It's become a rare occurrence for someone to involuntarily visit you. A punishment, you assume. One as harsh and unforgiving as the one that got you here. But on the occasion, you were gifted with a companion, however willing they were. Every so often, you find a lover to mold and nurture and corrupt. The idea alone fuels your desire to stand below the roaring skies. To taste the electricity surging through the clouds and feel the cold, unrelenting force of the rain. In these scarce moments, you feel most alive. Like the magic dancing at your fingertips conducted humanity to your will. Like the fire burning in your veins set the world aflame and led an unsuspecting traveler straight to you.

It is what you have come to yearn for, since nothing else is really as eternal as hope.

Your thin white linens begin to soak through, sticking to your soft frame like a second skin. Goosebumps tighten your flesh, the air in your chest chilling with each gasp. You want to bottle it. This adrenaline coursing through you. To get high off whenever you so pleased. Instead of allowing fate to decide that for you. Isolation has you losing grip on reality. But you don't care anymore. This is what they want, isn’t it?

To watch your sanity slip through your fingers until you were nothing but a shell of brewing sorcery for them to unleash when they needed?

And maybe you would grant that to them. But not today. Not when someone is close enough to sink your teeth into. To tattoo their flesh with your name. To carve pleas onto their tongue.

So you wait. Hands braced on wrinkled bark amongst rows of tall grass that scratch at your ankles and calves. You sink your bare toes into the soaked sand beneath your feet, burying yourself into that spot. A predator searching for its next prey.

Hours pass. Or maybe they are merely seconds. But thunder shakes the earth and lightning cracks towards the ocean. A ship, dark and wooden and enormous, comes barrelling towards you. It’s delicious. The fruits that hope yields. Sweet and juicy– dripping from your being like the raindrops cascading down your face.

And from there, you see just a single man. White shirt weighed down by the torment of the storm, long black hair flinging around his shoulders and neck as he desperately tries to keep his ship from wrenching right down the middle. He’s hopeless to stop it though. His destiny is already placed into the palm of your hands for you to decide.

The ship crashes into your shore with a riotous boom, loud enough to rival the ones wreaking havoc from above. It tears– thin fabric ripping down the seams by the shears of your shore. Easy.

A nauseating joy rocks through you, your head spins with excitement. Hardly containable within your skeleton, your body’s construction on the verge of bursting. He tumbles out from between one of the cracks in the hull, somersaulting in the open air before he smacks the ground with a gruesome crunch. Your nails dig into the wet bark, lying in wait before you seek him out. The prey you’ve been waiting oh so patiently for.

The storm rages on, flying pieces of stray wood blowing off and into the ocean. He’s laying flat on his back, unmoving and red beginning to stain through his shirt. You fight your way towards him, braving the worst of the downpour to reach his still body. The chill of the rain aching your joints. You sweep chunks of hair from his face, gasping at how absolutely beautiful he is. Even with blood staining his hairline, the relaxation of his should be pained features are startingly gorgeous. Your heart leaps in your chest, thumping into your throat at the prospect of him being all yours. A treat not even immortality can rip from your greedy fingertips.

With great effort you manage to drag his unconscious, dead weight into your home. Flickerings of already burning candles guide you into your living room, where you lay him, nearly lifeless, on the fur rug in front of your fireplace. You remove his shirt, tattered and bloody, to inspect his injuries. He has a fairly large gash right down his oblique, deep but not bleeding as much as you expected. Other than that and the wound near his temple, his body is almost perfection. Sculpted in a way that should only be carved from marble, all hard lines and thick muscle. Scars decorate him. Some obviously older than others, the bumpy skin smooth to the touch.

Before getting too distracted by him, you begin to boil some water over your stovetop. There are herbs lining the shelves of your kitchen, many of them used to make medicinal pastes for moments just like these. You pluck a few from their places, resting them on the wooden countertop to start mixing.

The rain accompanies your movements, the thunder moving away from your island only to leave behind the patters of raindrops on your roof. It’s all so ritualistic, seemingly mundane, from the amount of times you have healed a lost soul. Only to be brought back down to earth by the same hands that took the care to heal them.

You grind the herbs down in your worn mortar, the greenery breaking down rather quickly once you add the freshly boiled water. No one knows of the unique properties your plants possess, a treasured secret despite your constant surveillance.

Once everything is in order you kneel beside him, knees digging into the plushness of your rug. There is a damp rag draped over your knee, the other supplies set down around you. You wipe away the blood first, cleaning him with rapt attention since it has been far too long that you’ve had another warm body so close. It’s simple enough to tend to his wounds after— the alcohol you bring over probably stinging his open cut. But you move on swiftly, scooping a thick clump of the paste onto two fingers. Your hands are thrumming with restrained power as you slather the opening with the grainy substance.

His body is still hot. A good sign, you think. Lucky for you he isn’t succumbing to his injuries, so his recovery time should be shorter than most. But with the damage on his head, it’s difficult to discern when exactly he would be waking up.

