#s3thwrit3sstuff

The cops, however, had their own thoughts about you. Your methods were much more brutal than they’d like; you were a harder pill to swallow compared to the Bat and his proteges of brightly coloured circus monkeys. Like you gave a shit. 

You strained your eyes to listen to the garbled chatter in your ears. Rainy, stormy nights were the perfect setting for criminals to do as they did. Lower visibility, coupled with the muffling the rain provided, gave them more cover. That, and some cops found gravity weighing down on them when it came to patrolling their routes when it rained. 

Those lazy bastards. 

Still, the police scanner crackled to life. If only you could make out what they were saying, but alas, the rain was being more of a pain in the ass than usual. You let out an annoyed sigh, half-tempted to chuck the in-ear communicator onto the ground and go back to the usual routine of chasing police lights. But before you could make up your mind, your ears picked up on a pair of footsteps that you’d memorised. 

Heavy steel-toed combat boots. Light despite it — their owner being a man who’d trained to keep his steps cat-like from years of living in Gotham, then being trained under the Batman, and finally being trained under assassins. The man, the myth, the thorn in your side and pain in your ass;

Jason Todd. 

You cursed, rolling your eyes as you face him. He stalks forward. The dingy yellow light of the rooftop you were on barely highlighted the red hues of his helmet. You scoff as he stays silent, still making his way towards you in a casual cadence that annoys you so much that you walk towards the ledge. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he gruffs out. You wished you couldn’t hear him. You wished his voice would be crackling and as indiscernible as the police scanner chatter. “Don’t be such a drama queen, will ya’?”

“Hell do you want, Red?” You spun on your heel, but don’t budge from the edge because if you did, he’d get into his head about how obedient you are or some bullshit like that. It wouldn’t be uncharacteristic of him — the crux of your break-up had been his silent expectations of you in the relationship. Something he didn’t communicate to you, which left him unhappy, and you bitter. 

It wasn’t your fault; Jason couldn’t open his mouth to speak about these things. Therefore, it wasn’t your responsibility to cater to his needy insecurities if he never said anything in the first place. That’s what you’d told your civilian friends anyway, and they fully agreed because they were your friends. Even if they were your own echo chamber, you still knew a part of your argument stayed true. 

If Jason couldn’t communicate, then why would he be shocked that you’d be clueless about his personal feelings? 

“What? I can’t have a chummy talk with you?” he jerks his head at you, his gloved hands crossing his broad chest as you hear him scoff. 

Your brow twitches, and you swear you feel a vein pop out on your temple. 

“Chummy talk? Now, you can talk to me?”

“Oh fuck, here you fuckin’ go again —”

You raise your hands, shaking your head. Your bangs sway along with you, rivulets of water making their way down your nose and face as you jump down from the ledge and stomp towards your gear. 

“You want to have talks? Like, therapy sessions, yeah? That’s what you want?” His jabbering causes irritation to spread through you. The feeling of rain making your hair wet, and the annoying noise in your ear of garbled speeches, is already fraying your senses as is. Jason’s obtuseness wasn’t helping lift your mood in the slightest. You hoped the criminals tonight would put up a good fight, because you desperately needed something to punch. 

“We’re vigilantes. We’re not a normal couple,” Jason said. His helmet was warping his voice slightly. 

“We’re not a couple, Red,” you remind him. He tilts his head, laughing. 

“Something funny?” You ask in a flat tone. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of your annoyance. 

“What? You being serious?” 

“Fuck’s sake, Jason. I haven’t been to your place in weeks, haven’t even returned your calls, much less your messages. Are you that dense?”

“Over a dumb argument?”

“An argument you started!” You yelled, not being able to stop yourself, as you laughed in disbelief. The dark clouds above you rumbled, and the rain lightened up slightly. But Gotham’s weather was as finicky as Jason’s mood at times, so you didn’t find it at all reassuring. 

