters through the speaker.

"Let me see him."

And despite their earlier protests, it is 18 and 25 who move first. 35 is tempted to protest, just out of habit, but 45 is already handing the machine to its creator as 8 uses the step stool to give you a better angle.

"…Oh, Zandik," you sigh. "You've finally fucking kicked it."

"Finally?" 8 echoes.

"You sound eager," 25 muses.

"Do not talk to me about eagerness, 25." The mechanical creature flutters its wings. "Not when rigor mortis hasn't set in yet."

35 snorts while 8 gently sets you on the table. The cobbled creation had been another experiment by the youngest segment, started suspiciously around when your birthday had been. You still don't have the strength to puppet it fully, but you still hobble around the table with a keen eye until you reach the other side of the body.

"…How strange." Your head jerkily twists and turns to take in the fresh cadaver. "He spoke so much of immortality and…eternity, and now he's just…"

"Dead?" 8 finishes for you. When you nod, he gestures to the other segments gathered at the table. "But we're still here."

"And I think you'd agree if I say that none of you are truly him."

The words are sharp and biting, and the youngest segment almost seems chastised before 18 clears his throat. "Quite defensive for someone you've threatened to end yourself."

"You're only 18. You'll understand when you're older," you say, though the tone is less demeaning than he would have prefered. It makes 35's shoulders tremble with laughter.

"Enough." 65 picks you up, your mechanical body rattling as you sink into his arm. "We're wasting time chatting. Any final words before we continue?"

The lab falls quiet, each segment watching with bated breath. After all, it'd been a question haunting the poor scholar for some time, but its answer would provide no other use than to try and rekindle the compassion he lost as a child. And considering how far he got without it, Zandik had never seen any point in exploring it further.

And now Zandik is dead, and the rest of his segments are eager to hear.

Did you care? Did you consider him something worth mourning? Did you see him as an adversary? An ally? An equal, a friend, a lover?

Did you love him?

And will you miss him now that he's gone?

Your beak opens, mechanical body going still. A faint silhouette forms at the end of the table, ghostly and intangible. It still reaches to graze Zandik's pale hair, soothes his face twisted in agony into something more…human. It is a far gentler touch than the fist 18 remembers swinging into his face, and 35's amusement seems to fade into something pensive.

But 65 proves himself the wisest, because the apparition fades, your mechanical body shuddering to life with a gasp.

"No," you say. "I'd rather not waste your time. It's not often you get to dissect yourself, after all."

And then the mechanical bird goes still, and your warm presence fades with it.

The segments stir, 18 and 25 sharing a satisfied glance while 65 hands the bird back to 45. "See?" 18 says, voice rich with pride. "Nothing."

Neither can you answer his question, despite the fact it’s not that long since the scholar started to acknowledge your presence beyond barked orders and suspicious glances. Actually, you think that him telling you to straighten up must’ve been one of the first things he told you.

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper. The lab is quiet, as it often is in the early morning. You could hear a pin drop, but all you hear is your own breathing.

His hands move. Your body threatens to move away, as if your back and his hands were the same poles of a magnet. You’ve never been stabbed but somehow you expect to be now.

Instead, his hands come back down from hovering over your shoulders, slowly, and instead, tentatively, give the tense muscles a slight squeeze. You bite your lip, trying not to make a sound. It soon turns impossible.

“Look at you,” the doctor scoffs, “This is all your fault.”

He kneads your shoulders with surprising care and not so unexpected efficiency. Despite it being painful, you’re aware it is simply the inevitable result of allowing your body to get this bad, not because he’s trying to make his touch painful.

His thumbs run along the column of your cervical spine and you hiss in pain, gripping the edge of the desk tightly.

“You need to relax,” he hisses, “It wouldn’t be this painful if you listened to me.”

You know, you truly do know. Although you did not expect for his words to be anything beyond common courtesy. He didn’t exactly seem like the type to show much care - though you can’t blame him. Your presence here was forced upon him, after all. 

His fingers dig deep into your tissue, he doesn’t seem to mind the embarrassing grunts and whimpers occasionally slipping past your lips. It feels strange. Uncomfortable even, or at least you’d say so if the relief didn’t feel so good. Your muscles give into his demands, all the knots easing under his fingers. 

Still, his movements are rough. His gloves do not make for easy glide, but it’s much better than nothing - an emergency intervention before you would be rendered unusable. You hope Dottore doesn’t realize how severe your condition was, and at the same time you doubt he wouldn’t. 

“Stay here,” he growls, and then his hands are gone.

You feel colder without his body hovering behind yours and his touch on your shoulders that feel like the weight of the world was lifted off them. You almost feel like you could fly. Carefully, you try twisting your neck slightly and feel no pain, no daggers stabbing into the back of your skull.

“Who told you to do that?” 

You jump hearing his voice so close again. He walks with unnatural silence, you missed his approach both times today. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

One of his hands rests at the crook of your neck with more force than before, as if pinning you in place. In the next moment it becomes clear that that was indeed the point as you feel a needle prick the back of your neck, easily injecting something into your abused muscles.

“What-”

“It’s just a relaxant,” he informs you, “Nothing to be scared of.”

Well, you are scared nonetheless. His reputation does precede him, after all.

“You’ve been helpful in eliminating the most basic of tasks,” he continues, “Consider this a show of gratitude.”

You wish you could but your mind stutters trying to comprehend that what he had you do he considered basic or that he could sound so bored just mentioning it. You thank him nonetheless.

And as soon as the injection is done and the puncture wound is patched, a list of tasks for today is laid in front of you. Dottore himself leaves to start with his own part of the work waiting to be done.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink, girl,” Nobara says, snatching your jug of addictive red berry wine from you. “You can’t even stand up!” 

You stick your tongue at her and try to prove her wrong by standing up from the barstool, but you nearly trip over your own two feet in your boots and have to grip the bar for balance. Nobara cracks a smile, snickering to herself as she sips her third beer of the night. “Lightweights” she chuckles. 

You gape at her, offended. “Hey, you’re the one who was pushin’ shots at me just an hour ago!” you scoff.

Bourbon shots infused with the tastes of pumpkin pie, caramel, and apple strudel. You may have overdone it by slugging down some berry wine too, but damn, can’t you live? This is a celebration!

You turn towards your other longtime besties that you’ve been celebrating all night with. “Yuji, Megumi, tell her to stop bullying me!” you shout, pouting your glossy lips at them. 

Megumi’s emo, I’m-too-good-for-this ass sits next to you, nursing the same Jack Daniels he’s been sipping on since he got here. “I’ve got nothin'm to do with this,” he grumbles. “I’m just waiting for this idiot to pass out so I can carry him home.” 

He juts a chin at the tall, muscular, pink-haired guy currently dancing around on the floor with the rest of the crowd, skirts spinning, boots stomping, and bodies twirling to the live band playing outside. “Y/N, come dance!” Yuji shouts, waving you towards him. “I need a dance partner!” 

You giggle, immediately moving to join him. But Nobara stops you, grabbing the skirts to your pretty, ruffled dress. “Nu-uh,” she says. “You need to get your ass home and in your bed before you pass out too.”

You turn to her, fixing your dress. It’s the kind that falls off the shoulders and exposes just a bit of cleavage, giving you a very sexy but classy look. You picked it out just for this occasion. “But it’s only midnight!” you whine like a child. “And it’s Hallow’s Eve. I haven’t even been out here long!” 

That’s a lie and Nobara knows it because she, Megumi, and Yuji have been with you since the festival began 6PM sharp…but everyone in your village knows that festivals don’t start until nightfall. That is when the drinks start flowing and the real entertainment begins. 

Hallow’s Eve is a big holiday in your small village and is considered the peak of autumn. A time of fun in your village…but it is also a time of caution. Traditionally, all of the villagers gather together in the town square to set up vendors, have costume contests, and drink at cheap prices. It is your way of building community and celebrating the holiday. 