The process is routine after you stabilize him. He’s left on the ground in front of the fireplace as you begin to burn the dwindling wood settled there. You keep his shirt off, choosing to throw away the shredded material before leaving to find him some dry, clean clothing. You lay them folded beside his sleeping form, reclining against the base of your small sofa to wait. Again.

This one is much less entertaining, and maybe a touch too comfortable. You fight the exhaustion weighing down your eyelids, half-baked attempts at trying to get yourself up and moving were fruitless. Especially once you were curled against the lush fabric, the heat of the fire beating against your now damp clothes. You relax, deciding that you deserve some much needed rest after the work you put in dragging a man far larger than you across the beach. You allow your eyes to flutter shut, only illuminated by the fire gently pulsing across from you.

He’s the first to awaken. A gasp and then a groan stirring you awake from where your head had fallen on your shoulder. You knead out the kink in your neck, yawning and stretching before peeking at him through half-lidded eyes. He’s clutching his side, body squirming with obvious discomfort as his other hand comes up to hold his head. He’s still disoriented from his fall, confusion furrowing his brow when he cautiously absorbs his surroundings. Foreign to him and you feel a bubble of excitement fill your chest.

You crawl towards him slowly, the sound muffled against the rug as you place a soothing hand on his shoulder. He flinches at first, eyes widening at the physical contact as he meets your gaze. Emotions play like scenes across his irises– confusion, fear, defense, and then nothing. A blank expression that should make you nervous, but you know this type. The quiet, defiant kind. The ones who believe masking their intent will eventually get them what they want.

So, you play along. Hand rubbing gentle circles on his shoulder, eyes softening as you stare at him with feigned concern. He raises onto an elbow. You adjust back and bow your head. Demure. He takes the bait, lowly grunting when he rises into a seated position. Breathing labored from the effort.

“Where am I?” He asks, maintaining his distance, tone leaving little room for refusal.

“My home,” you start, meeting his gaze through batting lashes. “I found you on the beach. There was a terrible storm and when I went out to gather my belongings from the garden I heard a horrible sound and rushed to the shore.”

He mulls your words over in his head, rolling his neck on his shoulders until there’s a satisfying pop. He resituates his position, sitting up taller, hand still holding his side to apply pressure to the pain.

“Your ship was nearly destroyed in the crash,” you say, almost apologetically. And you watch his shoulders sag. His only mode of travel deserting him here for who knows how long.

“How’d I get here?”

“Oh, I dragged you here,” you laugh, understanding how ridiculous that sounds to his ears, thoroughly enjoying the crease that appears between his eyebrows. He doesn’t believe you. Nor does he have to really. But he’s here either way, and doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

He doesn’t ask anything else, choosing instead to look at your home from over your head. He’s calculating, you can tell. You keep your home as unassuming as possible, for the likes of men like this. He’s searching for points of danger to which he will find none. Just herbs and cloth and handmade furniture. It’s evident that you live alone, the only clothing visible belonging to a person of your size and hanging off of a clothesline strung in your kitchen near the window. And even though he does not find the threats that he is searching for, he still does not relax. His shoulders remain tense, posture vigilant and prepared for any form of attack, even in his condition.

Not everyone can be the trusting kind, but you’ll crack him eventually.

What you were really hoping for was that he would carefully open up. But conversations with him remained minimal. After the first night, when the storm left behind the wreckage it delivered, he kept to himself. Any attempts at conversation you tried to make were only ever met with few words and thoughtfully guarded eye contact.

Still, you care for him. Every night he allows you to reapply the medicine. You wrap it in clean linen once you're done and he thanks you. That’s the extent of it.

He forages for wood, uses the tools that you offer to chop down trees and sand them down. He spends most of his days fixing his ship. Mending the broken pieces until they no longer look irreparable. It’s amazing what he has done in such little time. And you almost feel sorry for deceiving him. For allowing him to think that he will be leaving your island, let alone alive.

Once you’re here, you will never leave. That’s how you seek revenge.

“You never told me your name,” you say one evening as you serve him dinner on your doorsteps. You discover he would rather eat outside, with the breeze and ocean to keep him company. He accepts the bowl from your hands, mixing his food with the fork and staring off towards the horizon. Where the scorching sun was setting into the waves.

“Suguru,” he admits, stuffing a forkful of food into his mouth. Offering nothing else, but that. You chuckle because he only ever gives you just enough to satiate your curiosity. Choosing to flat out ignore your questions at times.

“Suguru,” you repeat, the name rolling off your tongue tenderly and disappearing into the evening. He hums in acknowledgment, nodding before taking another bite of his dinner. Suguru, you say in your mind, spelling it across your brain and making it stick. It’s a name unlike any you’ve heard before.

“And you?” He asks, glancing up at you. You fight the urge to smile because this is the first time he’s ever made an effort to know you. Even if it’s just as simple as your name. And you give it to him, whisper it into the brilliant sunset, hoping it sounds just as alluring to his ears as his did yours.