“You were the one who started talking about how I’m not good enough for you! That I shouldn’t be doing missions because clearly,” you stressed the last word with as much disdain as you could. “I’m too stupid to know how criminal enterprises work, despite my extensive multi-year career.”

“Okay, I know I shouldn’t have said some of the things I said.”

“Most of the things, Jason.”

You can’t see it, but you know he’s rolling his eyes, and the thought of that pisses you off enough to turn your back to him. 

“Can you stop walking away? I was just worried about you, alright! I could’ve worded it better, I digress. I was just angry because you were being reckless.” 

“You gave me a test, a mission, like I’m your sidekick instead of your boyfriend. Do you know how humiliating it is? Then! You graded me and gave me constructive criticism!”

Jason didn’t understand why you found that so offensive. That’s how he’d been trained all his life, and it made him stronger. His reflexes, his quickhandedness in combat, and his quick wits had been earned through grit and tests. He didn’t think you’d be so reckless, and in the heat of the moment, his words came out much harsher than he had intended. 

“I’m a grown-ass man, Jason. I don’t need to be tested by my boyfriend of all people!”

“Oh, so we’re boyfriends again?” Jason follows you as you leap to a different rooftop. If Gotham citizens could hear you both now, they’d be sitting on their fire escapes with a popcorn bucket in hand. 

“No!” You yell, just as thunder rumbles again and the rain pours down harder. 

“Move on already, Jason! God knows I have!”

His head snaps upwards as he watches your figure shrink the further away you stomp, but then he doubles his speed and grasps at your shoulder. You nearly spin from the force of his grip, but you remain steady on your feet as you level your glare at him. 

“Fuck does that mean? You seeing someone?” You hate that your cock twitches at the rough tone he takes. But you push through that mindless lust, shoving him back as you continue your journey to get away from him. 

“I fucked someone! Best night of my fucking life!” 

Jason stood there, stunned. The rain continued to pour, and the sight of your leaping figure got smaller and smaller as the minutes ticked by. Jason felt like the earth beneath him had opened up and swallowed him in those minutes. His heart started to pick up its speed again, and he tugged his helmet off when he felt the air beginning to get thinner and thinner. He hated this. This all-consumming feeling of dread swallowed him whole and turned his limbs as heavy as lead. 

Why did you have this much power over him? No, why had he given you this much power?

He thought he’d learned his lesson a lifetime ago. But here he was again, left in the dark and cold as his mind raced with a million possibilities. He loves you, did you not see that? Were you too angry to see it, or had you truly just given up on him? You promised him once upon a time that you would never do that. 

But Bruce had made the same promise before, then broke it and replaced him. Jason’s head pulsed, and he grit his teeth as he tried to ground himself back to earth. That stupid fucking therapy method again, something about focusing his senses, or was it meditation, fuck! He couldn’t think.

Were you leaving him? 

Did you hate him?

Were you wishing you’d never even met him?

It’s nearly morning when you stumble home. Knuckles satisfyingly bruised and back aching; you craved a warm shower, then your comfortable bed to end this shitty night. 

Your plans would need to be put on pause when you entered your home and immediately picked up on his presence. You hung your head, tiredly swinging your legs over your window ledge and placing your elbows on your knees as you frustratingly ran your fingers through your hair. The puddle of water dripping onto the floor from your drenched frame was the least of your concerns as you glared at Jason from between your fingers. 

He was leaning against your kitchen counter, his hood still on his face as he held his gun in his hands. He had disassembled it, and pieces of it lay on your counter, twinkling at you as though greeting you. 

“Get out of my house, psycho.” 

Jason’s cheek twitches, but he continues to wipe his gun down, pretending he hadn’t heard you at all. 

“You remember how much you slobbered on my Glock?”

You freeze as you register what he’d just so casually asked you. So he takes this chance to continue. 