But behind all of that fun is something less bright and cheery. Home-cooked goods are set beside statues and burial sites as offerings. Candles are lit. Garlic is set outside windows and on door knockers. The festival is shut down after midnight and everyone is home before dawn. 

Your village is very superstitious. Almost everyone here believes in ghosts, ghouls, and evil spirits. Hallow’s Eve is considered a night where all spirits and creatures are at their most powerful and rise from the depths of Hell to wreak havoc on those who do not heed warnings. 

But you don’t believe in that bullshit. You never have. When you come home at night, never have you been snatched up by a ghost or spooked by a demon. You work at your favorite herb shop making good money, date, pay your bills, and mind your business. You don’t indulge in any kind of superstitions that your fellow villagers do.

Besides, da fuck you look like cutting your Hallow’s Eve night short all because of some supernatural BS when you should be drinking, flirting, and forgetting about your ex?

“You’ve been out here since 6PM, you drunk!” Nobara argues. “And I won’t be dragging your ass home like I did last time at the summer solstice fest!” 

“Actually, that was me who dragged her home,” Megumi sassily replies. “You just carried her purse.” Nobara scoffs, rolling her one eye since the other is behind an eyepatch. “Oh, same thing! I still helped!” Megumi runs a hand through his spiked, black hair and tries to argue, but a jug of ale slamming onto the bar stops him. 

“Leave the girl alone, Nobara,” Yuji scoffs, coming over to the table for a drink “Besides, she still has to look for some fun to take home tonight." He turns to you grinning. "Give me the deets, girl! You scoop up a hot guy yet?"

“Why, thank you,” you giggle, twirling your hair. “And no, definitely not in this tiny ass town." Yuji laughs into his drink. “Totally agree. You won’t be finding your next prospect here in this dump.” Nobara titters, winking at you. “That’s why I travel.” 

You don’t want to tell them that you won’t travel just for a quick fuck and that every single one of your prospects in your little village have been lackluster or below average in the bedroom.

"But you need a hot guy to replace your garbage ex,” Yuji scoffs. “Honey, that man wasn’t anything short of trash!” The buzz from the alcohol suddenly dissipates a bit, leaving you feeling tired. “Tell me about it,” you grumble. 

Megumi and Nobara glare at Yuji and if looks could kill, he'd be dead. "Read the room, Itadori," Megumi whispers. Yuji gasps, covering his mouth. “Oops! My bad, Y/N, I wasn't thinking.” 

You crack a smile despite your stomach flipping at the mention of your ex who dumped your ass almost a year ago for a new prospect in the next town over. As a traveling writer looking for his new big break, your ex often told you stories of women who flirted with him…but you didn’t expect it to work one day. 

After two years of dating, he came to you, admitted that he wasn’t happy, and a week later, you found him on the front page of the newspaper with a famous singer’s daughter. You were devastated, to say the least. Even more so when you realized just how toxic, immature, and horrible of a lover he really was. 

After that, you bounced from guy to guy, dating some, fucking some, ghosting some or some ghosting you. You’re tired of hitting and missing. If you don't get something that knocks your socks off, you don't want it. Life is too short for mediocre romance and sex. 

“It’s cool,” you say to Yuji. “Plus, I’ve done the dating and hookup thing. It’s all getting old for me. I want someone who’s really gonna satisfy me, y’know? Someone exciting. Someone who will make every boring man in this town look subpar.” 

Nobara snorts, tossing an arm around you and squeezing you close to her blouse. “I don’t know about that one, but if you want romance, there's always a love potion you can buy."

You down the rest of your wine before slipping out of Nobara’s hold and grabbing your cloak. “Aaaand on that note, I’m headin’ home. Thanks for tonight, y’all! I’ll see y’all in the afterlife.”

Yuji swoops in on you and wraps you up in a big, sweaty hug. “Be careful out there, Y/N!” he yells in your ear over the music. “Ya never know what’s out there.” 

Your friends bid you farewell before you leave the cramped tavern and travel through the throng of vendors, entertainers, and guests meandering among the closed-off streets coated in orange streamers, carved pumpkins, and colorful leaves. The air is crisp and fresh with autumn and the night is dark, only lit by some gas lamps lining the streets. 

“Hon, you don’t have to follow me,” you say, not even turning around. “I literally live right up the road.” You can sense Nobara behind you despite her quiet footfall in her ankle boots. You opted for the sexy knee-high boots to pick somebody up, but that plan fell through. 

“No, it’s not that,” she argues, catching up with you to stand by your side. “I wanted us to chat! Real talk, Y/N, and be honest: do you really not wanna date anymore after your ex?” 

You keep your eyes trained on the trail as the festival gives way to quiet businesses closed for the night. “It’s not that, but he’s part of it. I don’t wanna waste my time and get hurt like that again.” You cross your arms under your cloak where your leather clutch is, hugging yourself. 

“Then what about just sticking to sex?” Nobara asks. “When’s the last time you hooked up with a guy?”

You heavily sigh, depressed by the thought. You gave up on all of this a month ago and haven’t been with any guy since. “A month ago and that was all I needed to see that hookup culture ain’t for me anymore. He was awful! He didn’t even try to get me off and had the nerve to use my shower without asking when he was done bending me over.” 

Nobara giggles despite your sob story. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want good sex. I want great sex! I want someone to take me on a bed and make me see God.” 

Though you manage to get yourself off fine, your fingers and erotic books can only do so much for a girl. You feel like you’ve been failing miserably without sex…especially sex with a partner who is interested in pleasing YOU, not just themselves. 

“Well, that’s a testimony if I ain’t heard one before,” Nobara laughs, her footfalls falling in line with yours on the cobblestone. You nod, looking up at the clear, starry sky above. “I guess I’m just….waiting. I’m tired of searching and getting disappointed.” 

Nobara stops suddenly and so do you, turning to her. She places a comforting hand on your shoulder and squeezes. “Well, just know that you deserve better than anyone I know.”

You smile at your friend and press a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll take that with me on the way home.” You turn, walking away with a click of your boots. “And don’t follow me! I’m a big girl!” 

Nobara listens and watches you trot away down the path to your home. But just as you’re about to turn the corner to go through the woods, she stops you. “Y/N!” she calls. You turn, looking at her expectantly. Her lips press into a thin line. “Just be careful, okay?” 

You scoff, cocking your head at her. “Oh, not you too! Is the town's superstition rubbing off on you?”

You laugh, but Nobara doesn’t. “Look, I’m just saying! It’s Hallow’s Eve and you know people can get crazy…plus, you never know what’s lurking out there.” 

She looks into the woods, her expression uncertain and…scared. You’ve never seen her look like that before. But then again, living in a village where people believe in the supernatural will condition you. You strut towards your friend and hug her close to your body.

“Kusaki, I’m fine. I’m just up the road and I promise I’ll go around the deep, dark, scary woods. Now go back and scoop Yuji up.” You release her and give her a wink before strutting off down the path, your boots clicking across the cobblestone.

“Hey,” she calls after you. “If you happen to see a hot piece of ass on the way home, take him back with you.” You turn around and blow her a kiss. “Will do! I’ll make sure to send him to you when I’m done!”

She laughs and waves to you as you depart, heading home along the trail, not knowing who...or what...is about to come for you. 

***************

As you walk on the trail back home in the dead of night, you feel a pang of guilt for your words to Nobara. They could damn well be the last words you ever say to her.

You feel bad for lying to your friend, but the last thing you need is a lecture or to be afraid of a trail you’ve taken thousands of times. The trail cutting the woods is easier than going around it, so you find yourself doing just that, humming a tune as you do. 

You don’t pay attention to how the forest looks like something out of a horror film, like how the leafless branches on the trees look like skeletal fingers stretching towards the sky or how the stars are now behind ominous clouds that hang above you like— 

CRUNCH.  

You skid to a stop, looking behind you. All that moves are the branches in the autumn breeze. Could that have been you? Maybe you stepped on a branch you didn’t see. 