“Pretty,” he says, and you stare, mouth slightly ajar, ears prickling with heat. That was unexpected. And a weird swirly feeling began to make its way into your stomach. He catches your expression, chuckling lightly around another mouthful of dinner. This time it’s you who doesn’t say a word. It’s you who turns your head to the horizon and marinates in the aftershocks of his reply.

Pretty.

You bite away a smile.

Too soon, you’re wrapping his torso for one last time with spare cloth. He’s healed rather nicely, his skin sewing itself shut as if the gash was never there. Suguru compliments your herbs every day. His curiosity has been winning these past few days. Questions tumble from his lips without hesitation and it seems as if a bond is forming. He’s teasing when he opens up, taunting in that attractive kind of way when you do something he doesn’t particularly agree with. And all you seem to be doing nowadays is chewing away grins.

“That’s the worst way you could possibly do that,” he says, coming up behind you one late afternoon. You’re cleaning fish for dinner, preparing it to be cooked over the fire. He usually doesn’t wander in this early, the sun still high enough for him to be working on his ship. You toss a glance over your shoulder, fingers twitching with the desire to push his hair from his eyes.

“And how else should I do this?” You motion to the fish, nearly cut open on the chunk of wood you call an island. He likes to bait you, you have come to realize. Finds some twisted enjoyment in countering and fixing every little thing you do.

“Like this,” his voice slithers down your neck, his body closer than it has ever been as he slips the knife from your hands. He cuts a clean line up the underbelly of the fish, removing what’s inside before scraping any excess from the outside. He does all of this while only a few inches from your backside, repeating the process with the second one with swift ease.

There was nothing wrong with the way you were doing it before. Matter of fact, this was the only way you’ve ever prepped a fish for a meal. But he wants to frustrate you, a silly game you know all too well, but are still somehow hopeless against when it comes to him.

“Have you ever watched me prepare our dinner before?” You ask, spinning to face him, hands bracing on the edge of the island. His arm is still leaning against it too, bristling heat sneaking between your bodies and making goosebumps rise on your skin. Your tone is defensive, out of habit for the most part, but also to see his irises flicker with amusement.

“Don’t have to. I already know you’re doing it wrong,” he’s baiting you, and for what it’s worth, you’re letting him. You cross your arms over your chest, huffing out a mildly irritated sigh.

“Is that right?”

“Mhmm,” the vibration of his deep voice sends a shiver down your spine, one you try to suppress as subtly as possible. You refuse to let him win though, so you invade his space this time, laying a hand on his chest, and rising on your toes enough so that your lips barely reach his ear.

“Get out of my kitchen, Suguru” you whisper, voice dripping with sultry intent, and you shove him. Hard enough to where he takes two steps away from you, his face now clearly in your line of sight. Where you are pleased to find a dusting of pink on the tips of his ears and a spark of intrigue in his expression.

He raises his hands in defeat before walking backwards out of your home. The wind catches his hair, ripples the opening of his shirt to expose just enough of him to make you yearn. You stare as he disappears somewhere down the beach. This game is going on for far longer than it ever has with any of the other men that had been stranded on your shore.

Most are eager to accept the advancements of a lonely woman. Oftentimes feel entitled to it after what they had ‘been through’ to get here. But he is wholly different. He’s made no move to take advantage of this situation and that for some reason has you bending and molding to his will. Even when you convince yourself that’s not at all what is happening.

He shows up again right on time for dinner to be served. In his usual spot on the steps of your porch, elbows resting on the top one where he’s lounging in the first relaxed position you’ve seen from him. He looks good, enticing specifically. Not that he didn’t always. There was just something about this version of him. The near trusting kind, that has your heart rate pick up and your brain buzzes with excitement. You lean over to hand him his plate. He thanks you, a smile sent your way as he accepts it. He resituates himself into a better position for eating, leaning forward a bit to scrutinize the food. And just when you think he’s going to say something snarky again, he pats the space beside him with confidence.

“Sit with me,” he instructs, challenge in his gaze.

You bite the inside of your cheek, your own plate balanced in your palm as you eyed him suspiciously. “What makes you think I want to?”

He pats the empty space again, a little more firmly than before. “I don’t think, I know. Just come eat with me.”

You roll your eyes to hide your enthusiasm, but listen anyway, lifting the fabric of your ankle length dress to step down. He’s following the movement, gaze lagging on the reveal of your calf, sliding up with the fabric and dropping down just as quickly when you sit.

“Better?” He asks, looking you over with interest. You don’t answer, instead choosing to tear at the meat of your fish with your fingers, separating it from the bone. It’s cooked well through, tender enough to just pick off. You place it in your mouth, tasting salt and lemon on your tongue. And he’s watching you, a habit you noticed that he adopted recently. A habit you’re not sure if you are too keen on yet.