“Because I do. You were begging for me to shove it in your mouth, sucking it like it was my dick.” He places his rag — it was yours, he’d gone and used your shit because he knew you used the same supplies as him, because he was a good boyfriend, and he made sure you used the best of the best like he did — down on your counter, then he fixes the barrel and recoil spring back. When he lines up the slide and racks his gun, the loud click that it makes sends shivers down your spine. 

“I fucked you so hard that night, you walked funny. You said that was the best night of your life.”

“Jason.”

“Stoker’s a funny family name,” Jason tips his head down, and your fingers curl into fists as you both glare at the other. “No relation to the author, though, shame. Would’ve been cooler if he was.”

“You found out who I fucked?” 

“Wasn’t hard. I know which bar you like to go to, asked around. Told Debby we were going through a rough patch, she said she didn’t like Arthur that much anyway. Fucker doesn’t subscribe to the idea of tipping apparently.”

You cautiously approach him, uncaring of the water you drag in as the ambience of the still-harsh rain muffles the silence between you. Jason keeps you in his sights. He knows you’re gearing to lunge at him, not because he’s a threat. No, Jason wasn’t a scumbag who’d hurt his boyfriend. He wasn’t that kind of piece of shit — he’d much rather die than become one. 

You just want to intimidate him. Chase him out of your home. Out of your life. 

Jason rolls his shoulder and lazily inspects his now-clean gun. Aiming it at your wooden floors. As you draw closer, your eyes take in the organised mess he’d set up. Then, the bloody rag.

“You pistol-whipped him?” Jason turns his head to look at you.

“You’d rather I shoot him?”

You hate how heated he got you. How easily he stokes anger and lust inside of you, how much your heart squeezes when you see those sea-green eyes stare into you. They’re always desperate, not vulnerable, but desperate. Like he wanted you to see him, but he couldn’t find it in himself to show it. So you made it a point to unravel parts of him — made sure he knew you’d always be someone that stayed, someone that wouldn’t leave him because he was broken. 

But fuck, he made you so pissed sometimes. 

“Take off your helmet, Jason.”

He perks up at the tone you take. Not snarky, not clipped. There was an air of resignation in there, but your frown remained on your face, so he remained cautious. He places his helmet on the counter, and you take Jason Todd in.

There he was. His inky black hair stuck to his forehead, streaks of white accompanying it. He had strong brow bones, shadows often enveloping his eyes, if it weren’t for how bright they were. Then, his tall nose bridge that’d been reset so many times, you were surprised it still stayed as pretty as it was. His m-shaped cupid's bow, the scar that ran down his lip and the scar on his cheek; a gnarly J carved so deep it never went away. 

He couldn’t meet your eyes. So you call out for him again. 

There’s that desperation. 

“He was a pussy,” he said flatly. “Why in the fuck would you sleep with him?”

You pull off your domino mask, rubbing at the makeup around your eyes. It smudged messily, sticking to your gloved hands, but you couldn’t give a damn. You were exhausted, and Jason’s whining wasn’t helping. Even if he pulled at your heartstrings, your body was far too tired. 

“Jason,” you sigh out. 

“You think he could’ve fucked you like I could?” He waved his unloaded gun around, a loose grin on his handsome face as he turned his body to face you. Still leaned against your counter, still entirely too casual. 

“You think anyone could satisfy your fucked up fantasies like I could?”

You rub at the back of your neck, giving him a half-hearted glare as you remember what he was referencing. He’d been cleaning his gun, and you watched on lazily. It was the way he did it so efficiently. His pretty hands are taking it apart, then wiping it clean. The way he cleaned the barrel, thrusting the brush in then out once. Then again, unsatisfied with the cleanliness.

You’d been horny. Blurting out how it looked so sensual — he apparently cleaned your gun sexily. He thought you were joking, but you continued. Saying the gun was almost like a cock. 

You ended up kneeling between his legs that night, his gun in your mouth and his fingers in your hair as you teased him. 