Though a bit frazzled, you continue on your way until you hear distant voices. As you get closer, the trees give way to a clearing where five kids decked out in Halloween costumes stand. “Fuck,” you sigh. Just what you need tonight. And it’s just a coincidence that this is happening on your trail home. 

You conceal yourself behind a nearby tree, peeking through the leaves. Four are standing in a circle while the other stands in the middle of some kind of drawing in the grass. You can’t make out what it is, but you know that it’s suspicious. Any kid outside past midnight is up to no good.

“No, no, Billy!” one of the kids dressed as a vampire yells. “You’re supposed to pour the pig’s blood before you say the words!” 

Billy, the big kid in the middle wearing a devil costume, turns towards the vampire, holding a bucket. “Shut up! I know what the fuck I’m doin’!” 

You come out from behind the tree and walk towards them as they bicker. “Hey,” you say, putting some bass in your voice. “What are y’all doing?” 

Each boy looks toward you, shocked to see you there. Billy scoffs, smirking at you with a face full of freckles. ”None of your business, grandma.” The vampire and poorly-made werewolf snicker at their friend. Billy must be the leader. 

“Grandma?” You scoff, putting a hand on your hip. “What are you, eight? Obviously, since you’re still wearin’ costumes at your big age.” 

Now all four of the boys, including a cowboy and a bedsheet ghost, laugh. Billy turns as red as his cape. “Shut up!” he snaps. “I said get lost or you’ll be sorry.” He glowers at you, tossing the bucket aside. 

You aren’t at all fazed. “Bitch, I live over here. This is how I get home and I’m not about to let some knuckleheads terrorize my neighborhood with…” You motion a hand over them. “Whatever this is.” 

“It’s just a game,” the ghost says. “That’s all we’re doing.” You raise a brow at him. “What kind of game? One that calls for pig’s blood and some type of speech?” 

The boys grow quiet, especially when Billy slips a pocket knife out of his cape. “I said. Get lost, lady. Now. Or I’ll gut you like a—“ 

“No, you get lost,” you growl, trying to sound and look as menacing as possible. “And take your little friends with you. My mother is a witch and I know some speeches myself that can make your eyes bleed and your skin peel.” 

Billy scoffs and defiantly rolls his eyes, but when you begin to chant something in a nonsense language, he just about shits himself. “Shit, man, run!” the cowboy yells as he and the others take off. Billy stares at you wide-eyed before finally running off, leaving the bucket. 

Once they’re gone, you stop chanting and laugh. “Idiots,” you chuckle. Now alone, you check out the scenery for yourself and walk towards the drawing. It is big, crude, and written in red liquid with multiple lines, each one connecting into a big star you stand in the middle of. 

You scoff when you realize what it is: “Seriously? A pentagram?! Those little shits were tryna summon a demon!” 

You then giggle drunkenly. “Maybe I should conduct a ritual myself, see if I can summon some good dick. That’s a damn shame: me summoning a whole demonic being just to get laid.” 

You’re aware that you’re talking to yourself out in the woods like a crazy person, but you’re so drunk that you can’t stop. “It’s just so hard to find someone exceptional,” you groan. “Damn men. Damn my ex. Damn this small village. Damn this shitty dating pool! How much longer can I date myself?” 

You turn to the overcast night sky and spread your arms wide, lamenting to the Gods above. “I’d give anything to have someone put me through the mattress! I’d fuck a ghoul, a goblin, hell, even a fucking demon! Anyone—just please FUCK ME!” 

Your voice echoes across the clearing before fading away, replaced by a lone owl hooting. You truly are alone. 

CRUNCH.

Or are you? You abruptly turn around and stare into the dark, lush forest, peering through the trees. “Hello?” you call. 

Nothing responds. “Listen, if you caught any of that, just know that I’m drunk and I didn’t really mean it, so…please don’t follow me. I really do know some spells.” Still, you get nothing but the wind. 

“You’re losin’ it, girl,” you whisper to yourself. “You’ve gotta lay off the wine.” Quickly, you tighten your cloak around yourself and hurry down the trail, your footsteps brisk and fast. 

When you finally get home to your cozy little cottage, you lock the door and kick off your boots, finally freeing your tired feet. 

Cinnabon, your pet cat, greets you with a meow and you return the favor with some scratches and treats for her. You don’t even remember going upstairs to your bedroom. All you remember is darkness. 

You never usually wake up in the middle of the night. You’re usually out like a light. But at this particular time on this particular night you do…and you don’t like it. When you awaken, you’re still in your clothes from the festival with a splitting headache and in total darkness. Only the silvery moon shines through your bedroom window. 

You don’t know what makes you wake up or why you feel so on edge, but you do. The fine hairs on the back of your neck stand up and your heart won’t slow down. It’s as if something is lurking within the darkness of your bedroom and you’re just waiting for it to reveal itself. 

Then you hear it: running water. Like something—or someone—is in here with you. “H-Hello?” You stammer, staring at your bedroom door. “Cinnabon, is that you?” 

Then you hear something else: a very soft moan. You gasp and quickly turn around, finding a lump under your duvet. It shifts and finally moves, taking the warm cover off of it.

Beneath it lies a very beautiful and very unfamiliar man. Shirtless. With nothing on him but briefs. 

When he sits up out of his slumber, you realize how tall he is—he is at least a head taller even though he’s sitting down. He’s also big. Big pecs where two silver balls glitter on his nipples, big arms where one is inked in dark tattoos; big hands, big arms sinewy with veins…probably even bigger below. 

Your eyes trail down to his muscular thighs and washboard stomach before trailing up to his handsome face, snow-white hair, and ice-blue eyes that are framed by long, white lashes. He is gorgeous. Truly a beautiful man…a beautiful man who is also a stranger in your bed with two big horns jutting out of his head and a pointed tail that curls around your thighs. 

“Cinna-who?” he groggily asks. 

A scream bubbles up in your chest, but you can’t release it. It’s like your brain won’t let you. 

All you can do is freeze and stare in horror at the stranger, trying to piece together the past events. Did you meet him at the festival and forget? Did you take him home? Did you— 

The water shuts off and the sound of creaking footsteps makes its way to the bedroom door. 

Creeeeeak. 

The door opens, revealing a very big, horned, shadowy figure standing in the doorway. When he enters, you don’t know whether to be afraid or aroused. He is just as attractive as the white-haired stranger in your bed with long, black hair tied into a bun and violet eyes that gaze into yours across the room. 

He is big and misdialed too—big pecs the size of watermelons; big arms and biceps inked with tattoos and pierced nipples; thick, tree-trunk thighs that lead up to toned, mouth-watering abs dripping in water; big feet and hands that grip one of your bath towels around his slim waist. 

He, too, also has giant horns jutting out of his scalp and a pointed tail that sways between his legs. 

“Sorry,” he sighs, his lip ring glittering as he gives you an apologetic smile, “but I think I used up all of that shea butter soap in your shower. Is that what makes you smell so good?” 

Finally, the scream inside of you escapes you. You jump off of the bed in horror and snatch the bat that you keep by your bed. Both men react in total confusion and alarm as you cower in the corner, holding the bat out for protection. “Stay away,” you warn. “D-Don’t come near me!” 

The long-haired stranger puts his hands up in defense. “Alright, alright, let’s just calm down, sweetness.” Neither one of them moves, probably afraid of scaring you even more. 

“Don’t call me that!” You demand, pointing the bat at him while glaring at the sexy ass blue-eyed man kneeling on your bed. “And don’t tell me to calm down! Who are you?! How’d you two get in here?!” 

Both men look at each other questionably. “Don’t you remember, baby?” The blue-eyed stranger asks, albeit flirtatiously. “You called for us. You specifically said you’d let even a demon fuck you.” 

His soft-looking lips curl into a seductive, teasing smile that fills your stomach with warm, fuzzy tingles that you ignore. 

Your brain, still slightly fogged from your slumber, tracks back to when you were in the forest. You damn near facepalm yourself. You did say that…very loudly. And someone clearly heard you because now they’re both standing in your bedroom. 