You throw him a sideways glance, shifting your eyes from his face to the food in his lap. Silently urging him to eat. He breathes out a laugh, finally averting his gaze and mimicking you.

The two of you eat in silence for a while, almost until you’re entirely done with your meal. The sky has erupted in brilliant shades of orange and pink, the sun kissing the ocean before it begins to sink right into it. He cleans off his plate before you, setting it down on the opposite side of him as he settles into that position once again, his eyes drifting closed this time as he allows his food to digest.

You slow your pace, partially because you’re distracted by him. A habit you have managed to pick up these last few days, alarmingly so. He catches your blatant staring, laughs again in the rumbling way he does from his chest. “What?”

Initially, you shrug, eating the last piece of meat from your plate before discarding it beside you just as he did. “Where did you come from?”

The question has been on your mind for some time, you never really take the time to get to know your victims. But he’s not like the others. You like this one.

“What do you mean?” He plays dumb, eyes still closed as his head falls further back between his shoulders.

“You must have a home, a story. Every pirate like you does,” you say, leaning your elbow on your knee to rest your head in your palm as you twist to face him. “So what is it?”

He considers his answer, the thought process present in the way he puckers and thins his lips.

“I was born on a large island north of here, but it’s not my home,” he corrects, a darker tone swimming around his answer. A warning maybe, but now you’re really curious.

“So then where is home for you?”

He points ahead, to the waters that are calm tonight, bluer than they have been in forever. What a typical answer for a man like him. Not surprised in the slightest. You give him a once over, the kind of look you know he feels, even if his eyes are closed. You wait for him to open them, and when he does you ask, “why?”

He smirks at you, running a hand through his hair before sitting up and leaning in your space. His head drops so that his lips hover over your ear, his breath warming your skin and you tense a little with expectation.

“Why not?” And he leaves. He gets up in one fluid motion, plate in hand as he saunters inside. Leaving you to sit, open mouthed and expectant in his wake.

Receiving answers from him is a lot like pulling teeth, something that you have never done, probably never will. But the resistance you’re faced with is tangible. And despite his attempts at redirection, you now spend dinners at his side, witnessing the sunset every evening. And with the disappearance of day, night reveals detail after detail.

You learn he’s from a small fishing town. That he no longer has family there, at least none tied to him by blood. He says he used to have a crew when he first left his island, a few of them who were just as ready to flee as he was. But he doesn’t mention where they have gone or what has happened to them. Just a distant flicker of resonating loss in his eyes as he swiftly changes the subject.

It’s early morning when you wake up and he’s not in his usual spot on the floor beside the fireplace. He sleeps on a makeshift bed there, made up of crisp sheets and a few feather pillows. Oddly empty now, given the sun has just risen and you’re usually up before him. You worry, fleeting thoughts of him having escaped coursing through you as you run out of your home and towards the beach. Your heart is pounding so densely in your chest, you fear you might actually throw it up. His ship is not in its usual spot either, and your thoughts cause a tornado in your mind.

You’re spiraling, your eyes search the remarkably empty terrain. It’s impossible for him to have already fixed his ship and set sail. Doesn’t make any sense. As soon as you begin to feel the last traces of hope dissipate from your body, you hear a chuckle ride the wind to your ears.

“Missed me?” He’s smirking when you whip your head in his direction. He’s standing a few yards away amidst some shrubs. His hands are casually tucked into his pockets and he’s eyeing you with such intense curiosity you feel yourself shrinking. Feeling uncharacteristically small.

You fidget, rolling your shoulders back and tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear. “You really shouldn’t tie your hair so tightly.”

You deflect instead, noticing the bun he messily tied his normally loose hair into. This earns you a smile— an annoyingly cheeky, stupidly endearing one.

He makes his way towards you, tugging on the elastic in his hair until it’s free flowing and cascading over his broad shoulders. He holds it out to you, patient as he arches an amused brow. “And what do you suggest I do?”

You pluck the hair tie from his fingers, rolling it onto your wrist as you think over his question. Primarily because he never ceases to surprise you, he takes every excuse and quip you throw at him and turns it on its head. The two of you are always sparring in this way, an endless battle that will inevitably end. And as of right now, you’re even unsure of who the victor will be.

You motion for him to turn around, back facing you. He looks skeptical at first, but eventually follows your silent instruction. There’s hesitation in your next few movements, your fingers twitching at your sides before you lift them to Suguru’s hair. You brush your fingers through his dark strands, the roots near the base of his neck are a bit damp from sweat.

It’s a little knotted from the bun he wrangled his hair into, but you comb it through, smirking to yourself when he visibly shivers. You end up braiding it loosely, tying it off before stepping away from him.

“That’s better,” you say, knocking his shoulder with your knuckles when you’re done. You expect his usual smirk when he turns to face you, but instead he looks kind of breathless. His cheeks are dusted with an uncharacteristic shade of pink. And when you lock gazes, your heart kick starts in your chest. There’s a tenderness there that you’re not sure what to do with.