He was right. Not everyone would be cool with even the idea of bringing a gun into the bedroom. Certainly not Arthur Stoker. You doubted even the other vigilantes you knew would be open to it — they’d call you insane, or kinky if they were being nice, but they’d most definitely judge you. 

Jason approaches you, and you tip your head to look at him. He places the barrel under your jaw, dragging it down to your chin, then tapping it there. 

“It’s clean,” he mutters dryly. You fight the urge to scoff. 

You were so tired.  But a good fucking never hurt. Or even if it did, it’d be a good kind of hurt. 

Jason sucked in a breath when you pressed your kiss to it. Your smudged makeup and painted lashes made your eyes seem brighter than it was, even under your shitty kitchen lights.

You slip your tongue to the sides, tracing the slide and groaning softly when you open your mouth and let him admire the sight of his gun on your tongue. Jason grabs the back of your head and smashes your lips together. You react like a live wire, wrapping your arms around him, and he wastes no time in carrying you to your bedroom. 

Jason is impatient. You don’t blame him. You’re sure he intends to erase any traces of Arthur from you — he grips you like that’s the case. His eyes were heavy, possessiveness rolling off of him in waves. 

He looked so handsome.

You couldn’t help but kiss him again, and again. He grunted, bringing you on top of him and resting you on his lap as you grinded on him. He reeked of the rain, smog, and gunpowder. But underneath that, there’s his signature cologne. Bergamot and rich vanilla, burning so deliciously together. Then, as you ran your lips down his neck, you grinned at the scent of the body wash you’d gotten him. 

If your clothes didn’t have Kevlar woven through their threads, you were sure Jason would’ve ripped them to shreds. Still, the speed at which he gets you naked could have been record-breaking. You reach for his belt, but he pins you down to the bed instead.

He presses the gun to your cunt and feels a giddy laugh escaping him when your pupils blow out. 

“You’re a piece of work, baby.”

You shudder as he rubs it against your dick. The smoothness of it causes a small moan to escape you, and he grunts. “You’re getting your cunt juices all over it. You’re fucking filthy, you know that?”

“You love it though, right?” You stretch your arms above your head, and your back thanks you for it. Then you slowly melt against your bedding, looking up at him with nothing but complete trust in your eyes.

“You love me, right?”

Jason’s expression softens. He nods, helping you as he moves his weapon in tandem with the lazy rolls of your hips.  

“Yeah,” he admits raspily. “Yeah, I love you.”

You reach for his face, palm covering that scar, and he leans down to kiss you. 

Jason presses the barrel to your cunt, and you widen your legs. He watches your face as he pushes it in, his thumb over the pulse on your neck, so he can feel how you react. You face him, smudging your pillows with your dark makeup, and whisper his name. The more he pushes, the faster your pulse gets. 

When it’s inside of you, you’re panting. If you were in pain, you didn’t show it. 

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he whispers to you. Sweeping your hair back and kissing your lips chastely. 

“Taking it in so good. Such a good slut for me. You’re never gonna leave me, right?” You flutter your eyes open, nodding as you trail your hand over the curve of his ear. 

“Say it.”

“Jason — ah!”

He’s halfway there, and you’re clenching down on it. His lips purse as you struggle to answer. 

“Say it,” he says with a sharper tone. His finger dips to the trigger, and you shiver as you hear him applying more pressure. Although you knew his gun was unloaded, the fact that he was so desperate to hear you say you needed him,  he put his hands on the trigger made your heart race. 

“Please.”

“I’m never going to leave you, Jason,” you assure him in a steady tone. You gulp down a moan, stroking over his cheek as you smile at him. 

“No one else loves me like you do, Jay.”

Jason kisses you again, this time slower, with more heat. When he cries, you try your best not to get wetter, but it's hard when he starts thrusting his gun in and out of you. You mewl, voice pitched as he begins to get rougher. His arms flexed, the veins on the back of his hands and up his arms getting pronounced as he fucks you through your first orgasm. 

“Say it again, baby. Say you need me.”