“And here we are,” the blue-eyed hottie chuckles. “Lucky for you, we like our humans desperate and needy. Ain’t that right, Sugu?” 

The fine-ass long-haired specimen standing in your towel that is dangerously low on his narrow hips slowly nods his head. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes, so molten hot and lustful, say everything. 

“Oh, by the way, I’m Satoru,” the white-haired hottie says, flashing you an award-winning smile. “Last name Gojo. That’s Geto Suguru, just in case you like to scream names during sex. Pet names work for us too though! I love being called ‘Daddy’ or—“ 

“Wait, wait,” you interrupt, putting a hand out to stop him. Your brain is trying to process this newfound information as quickly as possible. “Are you telling me that y’all two…are demons?” 

The two slowly, silently nod, sizing you up with their intense gazes. But they grow confused when you begin to laugh, practically doubling over from it. “That’s funny,” you say in a fit of giggles. “C’mon, stop playin’ and just leave, okay? I know it’s Hallow’s Eve and all, but to break into a single girl’s home isn’t—“ 

Suddenly, you find yourself pinned against the wall and Suguru’s big, clawed hand wrapped around your neck. You don’t even have time to gasp because of how fast he is. Did he teleport? 

The scent of your shea butter soap and something spicy wafts off of him, flooding your nostrils. “Does this look funny to you, sweetness?” he whispers, his lips close to your ear. 

You don’t speak, your mouth frozen in a frightened O. 

Slowly, Suguru takes the bat from you and sets it down. You let him. Satoru comes over too, smirking. “This isn’t fake either.” He takes your hand and places it on his horn which is smooth like granite. “We’re the real deal, little girl, so you’d better show us some respect since we’re here to please you.” 

It’s like a record scratches as soon as he says it. You close your mouth and blink away your terrified tears. “P-Please me?” you ask, confused. “You’re not here to kill me or e-eat me?” 

The two demons look at each other again and begin to laugh. Even their laughter is sexy. “Nah, we don’t get down like that,” Suguru chuckles, gently releasing you. “Some bloodthirsty demons are, but not us.” 

“Mmm-hmm,” Satoru hums, his eyes seductive. “We would rather eat you up in another way that will satisfy both of us.” 

You can’t deny the way your body reacts to his bold words. Your nipples grow embarrassingly tight under your dress. Your stomach flips with need. And your pussy? A damn flood. 

“We’re incubi,” Suguru explains. “Sex demons. We feed off of humans’ sexual energy to survive and gain more power.” 

Your eyes widen, your stomach dropping. “Sex demons?!” you yelp, pushing yourself further into the wall. You press a hand to your head as if that will help. “Oh, God, I really fucked up. This has to be a dream or I’m unconscious.” 

Satoru takes your hand off of your head and places his own bigger, calloused one on your face. Your cheeks blaze at the contact and the ocean blue of his eyes. “If this is a dream then it’s the sweetest one, dont’cha think?” He teasingly coos. “Havin’ two men all to yourself? I’d be so thankful if I were you.” 

His smile drops as his thumb begins to caress your bottom lip. ”Are you not thankful to have us here, baby?” he asks, actually sounding saddened by the idea. Even Suguru looks disappointed, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. The sight is damn near erotic. 

You feel bad about letting the incubi down, but this CANNOT happen to you. “Um, listen…Satoru? Suguru?” Gently, you take Satoru’s hand off of your cheek. “I appreciate the offer, but I didn’t really mean all of that. I was just drunk, plus I don’t feel comfortable doing this being that y’all are demons and all.” 

Satoru raises an eyebrow at you and crosses his beefy arms over his best. “Are you discriminating against us?” he pointedly asks. 

Suguru rolls his eyes, nudging him in the side. “Ignore him. We can understand your hesitation, but we’re not gonna ask you for your soul if that’s what concerns you…however, you automatically created a contract with us the moment you summoned us.” 

The mention of a “contract” scares you out of your wits. A contract does not belong in the context of a demon. “How?” you whisper, but you’re not sure if you want to know the answer. 

A humored smirk slides onto Suguru’s lips and you think he even pulls his towel down farther to show off the snake tattoo slithering up his left hip bone. You’re embarrassed to think about how far it goes down. 

“You said you’d fuck a demon, babe. It’s as simple as that. Us incubi always go for desperate mortals who are unsatisfied with their sex lives and need to be laid down and filled up. You fit the fuckin’ bill.” 

His violet eyes roll over your form, making you feel exposed. “And disagreeing isn’t an option unless you want us to haunt you for the rest of your days,” Satoru adds. “When you summon a demon, you have to successfully complete your end of the deal or else they stay latched to you.” 

And that’s what you were afraid of. Curse you and your alcohol intake! “What’s my end?” you sigh, pinching your sinuses. 

The two big, sexy demons towering over you smirk in your face. “You fuck us till we’re satisfied,” Satoru smirkingly answers. “And we do the same for you. You cum as many times as we want you to because we know your body needs it while we feed off of your orgasms until we get our fill. Then, and only then, will we leave.” 

Suguru’s gaze grows soft, understanding of your reluctance. “No funny business. No taking your soul. None of that. We just want you to feel good tonight.” His voice is soft yet sexy, promising you endless pleasure. “So do we have a deal, little human?” 

The demons raise their brows expectantly, waiting for an answer. 

You’re still unsure about fucking a sex demon…let alone two! You’ve never had a threesome before, but you’ve fantasized about them. 

Plus, the idea of being sandwiched between two men much bigger than you who are devoted to your pleasure doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Two soft lips. Four veiny, calloused hands. Two skillful tongues. Two big, fat, throbbing c— 

“Okay,” you huff. “If I agree to fuck you both, you won’t show up here ever again?” 

Satoru shrugs, nodding. “Unless you summon us again, but yeah, essentially. We don’t show up where we’re not wanted, baby.” He gives you a lopsided smile, cocking his head to the side. It’s ridiculous how sexy it is. “We can give you exactly what you want and need. All you need to say is yes.” 

You don’t want to be haunted forever, so what choice do you have? Plus, though you’d like to admit it, you need some dick ASAP. And you’ve got two right here that are ready and willing to give you some. 

“Fine,” you scoff defeatedly. “You’ve got a deal. but we need to go over some rules. I don’t fuck demons, let alone have threesomes, so this is new to me.” 

Suguru looks pleased while Satoru cackles. ”Oooh, this will be fun!” 

Suguru shushes his partner before giving you a sweet smile. “What are your rules, sweetness?” 

They stay completely silent as you count off each rule on your fingers: “Number one: we use a safeword. Number two: no biting or clawing unless I say so. Number three: I like spanking, hair-pulling, choking, and spitting, but you need to warn me first. And number four: I’d like to be fucked without a condom, but NO cumming inside me. I refuse to have a demon baby like Rosemary.” 

Satoru looks bored but nods regardless. “Understood,” Suguru states, and you exhale, glad that this is starting off so easy for you. 

Maybe this won’t be as horrible as you thought…until Satoru gives you that wicked smirk. “Now get your ass on that bed,” he demands. His tone is so sultry and low that you can’t resist. 

The demons part to let you through and you slowly climb onto the bed, one vertebrae at a time. 

The incubi look down at you, the silver moonlight illuminating their lustful eyes, delicious muscles, and silver balls glinting from their hard, suckable nipples. Their pecs are so huge that they’d make great pillows AND motorboat material. 

“There now,” Satoru coos. “Comfy?” Silently, you nod, averting your gaze. 

Satoru doesn’t like that. He grips your chin, forcing you to look at his illegally handsome face. “Good girl. Now come here; let’s give that mouth something else to do besides talk back.” 

He presses his lips to yours and though you initially tense, your body melts into his finally as you fall victim to the kiss. 

Satoru’s kiss is the best you’ve ever experienced. His lips are soft and sweet as they move against yours, dancing with you. There is no fight for dominance because you instantly give him that the more his spell works on you. He begins to moan into your mouth like he can’t handle how perfect this kiss is. You begin to moan as well as his tongue licks your bottom lip, asking for entrance. You allow it and his skillful tongue slides against yours.