“How do I look?” He asks, a hint of his typical playfulness dances just beneath the surface of his question. The wind chooses then to pick up— sand and fabric flowing between your bodies as you just stare at each other. He looks like he always does. And you swore to never admit it out loud but he looks…

“Pretty.”

After your slip up earlier, and the stunned smugness that rolled off of him in waves after your compliment, you’d avoided him for the rest of the day. Choosing to nurture your herbs in the heart of your island than face him and his unrelenting teasing. Normally, this whole back and forth never bothered you. You lived for it. It made the loneliest days purposeful. But you were starting to become conflicted in your own feelings.

Feelings that you shouldn’t even have in the first place. You could lie to yourself easily enough. Tell your mind that you bolted out of your home this morning because you were too prideful to lose a conquest. But it was useless against your heart. The one thing making your life more hell than it already is.

You dig deep, fingers burying themselves in the rich soil and searching for the roots that you have long committed to memory. It’s not weird for you to just close your eyes and feel. Not odd to grab the dirt in fistfuls until something sparked in your fingertips. The connection you have with this land is unlike any you have ever felt in the many years of your immortality. Except now.

Wretched feelings of things other than vengeance and lust are taking root inside of you and it is almost as if you are helpless against it. Because when you closed your eyes you saw him. When you slept you dreamt of him. And every waking moment was spent with him at the forefront of your mind. As if your own sorcery was working against you, to sabotage what you felt was your one true purpose in this existence.

Not even the magic brewing against your palm is enough to push him out of your mind. You could do what you always did. Dispose of him the same way you had done to all the others. But the thought alone had your stomach turning and your heart splintering into sharpened shards within your chest.

You punch the soil in a fit of frustration, crushing a few sprouts along the way. You should feel sorry for hurting the only thing you truly loved. But you could only feel sorry for yourself. And the absolute catastrophic mess you realize you’re now in.

Dinner is going to be late. The sun’s position in the sky notifies you that it is later than you thought, time slipping through your fingers just like everything else seemed to be doing. You wipe your hands down your thighs, smearing dirt across the white linen and rising to your full height. Sweat drips down your cheek and without thinking twice you wipe it away. Realizing too late that the wetness mirrored on the other cheek is not sweat, but tears. Raw, human emotion.

And you couldn’t be more disgusted by yourself.

When you arrive at your cottage, you smell spices wafting through the open door. A delightful scent curling around your limbs and beckoning you forward. You climb the steps tentatively, not wanting to break the illusion because surely you are hallucinating. Suguru is standing at your kitchen island, sleeves rolled up over his elbows as he cut something on the wooden surface. His lip is secure between his teeth and his face of unbroken concentration does something strange to you, your body reacting without permission and sending heat straight to your center. You shake off the feeling, physically snapping yourself out of it and continuing your walk into your own home. One that he looks so comfortable in, a natural figment you can no longer imagine this space without.

“Hungry?” He asks, finally acknowledging your presence standing just outside the threshold. He smiles at you over his shoulder as he scoops whatever he was cutting into a large pot over the gas stove. You missed that entirely. The bubbling contents are loud enough that you should’ve noticed but didn’t. His biceps flex and pull as he stirs what you assume to be a stew. And saliva pools in your mouth– unsure if it's from the magnificent smell filling the house or him, just the sight of him.

Which means you are officially losing it. Whatever shred of sanity you had left.

“I finished earlier than usual today and when I couldn’t find you I figured I could cook dinner for once,” he says when you don’t reply to his initial question. “Least I could do since you’re always taking such good care of me.”

This gets a smile from you, however small it may be. He’s magnetic. And you are beginning to question if he’s the one with the magic here because no mortal should have this amount of power over you. Not when your center of gravity has begun to shift to where you revolve around him. Your whole world is on its own axis and you have never felt more disoriented.

“I’m starving,” you say, taking the one step you needed to be inside. You make your way towards him, leaning over the boiling pot to glimpse what he decided to cook. “Smells amazing.”

You inhale deep, eyelids closing wistfully and you relax. He’s warm, and the steam dewing over your face feels nice enough to fall asleep into. Which is when you clock how cold it is. The temperature dropped suddenly, the turn of season sneaking up on you.

When you open your eyes you flick them up to glance at him, and his stare is already set on you. Something foreign simmers within his gaze and your chest tightens. A tense fear locking your limbs when you recognize that same look is reflected on your own face. Foreign, but familiar enough to have warning bells ringing chaotically against your eardrums.

You clean off your bowl. Twice. He’s cocky about that too, eyeing you amusedly when you got up from your place before the fire to serve yourself seconds. You’re full and content when you’re all done. Sleep calling to you alongside the crackling fire and chirping crickets.