As you French kiss, you realize how different Satoru’s tongue feels against yours. You know he has a tongue piercing due to the metallic taste, but you feel something else. Something pointed. 

Satoru has a forked tongue. 

‘Oh, God,’ you think deliriously. 

You find out that Suguru has one too when he comes behind you and begins gently licking and kissing along your neck, giving you a feel of his soft lips combined with his lip ring. You can only imagine how these silver balls will feel on your pussy. 

“We've never had one be so bratty,” Suguru whispers against your neck. He attaches his lips to one sweet spot there, gently nibbling and sucking on it, intending to leave a mark. Satoru hums in agreement, pulling away from the hot, salacious kiss.

You whimper from the loss. “That’ll make breaking you so much hotter,” he chuckles. “Now wasn’t that nice, baby? C’mon, you can say it. I know my kisses are good.” 

You’re completely breathless and dazed. Your skin is hot and buzzing. Your nipples are stiff and your panties are just about soaked…all from a kiss! 

“She hasn’t had me yet,” Suguru gruffly replies behind you. He gently turns your face toward him and begins kissing you too. His lips are just as soft and taste like ripe, juicy berries. You moan and whimper into his mouth, his large hand cupping your cheek. 

You feel the bed dip as Satoru sits down and begins kissing your neck, nuzzling your hair, teasingly moaning in your ear. “Hey,” he coos, “whose kiss is better, I wonder? Him or me?” 

Suguru growls against your lips, irked. He pulls away, a string of saliva hanging on your bottom lips. “Shut up, Satoru. This isn’t about inflating your ego. This is about making this pretty one feel good.” 

Pretty. It’s been so long since you’ve been called such a thing that you shudder. The two demons continue to leave trails of fire on your skin as they kiss up your neck, shoulders, and jaw, until they too grow impatient. “Can we take this off, sweetness?” Sugu asks, tugging at your dress.

Though he is respectful, you can see the wildfire in his eyes imploring you to say yes. “Y-Yes,” you stutter, licking your parched lips. “Just be careful. I like this dress.” 

The demons chuckle, but respect your request and gently begin to undress you. No ripping or tearing despite their long, pointed claws. When you’re finally naked except for your panties, the two demons look ravenously at you in the moonlight. 

“Just as I thought,” Suguru sighs, a pink blush on his cheeks. “You’re damn near perfection.” 

The two immediately sandwich you between their big bodies, hands groping your soft skin. Fingers stroke your sides, stomach, back, and legs, leaving tingles and goosebumps along your body. You moan and gasp, indulging in their bodies as well with your wandering hands. 

You can hardly remember enjoying foreplay this much! Your pussy is practically sobbing now, wanting so much to be stroked the way the rest of your body is. 

At some point, the two begin using their big hands to massage and grope your juicy breasts, using their thick fingers to pinch your hard nipples. Feeling their forked tongues and cold metal piercings against your sensitive peaks is a pleasure beyond words. It’s intense and explosive. 

You squeak in pleasure at the delicious sting, earning two tongue baths in response against your nipples. “That’s it, little lady,” Suguru murmurs. “Cry out for us. We’ve got you.” 

Coaxing you to do so, Satoru slowly slides a hand down between your thighs and presses his long fingers against your wet pussy. You gasp at the zing of pleasure that shoots from your core up to your head and throughout your fingers and toes. All he has to do is pull the thin fabric to the side to sink his fingers in and— 

Satoru takes a nibble of your ear, sucking on your earlobe, and one last squeeze of your breast. “Bend over, baby,” he orders, his blue eyes ablaze with mirth. “Get that pretty ass in the air.” 

Under his and Suguru’s spell, you assume the position: face down, ass up, much to their enjoyment. 

SPANK!

You yelp in surprise at the burning sensation of a hand slapping your asscheek. You turn to look at a sheepish Satoru. “Sorry, baby, but I had to sneak a surprise one in.” 

You can’t be too mad at him when your pussy is so wet from the assault. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “Just ask next time.” 

The demon smiles, gently running his hand down the cheek he smacked. “May I spank that pretty ass of yours then?” He asks, his tone teasing and sultry sweet. Jerkingly, you nod and the demon hums in satisfaction before raising his hand up again. 

SPANK!

Surprising both yourself and the demons, a loud moan escapes you at the sweet burn. Satoru laughs, jiggling your asscheeks and enjoying the recoil. “Oooh, there’s a moan!” he cackles. “You like that, naughty girl? You want another one?” 

You weakly stare up at him, your body aflame from the spanks. 

Suguru, however, stops him. “Stop hogging her, Satoru. I want a piece of that too.” His big hand trails down your ass to give it a squeeze. 

Soon, both demons are massaging your ass which translates well with your already-wet pussy. “Let’s have a little competition then: whoever makes this cutie louder wins,” Satoru says, a teasing glint in his eye. 

Suguru gives him a smile that mirrors the exact same glint in those blue eyes. He then raises his hand above your butt and then brings it down hard against your asscheek, making it jiggle. Satoru follows suit, bringing his palm down a little harder each time to one-up his partner.

SPANK! SPANK! SPANK! 

The same sharp sound of their palms hitting your soft globes of flesh fills the bedroom along with each gasp, moan, and whimper that escapes you. 

You can’t believe you’re getting sobbing wet off of getting hit. Neither of them are even touching your pussy yet…until they do. Satoru decides to give your ass a break and experiment with your pussy instead. 

He gives it a light love tap over your soaked panties and both demons find enjoyment in the adorable yelp you let out….literally. If you could see them, you’d notice how hard they’ve become just from the sounds you make. 

“Ooooh, you like getting spanked here too, baby?” Satoru chuckles. “So fuckin’ cute.” He does it again, humming pleasurably at the way your body jumps and your pussy twitches.

“Mmm, that’s enough, I think. Her pussy certainly thinks so.” The tension in the air has grown thick as the scent of your arousal wafts through the air, intoxicating the two horny demons. 

Satoru does the honors of pulling your panties to the side, revealing your glistening, puffy, soft pussy to them. The demons practically groan at the sight. “You’re so pretty down here, baby,” Suguru murmurs. You feel two of his thick fingers caress your sensitive lips, causing you to moan at the soft touch. 

You’ve never been this sensitive. This needy. This desperate. 

“Please,” you whimper. Satoru leans in to hear you better, his lips toying with your ear. “Please what, baby? We can’t give you what you want if you don’t ask for it.”

His forked tongue slithers out to caress your earlobe, sending chills down your spine while Suguru toys with your pussy, gently rubbing your clit around and around. 

You know you’re going to regret these words, but you’re too desperate to care. You rise up on your arms and look back at them, desperation all over your pretty face. “Please…taste me, Daddies.” 

Now you can see the two matching tents appearing underneath Satoru’s boxers and Suguru’s towel. The duo looks at each other before smirking deviously. “Oh…you want both?” Satoru chuckles. “Freaky. I like that. How do you feel about getting two forked tongues, hm?” 

You don’t have time to agree or refuse…not that you would refuse. You need something to give you relief and the idea of having two tongues in your pussy is tempting, to say the least. 

You let the two flip you over onto your back and spread your thighs apart, their greedy eyes glittering at you in the darkness of your bedroom only illuminated by the moonlight cutting through your window. 

Unfortunately for Suguru, Satoru takes up most of your cunt at first. He’s a greedy motherfucker, massaging your ass as he tongue fucks your pussy, filling you up and tasting you in a way unlike no man could ever do. 

You can’t explain it—the way the forked tips of his tongue tickle and stimulate each sweet spot inside of you; the way the sensitive bundles in your clit sing when his nose swipes against it; the way your body squirms and your thighs quiver under his hands as he spreads you open for him. 

“Oh, fuck!” you whine. “Fuck!” Your voice echoes throughout the bedroom, mingling with the lewd, wet sounds of Satoru’s sloppy eating. His blue eyes pierce up at you through the V of your thighs, staring into your soul as he drinks your pleasure.