“I think it’s bedtime,” you say, pulling your knees to your chest, resting your chin on one as you blink at him. He’s leaning a shoulder against the fireplace, head lolled to the side and you conclude that he agrees with you, the lazy grin and drooping eyelids giving him away entirely.

“I think so too,” he nods, situating his body into an upright position and readjusting his pillow behind him. You take that as your cue to leave, and as you push yourself to your feet your foot catches on one of his blankets and you lose balance. You wobble sideways, the suddenness of the fall forcing your reaction to delay and you land in a kneel with Suguru’s hands holding your biceps and straddling his thigh. Your hands are steady on his shoulders, his shirt pinched between reactive fingers.

He chuckles, the warm breath hitting your already heated cheeks. You’re close enough that the tips of your noses brush each other and when you shift to remove yourself from him, his thigh tenses between your legs.

“Sorry,” you whisper, words escaping you as you fixate on his lips and the way his tongue darts across his plump bottom one.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, moving a centimeter closer to you. His hair tickles your cheek, his fingers tightening their grip on you as anticipation floods your senses.

“Don’t ever apologize to me,” he repeats, lips pressing to yours, wet and soft and scorching you to your core. Your hands fist the material of his shirt as you plaster yourself against his solid body. The warning bells that were sounding earlier are nothing but a distant vibration. The only thing you could possibly focus on now are his lips and the sinful way they are parting yours.

He wraps strong arms around your waist, molding your soft curves to the firm lines of his torso. It’s as if your body knows exactly what it wants but your brain has stuttered and buffered into a useless mess. Your hands found the braid he still had his hair in, and in a feat to regain some control you focused on unraveling it— your fingers getting lost in each thick strand and tugging.

You throw your leg over his other hip in an effort to stabilize your position, but you only succeed in reclining him. His loose hair now splayed out on the pillow beneath him as the kiss breaks and you're left panting against his lips. There’s a brief moment of hesitancy, where your body just hovers over him while you think this through. The act of indulging your deepest desires is too tempting to refuse. Especially when his hands find your hips and he squeezes them. It’s barely encouragement, but it’s enough to have you relaxing in his lap, feeling his hardening cock just through the thinnest layers of fabric.

He sighs, it’s deep and heavy, and sends sweet heat straight through you. And in a traitorous moment of tenderness, you glide your lips over his own and place a gentle kiss to his cheeks that are already warm to the touch. He tenses beneath you at the action and self doubt immediately floods your system. Until his hand finds the back of your neck, through the tresses of your hair, he wraps sure fingers around the back of your throat and guides you back into a kiss.

This one is desperate and hard. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, effortlessly pulling a wispy moan from you before he swallows it with his tongue. You reach beneath his shirt, eager to feel more of his skin against your palms and there’s a sharp inhale from him at the contact.

“Your hands are cold,” he murmurs across your mouth, a smile tugging the corners of his lips and you laugh breathlessly. Instead of responding, you push your hands further up his abdomen, leaving sloppy kisses across his jaw and down his neck. You stop when your fingertips meet his nipples, toying with them until he groans and bucks his hips in search of friction. You grind down, sighing at the relief before you sit up, hands firmly planted on his chest.

“What do you want?” You ask, stilling above his body, aching with need, but you also need to hear him say it. His hands hover over your thighs now, hesitance and something else reflecting in his dark irises as he stares at you. At the deep rise and fall of your chest, the strap of your dress hangs limply off of your shoulder.

“We don’t have t-,”

“Tell me what you want,” you cut him off, digging your fingertips a little harder into his chest, thighs shaking slightly from holding yourself over his hips.

He smiles, close lipped and lopsided, up at you. And instead of answering he slips his hands beneath the bunched up hem of your dress, slowly sliding them up your bare thighs, sending flurries of goosebumps across your skin.

“I can’t give you much,” he starts, fingers now grasping your bare hips and seating you in his lap again. “But I can give you this,” he rolls his hips, using his grip on you to grind you in the opposite direction. His cock rubbing directly against your clit and causing you to shudder. “And this is what I want. You’re what I want.”

“I better be,” you tease with a touch of too much sincerity lacing your tone. His smile widens and he drags you down once more before pulling the layers of fabric over your head.

“Fuck,” he whispers, hands hot and trailing over your now naked body. He caresses and presses his fingers into every soft curve until he’s folding you over his body again. One of his arms wrap around your waist while the other holds the back of your neck. You tilt your head to kiss him, but instead of his lips meeting yours, they bypass them altogether and suddenly there's a wet warmth around your nipple. His tongue flicks over it before biting down. Your fingers, still tangled beneath his shirt, scratch down his chest, a stuttered gasp falling from your lips and against his hair.

You're desperate to feel him, irritated by the clothing keeping that from you. And as he spends a distracting amount of time dragging his tongue across your breast, sucking and licking them until you're dripping onto his pants, you snake a hand between your bodies to palm at his dick. He groans at the contact, head falling back and eyes closing as you stroke him through them. You tug him up by the open collar of his shirt, a few buttons popping open from the force.

“Take this off,” you say, hand still working his cock as he stares at you with half-lidded eyes and blown out pupils. He reaches a hand behind his neck and tears it over his head in an instant. You rise, leaving just enough space for you to loosen the drawstring at his waist. When the fabric uncinches, he slips them down his thighs and kicks them off with practiced ease.

The layers are gone and you are left gasping in anticipation. You hold his cock in your hand now, gripping firmly before pumping it. He groans and when you look at him he’s watching your hand, face rosy from pleasure, the arms holding him up tensing. You line him up, but instead of placing him at your entrance you slip his length between your folds, the wetness making a sticky sound upon contact. He shudders, one arm giving out as he drops to an elbow while the other comes up to pinch at your nipple.

He lets you toy with him, lets you drag your clit down his shaft until you build yourself up. The first ripples of an orgasm muddle your brain and you slow your motions, refusing to come if it’s not when he’s fully seated inside of you. You swirl his head around your entrance, rocking down and back so that it pops inside.

He’s lying down on his back again, hands gripping your ass and he watches you use him. And when you slam down, a moan tearing from your lungs, his back bows and his fingers bruise your flesh.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, lips wet and parted, swollen from the blood sucked into them. His whole body a blossoming red.

You bounce in his lap, indulging in the smacks of skin against skin. The heat from the fire now feels like it's burning your skin, but you don’t care. Not even in the slightest, especially when a firm slap meets your ass, the sting jolting you forward until you’re bent over his frame again. A hand fists the pillow beneath his head as he angles his thrusts to meet yours halfway. You’re unraveling quite rapidly in his lap and he knows it. He buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking the sensitive skin at your ear.

“Is this all it takes?” The huskiness in his voice rakes down your spine, another resounding slap has your head falling, an involuntary whine pressing into his temple. His thumb finds your clit and your brain scrambles to connect when he even moved his arm from around your waist. He rubs sloppy circles, coaxing a release from you as his hips maintain their deep pace.

“You gonna come for me just like this?” He mouths into your ear and your body tenses, the breath in your lungs tripping over itself as you clutch the sheets in tight fists. You’re falling apart, your restraint fraying at the edges and it’s his fault. Everything is his doing— the feelings, the passion, the humanity.

And it all explodes behind your eyelids, sparks lighting up the black canvas of your sight as your release slams into you. You curl over his body, the intensity frightening you into a pleasure you’ve never felt before. You clench around him, his cock twitching inside of you as his pace quickens and his feet are firmly planted on the ground beneath you. His thrusts are jerky and uncoordinated, the desperation of it all lengthening your orgasm until you’re at the cusp of pain. It’s partial delirium, the way his body overwhelms yours– your mind nothing but fleeting moments of him flashing across it.

His grip is back to clutching your body, his hips stilling and a breathy shout of your name is kissed into your shoulder. Your breathing is erratic, an inhale for every one of his exhales. The heat of his cum inside of you has you shivering despite the still crackling fire and sweat coating your skin. He pets down your sides, a content sigh wisps passed your ear and a satisfied smile graces your face.

You roll off of him, a hiss sucking through his teeth as his cock slips out. He stays on his back, holding out an arm for you to curl into his side. In moments like these you typically strike your prey. They always have such a resounding vulnerability afterwards that it’s difficult not to take advantage. But as you relax your head onto his chest, the steady rise and falls lulling you into a false sense of security, the words that slip from your lips are shocking even to you.

“Stay with me,” you say, intentions clear and when he does not answer, the status of prey falls over your head and you’re left to wonder if you are the one being hunted.

Rain falls in a rage against your rooftop. The fire beside you has been snuffed out and you’re alone as dawn breaks. Something is off. And for the second time you awaken in a flurry of stress. The cottage is darker than usual from the dense clouds shrouding out the sun from reaching your island. Things are slightly askew, your carefully placed belongings, just as carefully shifted.

You rummage through the sheets to look for your clothes, slipping the dress over your head as you rush outside. It is starkly reminiscent of the day that Suguru arrived. Except the adrenaline coursing through you isn’t the thrill you’re accustomed to. It’s a building cacophony of nauseating defeat.

The rain is freezing against your skin, soaking through your linens instantly as the downpour ceases to let up. You blindly head towards the shore, your feet guiding you through the island you know like the palm of your hand.

You trudge through wet sand, your feet sinking with every hurried step until the beach is in sight. Along with Suguru’s ship, sails flying high and flapping dangerously in the wind. He comes stumbling out of a grove nearby, hands clinging a small pouch to his chest as he braves the storm.

You stare disbelievingly as he heads your way, his face tilted towards the ground. And just as he’s a few feet away, his eyes flicker up and he notices you— frozen in the sheets of rain that pummel down. He startles, but not in his body, his eyes the only thing giving it away.

“I’m leaving,” he says, eyes hardened and the conviction in his voice hitting you like a tidal wave.