“That’s it, baby, scream for me. You sound so, so pretty.” He pauses to give your pussy a long lick, his forked tongue sliding against your puffy lips. “I bet no man has tongue fucked you like this, have they?” 

You weakly shake your head, your eyes rolling from the immense pleasure. Sweet Lords in Heaven and Hell, this man can eat pussy! You see stars and space behind your eyelids as Satoru slurps on your cunt, spitting on it before slurping it back up and resuming his eating. 

Tired of watching him have his fun, Suguru shoves him out of the way and kneels between your thighs. “Greedy bitch,” he scoffs. “Move out the way. It’s my turn to taste that pussy.” The demon gives you a wink before he dives between your legs. 

You were wrong about no man having eaten your pussy like Satoru. Suguru takes the cake with that. His lips are pillowy-soft and feel like satin against your sensitive pussy lips. Even his lip ring, as cold as it is, feels good on your needy clit as his forked tongue slides between your lips to explore your little hole. 

“Shit!” you moan, gripping the sheets for dear life. “Fuck yes, Suguru! You’re so good at this!” 

The long-haired demon smirks up at you, his chin and mouth glistening in your juices. “Thank you, baby,” he coos, ignoring Satoru’s smoldering glare next to him. 

“Hey, no fair!” he whines. “Y/N didn’t say my name while I was down there!” He forces Suguru to move over. “C’mon, Sugu, scoot over. We need to share.” 

Much to his dismay, Suguru shares your cunt and soon, you have two sets of skillful forked tongues and lips on your pussy, making you feel things you’ve never felt before. Claws dig into your skin, fangs nip at your lips, and moans send vibrations throughout your pussy that you shake, quake, and ache.

“Oh, my God, yes!” you wail. “Like that! Keep going!” 

Your hands grip the demons’ hair and horns, causing their cocks to grow harder. The amount of wetness and sounds you’re giving them are fulfilling every ounce of power they need as well as increasing their arousal.

“So vocal,” Satoru chuckles. “I love my girls extra slutty like that.” He pauses to press a kiss to your mound, making you twitch. “Speakin’ of slutty, does my baby need somethin’ else?” 

Yes. God, yes, do you. 

“After we make her cum,” Suguru growls, tongue still licking away. “I want that orgasm first.” 

Together, the two of them work to bring you over the edge, their tongues flicking wildly against you and inside of you. It doesn’t take long for you to reach your peak. Your clit begins swelling and the knot in your core tightens until it threatens to snap. 

Your back arches off of the bed as loud wails leave you. “OhmyGodI’mgonnacum!” you sob, speaking so fast that your words become one jumbled, messy sentence. 

Satoru lifts his gaze to stare at you, his blue eyes glowing. “What’s the magic word, baby?” He teases. 

Suguru looks at you too, his violet eyes drawing you in further until your mind is mush. “Please!” You nearly scream to the heavens. “Please, Daddies, make me cum!” 

That’s all the demons needed to hear. They work their jaws faster, their tongues slashing across your clit and against the underside of it inside you while pressing down on your pelvis. 

When your orgasm hits you, it hits you like a ton of bricks. You don’t make any noise as it washes over you, but when it finally settles into your body, you let out the loudest moan you’ve ever heard yourself make. 

You’ve never felt something so intense before. It spreads throughout your fingers and toes, and courses through your veins and bones. Like you’re coming for Mariah Carey’s career, you sing high notes that are so loud that you’re sure the Devil below can hear it. 

The demons slurp up everything you give them…which is a lot. Your pussy gushes around their tongues and on their soft lips, more and more leaking out because of your grinding hips. 

It is the best orgasm you’ve ever had…so far. When it finally fades and you’re soaring through the clouds, your hips lower and your soul re-enters your body again. Satoru and Suguru finally finish cleaning you up, they look 100% rejuvenated and replenished, licking your essence off of their lips. 

Satoru sighs, stretching his arms over his head. “I feel better already,” he sighs, “but now I’ve got an even bigger problem.” 

Suguru concurs, staring down at the tent forming beneath his towel. Satoru fixes you with a lustful gaze, a playful smirk on his lips. “You wanna see what a real cock looks like, cutie?” He asks. 

Slowly, you nod, panting from the intense orgasm. 

With lust and mirth in their eyes, the demons slowly strip themselves in front of you. Suguru unwraps his towel while Satoru pulls down his briefs, showing off their lickable V-lines and happy trails. 

Then, finally, two big, fat, throbbing, rock-hard cocks pop out from their hiding spots and present themselves to you. Each pink head drips with pre-cum, begging to be licked and sucked, and two big veins cascade from the bases to the tips. 

Though they are equally big, they have their differences too: Satoru is slightly longer than Suguru and has a hook while Suguru is much girthier and has heavier, mouth-watering balls. Either way, both will probably fuck your absolute brains out. 

You don’t realize that you’re staring at them with your mouth open until they crack up at your reaction. “Awww, what a cute look!” Satoru laughs. “She can’t believe her eyes!” 

Suguru hooks two fingers underneath your chin, making you look up at him. “Think you can take both of us, sweetheart?” He asks, his tone sultry and soothing. 

Something takes over you in that moment. A cock-hungry whore jumps into your bones and takes your place. She uses your body to get on her knees between the two demons, one cock in each of your hands. You watch as your hands begin to gently stroke their shafts from the tips down to the bases, up and down, up and down. 

The soft, sexy sounds leaving the demons’ lips encourage you to keep going, their hands lacing in your ear. “Nice and easy, baby,” Satoru huskily whispers. “Get to know ‘em. There’s no rush.” 

You find yourself falling in love with their cocks, especially once you get them in your mouth. You start with Suguru first, peppering his dick in kisses before taking him into your mouth and gently sucking on him like you would a lollipop. A big, thick lollipop. 

“Fuck,” he sighs, his head lolling back at the feeling. Your wet tongue. Your soft lips. The way your cheeks hollow and cushion him as he slides in and out of your tight little mouth. 

After some time, you switch to Satoru and give him the same treatment. The demon watches you through hooded eyes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, as you bop up and down on his cock. “Good girl,” he moans, caressing your scalp. “Such a good girl for me.” You moan in response around his cock, stroking him in time with your sucking. 

You begin to switch between the two every so often, stroking one while blowing the other, massaging one of the pair of heavy balls while you slurp on one of their thick, pink heads, licking up the pre-cum. You’ve never sucked two cocks at once before, but surprisingly, you get the hang of it quickly…and you realize how much you enjoy it. 

Satoru chuckles, wiping spit from your mouth that you’ve accumulated from sucking so much. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you want us to fuck that pretty face of yours. Is that what you want?” 

He grips your chin, tilting your face up to look at him. “Tell us what you want,” he orders, his thumb playing with your bottom lip. 

The words flow out of you so easily: “I want you to fuck my mouth,” you softly say. “Both of you give me your cocks…please.” 

The demons smile down at you, their cocks twitching in your hands. “Well, since you asked so nicely…” Satoru tilts his hips forward and slides his cock into your mouth. 

You nearly gag as he slides into your throat, but keep telling yourself to breathe through your nose as your throat stretches and flexes around Satoru’s cock. Spit drips down your chin as he begins to bump and grind against your mouth, sliding himself in and out. He is very vocal about how good you’re making him feel, full-on yapping as he fucks your face. 

“Oooh, look how deep you’re takin’ me, babe. And you thought you couldn’t do it.” He slides in deeper, his pretty face screwing in pleasure as the walls of your throat flex and clench around him. 

“That’s it, gag on that shit. Such a good fuckin’ girl!” He fucks your mouth like it’s a toy, pulling you on and off of him as much as he wants. 

Once he’s had enough, he passes you off to Suguru who is way more gentle and slow with his facefucking. He allows you to get used to his girth, your jaw stretching as he slides into your throat, filling your entire mouth up with his cock. “You’re so good at this, sweetness,” he coos. “You must’ve done this before…though the way your body is movin’ makes me think it’s been a while.” 