“You can't,” because he can’t leave. Not now, not ever. You would rather watch the world burn than lose him. Would rather drown in the endless ocean in front of you before you voluntarily let him walk away.

“I have to,” he shakes his head, stepping away from you, carving out pieces of your splintering heart and crushing them beneath his feet.

“You don't.”

It’s then that you recognize what he’s carrying, what he’s holding like treasure against his beating heart. There’s dirt underneath his fingernails, smeared across his soaked sleeves, and an anguished rage claws its way through your body.

“Those are mine,” you say, matching every step he takes backwards with a forward step of your own. “My herbs that you’re stealing from me.”

“I told you,” he says, a hand reaches behind his back, but you can’t concentrate. Not when your heart is no longer in your chest and you’re cursing yourself for being so stupid, so naive. “I told you I couldn’t give you what you wanted. I can’t love you.”

“Why not? You loved me fine just a few hours ago.”

Something burns in your chest, hot and icky. It scratches down your esophagus, your stomach churning with acidity. It’s probably been centuries since you’ve felt this way, centuries of burying emotions and forcing them to evolve into something powerful, something productive. But now it’s all rising to the surface, and you can’t figure out if Suguru’s form is blurred from the downpour or from your vision coating with repressed desolation.

“That wasn’t love and you know it. Love is something I can never give you because my love belongs to someone else,” his words are riddled with finality. The truth slicing wicked lacerations into your soul.

“It wasn’t an accident that I landed here. There were rumors of a sorceress who grew herbs with magical properties on an island south of mine. These are what I came here for.” He finally holds the pouch out in front of him, shakes them in your direction, willing you to understand that you were never what he wanted. Not forever, anyway.

“I wasn’t expecting for you to be… you.”

You’re caught off guard by the softness of his tone, the last word almost inaudible from the waves crashing against the shore. You start closing the distance between you two and he stands ground, watching you through squinting eyes as you fist his shirt in shaking hands.

“I won’t let you leave,” you shove at him, your voice cracking from the strain of holding back emotions that are sending you reeling. “You really think after everything I’d let you go! I’d let you just leave me!”

You start to tug on his clothes, mustering every bit of strength to drag him back into the cottage. Where you’ll relight the fire and pretend like none of this ever happened. You are willing to forget this moment, its insignificance easily lost in threads of time. But he pushes at you, brute force knocking whatever air you had left in your lungs and the hand he had tucked behind his back now brandishes a dagger. One that’s jagged, metal barely glinting in the stray bits of light shining overhead.

“I have to save him!” He’s pointing the tip right at your chest and a stone the size of your heart sinks into your stomach. “You don’t understand and I doubt you ever will. But this is something I have to do.”

There’s no convincing him, especially when he’s willing to kill you for it. The knife, unwavering in his grasp, was evidence enough of that.

“If you go. I will only allow you one thing. To save his life.” You resign to a last resort, blackmailing him with a heartbreak similar to your own hoping he will take the bait. “But once that is done any love he ever held for you will be gone. He will never be yours because you are mine.”

He rolls his shoulders back, stance strong and immovable. “That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to take.”

You choke out a bitter laugh, not able to wrap your head around his idiocy. And it only reminds you of how feeble minded mortality is.

“You’re naive.”

“No,” he takes a step away again and this time you don’t follow. You let him walk off his own plank of hopelessness. “I'm human. Who’s faith in humanity has been tested and tried over and over again. There’s nothing that will restore what I lost, but if I can save the only person who tethers me to this godforsaken world, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“I’ll curse you,” you bite out emptily, defeat weighing you down. Your eyes are burning with unshed tears, your throat closing up. Your own body betrays you as it succumbs to such pathetic feelings.

He drops his arm back to his side, sensing the fight you so strongly held fast to wash away. There’s a fierceness in his gaze, one that’s mixed with gross sympathy. You ball your hands into fists at your sides, determined to wear your mask of indifference until he's gone, a victim of the sea instead of yours.

“Do your worst,” he says, turning then towards his ship that’s anchored to your shores. In what feels like one second yet and eternity, he’s sailing away. The sight of his dripping shirt and thick black strands clumped together in a single braid bring you back to that very first day. The day where it felt like the world landed at your feet. A game you knew so well ready to begin again. Only for the board to be flipped upside down, the pieces captured and discarded.

You fall to your knees. The tears that were impatiently waiting, flowing freely and rapidly. Your fingers curl into the wet sand before a scream tears through your vocal cords. A screech rivaling that of the wild sea and whipping lightning sting your lungs, exposing you for what you truly are.

Jujutsu Kaisen

☠ Suguru Getou x reader - @karikarasuno

My Hero Academia

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Naruto

☠ Kakashi Hatake x reader x Yamato - @whats-her-quirk

Tokyo Revengers

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Other

☠ Sanosuke Sagara x reader - @dabilove27 (Rurouni Kenshin)