You don’t realize that you’re grinding your pussy against the bed until he points it out. Getting wet off of a blowjob? That’s NEVER happened to you before! 

With a moan, Suguru slips out of your mouth and Satoru yanks you toward him to slide back in. “No one’s been fucking this pretty body right?” He tuts as he fucks your mouth. “What a shame. Nobody could’ve done it better though.” 

Suguru fucks your hand while he watches his partner turn your mouth into a fleshlight. “How long has it been since that trash ex of yours?” He asks. You blink up at him in surprise and he laughs. “Yeah, we know. Soon as we were summoned, we were able to see everything about you and your little life.” 

“And boy, did you dodge a bullet with that asshole,” Satoru laughs. Slipping out, he taps his cock against your lips and then your tongue before jamming himself back inside. 

“Not even eating you out most nights…not that he could do as good of a job.” He gives you a cocky smile as he slides out, allowing Suguru to have you again. 

The long-haired demon taps his cock along your wet tongue, keeping his eyes locked with yours. “You’ve been waitin’ for us to come along and slut you out, haven’t you?” He whispers. “Just the way you need to.” You have. You absolutely have waited for this. “Y-Yes,” you exhale and dive back onto his cock, sucking and slurping as much as you can. 

Suguru is loving it, his clawed hand gripping your hair and his eyes screwed tight. The feeling of your tight, wet mouth combined with how pretty you look with his cock stuffed between your cheeks is too much. “Fuck, keep going,” he groans. “Don’t stop!” His hand clings to your hair desperately, luscious moans and gasps escaping him as you swallow his cock. 

Satoru laughs, watching in interest and lust as you stroke him with your hand. “You’ve got some skills, little human. Sugu isn’t ever this loud unless I’ve got my dick in him.” 

Suguru glares at him, sliding his cock out of your mouth. It bobs slightly, nearly hitting you in the nose. “Shut up,” he growls. “Someone else definitely needs a dick in ‘em too.” 

You do. Your pussy is clenching around air and gushing all over the bed. You need them like you’ve never needed anything before. Satoru cups your face and lovingly strokes your cheek. 

“You ready to take us now, baby? How do you want it, hm?” They’re leaving it up to you? Your mind is so foggy from your arousal that you’ve forgotten your first name! 

But you know one thing for sure: you want them. Right here, right now. “I don’t care,” you find yourself answering. “Just fuck me.” 

The two handsome demons smile like two wolves who have successfully captured their prey. “Yes, ma’am,” they reply in unison. 

They take their time getting you into position. To them, there is no rush, but to you and your pussy, they couldn’t move any slower. They set you on all fours, your back arched and your ass presented to them. 

After deciding who goes first, Satoru gladly positions himself behind you while Suguru kneels in front of your mouth again. Both of their cocks begin sliding against both sets of your puffy, soft lips, emitting soft moans from both of you. 

“That’s it,” Satoru coos as you begin grinding back into him. “Show me how much you want this. Tell me with your body, baby.” He takes his hand and spits into it before applying it to his cock, making it shine in his saliva. 

“Careful, Satoru,” Suguru warns. “Humans are fragile.” 

Satoru rolls his blue eyes as he slides his cock against your clit and sobbing pussy. “I’ve done this before. Chill! Besides, she’s wet enough to take me.” Finally, he lines himself up with your entrance and slowly, sloooowly, slides in. 

You can’t explain what you feel when Satoru slides inside of you for the first time. Your mouth falls agape and your eyes widen as he stretches your walls inch by inch, filling you up with all of him. “Just relax,” he whispers, stroking your backside. “Let me do all the work, baby.” 

Suddenly, your entire body begins to feel…different. 

Your nipples tingle and tighten as if stimulated and your pussy grows so wet that your juices drip down your thighs. You know this has everything to do with whatever powers Satoru possesses as a demon. Whatever he does helps you take his cock deeper until he bottoms out inside of you, his balls tapping your clit. 

Satoru and Suguru begin to fuck your holes with you squeezed between them, their big hands raised above your head to form a triangle. You serve as the bottom half of this Eiffel Tower, swallowing Suguru’s dick as you try to focus on pushing yourself back and fucking yourself on Satoru’s cock too.

“How’s it feel, mama?” he teasingly asks. “Is that dick big enough?” 

His clawed hands snake down your ass to squeeze and massage it, his rough palms swatting at your cheeks. You mumble around Suguru’s thick cock in your throat at the sting just as one clawed hand caresses your scalp.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” he pants. “You look so goddamn pretty with my cock in your throat.” 

He pushes deeper, filling your throat with him. You nearly gag around his length, but manage to accommodate his size and breathe through your nose as he guides your head back and forth along his shaft.

Satoru laughs, pistoning into you so roughly that you see stars. “Y’know, you’re right, Sugu: she does look cute gettin’ stuffed like this…but not stuffed enough.” 

You suddenly feel his spit-coated finger gently swirling around your asshole before gently probing it. “Mmm!” you yelp around Suguru’s cock, but the demon shushes you. “It’s okay, babydoll,” he coos, still feeding you his cock. “Gojo’s just gonna get that ass ready for him.” 

Helplessly, you take Satoru’s finger in your ass, the digit penetrating the tight muscle until he feels that you’re ready. As soon as he pulls out, something else goes in. You yelp as your asshole stretches around the foreign object, making you feel full beyond belief. “Like my tail, baby?” he chuckles. “Your ass looks so fuckin’ good right now.” 

He begins to fuck you harder, gripping your ass so hard that his claws dig into your skin. You wince at the sting, but strangely enough, it adds to the pleasure. Your body has a mind of its own, straying away from your brain as it begins pushing back into Satoru’s cock. ”Bounce on that cock, baby,” he coaxes. “You’re such a good girl for us.” 

You are, you deliriously think. You are a good girl. Taking two big cocks at once is definitely something a good girl does. 

When Suguru takes you, he is just as big and just as thick as Satoru. He grips your hips and pounds your pussy from behind, his moans and grunts so delicious in your ears. 

Speaking of delicious, Satoru can’t enough of your delicious, sweet, dripping little cunt. He’s so pussy-drunk off of it that he volunteers to get underneath you and eat you out while Suguru fucks you from behind. He’s such a glutton, swallowing everything you give him. 

He hums delightfully as he licks and slurps at your puffy lips and needy clit, even licking at Suguru’s sensitive balls and cock while he slides in and out of you. “You taste so good here, baby!” he comments from between your thighs. It comes out more like, “Ywou twaste swo good hewe, babwuy.” 

His skillfully, forked tongue intensifies your already-stimulated nerves, making everything so wet, slippery, and sloppy. 

Suguru fucks you like you’ve never been fucked before, going at just the right pace that makes your pussy sob and whines of pleasure come out of you. “How’s it feel?” He asks, pressing his lips to your ear. “Tell me how that dick fuckin’ feels.” 

His hand comes around to squeeze your throat, causing a choked sob to escape you. “So-S-So good!” You cry out. “You feel so fuckin’ good, Suguru!” 

Happy with this, he speeds up his tempo, emitting chants of “Yes, yes, yes” from you as Satoru licks wildly at your clit, digging his claws into the soft flesh of your asscheeks while his partner dicks you down. 

But neither of them makes you cum…yet. That comes after each of them have had their fill of your pussy when you find yourself squished between them again. 

You straddle Satoru’s lap while Suguru kneels behind you, peppering your back in kisses. “Let’s fuck this bunny until she’s dumb,” Satoru suggests, his tone low and saccharine sweet. 

Suguru only nods and suddenly, you feel two thick, hard cocks sliding into your tight holes. Your eyes water and your mouth widens as you feel your body being stretched open. Your holes feel warm and tingly, the feeling only increasing the more the demons push inside of you. You know that they’re using their powers on you to make this more pleasurable, but it’s intense. “Too much!” you cry. “It’s too much!” 

You drop your head onto Satoru’s chest, whining and panting at the sensations. “Aw but you’re doin’ so well for us, baby,” he coos, bumping his hips up into yours. “Don’t give up now. This is what you wanted, right?” 

As if coercing you into agreeing with him, he rocks his hips up and hits that spongy part inside of you that makes you nearly lose your voice moaning. 

Suguru rocks his hips too, molding your hole into the shape of his cock. You feel too full, like a balloon filled with too much air. You begin to scramble and squirm in Satoru’s lap, but Suguru holds you firm against him, pressing himself against your back. “Don’t fuckin’ run from this,” he growls. “You want it and now you’ve got it. Hold fuckin’ still.” 

His demanding, no-BS tone turns you on more than you can express. Like a puppet being controlled by strings or a slave by her master, your body relaxes and succumbs to the overwhelming, intense pleasure. 

The two demons begin to fuck you harder once they find their rhythm, digging their nails into the flesh of your ass. “So fuckin’ tight!” Gojo grunts, fucking up intoyou like it’s his profession. “So fuckin’ wet. Such a good little slut for us.” 

He latches his lips around a nipple, sucking roughly on the sensitive bud. Geto attaches his lips and tongue to your neck, licking and sucking on your skin until he leaves hickeys. Their hips pump faster, their cocks moving in and out, in and out, stretching your holes until you’re sure that they are molded into the shape of their shafts. 

You grip Gojo’s shoulders as they bounce you against them, making you take everything they give you. “Oh, my God!” you scream. “Oh, my God!” Your voice rips out of you, satiating the demons. 

Gojo turns your face to meet his glittering blue eyes. “No God here, baby; just us,” he chuckles. 

Geto presses his lips to your cheek, nuzzling his nose into your sweet-smelling air. “Keep screamin’ for us. We wanna hear more of that pretty fuckin’ voice.” 

As if to persuade you, he switches up his tempo and moves out while Gojo moves in until the both of them are moving in tandem with each other, filling you up after one pulls out. 

Wet sounds of their cocks in your sobbing pussy begin to fill the air, mingling with your moans, bedsprings, and the sound of skin slapping against skin. The sound of sex. It doesn’t take long for your second orgasm of the night to peak like the moon high in the sky. 

“I-I’m gonna cum!” you pathetically sob, absolutely losing all self-control. “Please let me cum!” 

Gojo’s hand wraps around your neck, firmly squeezing your throat. His eyes glow, turning every strand of control and restraint you have into putty. “Tell us it’s ours then,” he demands. “Say this fuckin’ body, this ass, this pussy, is ours.” 

Geto slows down a bit to give you a chance to answer, his eyes all on you. 

You know what you’ll be doing if you say it. You know you’d be giving yourself over to these two demons from the depths of Hell who could damn well be tricking you…but you’re so desperate to cum that you don’t even care. If you truly become theirs then you just hope and pray that the same hot, mind-blowing sex you’re getting now will be in the plans. 

“I-It’s yours,” you whimper, the words barely escaping you. “My pussy is yours. My ass is yours. I’m yours, Daddies! I wanna be yours!” 

You can practically feel the two demons teem with joy and power as the words leave your lips. Gojo breaks out into a big grin as his cock drives up into you harder and faster, making you bounce up and down on him, your tits jiggling in his face. 

“Now you definitely can’t get rid of us now, baby,” he chuckles. “You’re ours now. And don’t let this go to that pretty little head, but you’re the best I’ve ever had.” 

Suguru presses his lips to your ear, his big hands gripping your body as his cock drives into you. “Cum for us,” he growls. “Give it to us, gorgeous. Cum.” 

His voice is like a button that triggers something inside of you. Immediately, your body clenches and so do your holes around the big cocks inside of you. Your orgasm crashes into you like a tidal wave, sweeping you up in an ocean of intense pleasure. 

With a loud moan, you cum around Satoru’s cock, triggering his own orgasm. “Gonna cum!” He warns, gripping you tight. “Gonna fill you up. Gonna give you all of these fuckin’ babies, baby, I promise.” 

He holds your eyes with his, showing you desperation and the loss of control in them. It’s so, so sexy. “You’re gonna take all of that cum for ya Daddies, aren’t you?” he coos. “Yes, you are.” 

He answers for you and so does his cock. With a loud moan and a swear, he sinks his claws into your ass and fills your pussy to the brim with your cum. Suguru leans down to kiss him, sloppily swirling his tongue with Satoru’s as he, too, cums. You gasp and shudder as you feel Geto’s cum fill your ass and then wetly drip down your inner thighs. 

The two don’t stop there. They continue to fuck into you without abandon, pushing their cum deeper into your holes. “Shit!” Satoru hisses, his face flushed pink. “C-Can’t…stop…cumming!” 

Suguru moans in response, nuzzling his face into your neck, his hair tickling your skin. He and Satoru rut into you like it’s the last time they’ll do so, hugging you between them. “Take it,” Satoru demands. “Take all of it.” 

You do. You have no choice. You weakly moan as your orgasm draws on, growing more and more intense as the seconds pass. You feel that you may faint if this goes on. You begin to feel dizzy and light, like you’re not grounded. You’re somewhere in the sky floating among the clouds. 

“Y/N?” Suguru’s hand is suddenly on your face, gently tapping your cheek. “Talk to me, mama. You okay?” 

Weakly, you nod. You can’t find the words to speak. Even as your orgasm fades, the tingles remain. 

“Lay her down,” Suguru demands. “I wanna mark that pretty face and those tits too.” You weakly moan as the two demons pull out of your wet, sensitive holes and lay you on your back. 

You stare up at the two sexy, horned men and their still-hard cocks as they pump them furiously in your face. “Hold still now, baby,” Satoru says, his tone saccharine sweet. “Just let your Daddies mark you up.” 

Muscles clench, faces screw, and cocks swell as their second orgasms build. You watch with lust-blown eyes as your demons toss their heads back, exposing their necks to you, as their orgasms wash over them. Delicious moans escape them as their cum escapes their cocks. You gasp as you feel warm liquid splash onto your tits, stomach, and face. 

Your eyes shut just in time to avoid getting any in your eye, but you can taste the salty substance on your lips and tongue. It drops down your breasts and chest; out of your cunt and ass, coating your thighs. You are now completely theirs. 

The two demons sigh in exhaustion and satisfaction, their cocks soft and their toned bodies slick with sweat. Satoru wipes the seat from his forehead, a smile on his face. “That…was needed. I feel better already!” 

Suguru’s nods, agreeing, before his attention falls on you. “How do you feel, baby?” he whispers, gently stroking your thigh. “You okay?” 

All you can muster is a soft mewl in response. You sit there, winded, achy, and coated in cum. Satoru snorts, gently wiping a droplet of cum from your lips. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughs. “Now, baby, how do your friends feel about demons? You should probably introduce us soon.” 

Suguru tsks and elbows his partner as he gently scoops you off of the bed. “Shut up and help me run a bath, asshole.” 

The demon holds you to his chest and carries you to the bathroom. He gently kisses your forehead, soft and loving. “You did so well for us tonight, sweetness,” he coos. “So, so good. We hope we made you feel just as good as you made us feel.” 

You want to tell him yes, that you’ve never felt so rejuvenated and alive, but the post-orgasm sleepiness won’t allow you. The shea butter and lavender-scented bubble bath Satoru runs for you only makes it worse. 

The two demons don’t talk as they sit in the bath with you, wiping their cum off of you and letting you soak. There are only soft sighs and light touches that relax you even further as you sink back into Satoru’s chest while Suguru washes you. 

Two incubi in your bathroom. Who would ever believe this? 

The rest of the night is slow, sweet, and involves a hot bubble bath, oil massages, and getting snuggled between two sex demons in your bed. 

Suddenly, with your body aching deliciously and your bed warm from the two men slumbering in it, you start to think that maybe having two incubi haunt you for the rest of your days won’t be such a bad thing after all… 

Just as long as this night is like every other night after. 

THE END.