Jason’s tears were welling in his eyes, and when he blinked, they finally slipped down his chiselled face. You moan out his name sweetly, watching how shimmery his seagreen eyes got the more emotional he was.

“Jay — Jason, baby.”

He makes a noise, soft and inquiring. You kiss his tears, savouring it on your tongue as you squeeze his biceps.

“Please, fuck me already.”

Jason pulls his gun out, and you shudder at the gape it leaves. He places your thighs over his hips, and you’re barely given a moment to think when he presses his head into you. Your back arches off the bed, a silent scream escaping you as he relentlessly presses on. Impatient, possessive, emotional. You smile dopily as you bite down on your stained pillows. 

“Fuck, your boycunt feels so good, baby.”

You groan in agreement, Jason’s jaw goes loose as he slips his eyes shut. He squeezes at your hips, his grip bruising as he tries to get you to take him to his hilt. But he’s so thick, and you’re so tight. You whimper out that there’s lube, so he stretches over you to grab it because he doesn’t want to slip out. 

Jason gives a generous pour, messily swiping his hands up and down your cunt. Giving your twitching dick a rub that makes you squirm. 

He slides back, leaving only his tip inside of you, then pours more. It helps you immensely. You hear him toss the bottle of lube next to his gun. You chew your bottom lip in anticipation. 

Jason’s first thrusts are slow, but deep. Grinding into you, rubbing at your swollen cock as he watches your face. He’s gentlemanly like that. Making sure you feel pleasure first, obsessed with the feeling of your cunt wrapped around him. 

Then, once he feels you tighten up and he sees the telltale signs of your orgasm, he stops. You whine and whimper, but he simply shushes you. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll make you feel good, baby. I promise, I promise.”

He snaps his hips into you. The sound of skin smacking skin echoes through your apartment. You gasp, digging your nails into his back as he folds you in half. He uses gravity to fuck into you, moaning into your ear as he braces one hand on your headboard. The springs in your mattress squeak in alarm, and you’re sure your neighbours were going to fucking despise you with how hard your bed was thudding against the wall.

Your moans weren’t helping either. 

But fuck your neighbours. If they were getting fucked this good, they’d be loud too. Jason sobs suddenly, and you press wet kisses to his cheek, shushing him when he goes back to that slow grind. 

He always gets overwhelmed when it feels good. Something he’d tried desperately to fix until he met you. You reassured him with your fucked out voice that he was good, that you felt good too. He clung to your words like they were gospel. 

“Are you close?” he asks you, his voice raspy. 

“Yeah, but…but I wanna cum with you. Please.”

Jason actually blushes. He wipes away a few stray tears, then focuses on that pace that made you dig your nails into him. You yelp, mouth hanging open as he continues his relentless thrusts. He can feel you clench down, so he reaches to jerk you off. 

Your thighs tremble, ankles locking behind him, and his eyes flutter closed as he feels you milk his cock desperately. His hips stutter, his groans turning harsh as he gives a few sloppy thrusts until he finally cums inside of you. You shudder at the feeling of him filling you up, legs falling onto the bed as you try to catch your breath. 

Shit. 

It filled him with a sense of superiority. He’d earned his place here among the higher born — he’d proven himself worthy. He was different from the filth he came from. He must be. If not, then why would all these scars along his thighs exist? He’d painstakingly ripped into them with every failure, using them as motivation and passing them off as scars from sparring. This arena he was in was tangible proof of his pride. The mud that speckled across his boots would be a bygone era once he managed to complete this final task. 

Becoming a prince’s royal guard. The prince. Beloved by all, his eyes were said to be able to bewitch anyone; his voice a soothing melody that could calm the wildest beast. That prince. Edmund swallowed his anxieties as he peeked at the tall towers of the castle. It was a daunting piece of architecture, painstakingly built with intricate details most could only dream of seeing. He’s heard that there were sculptures in there that were so lifelike, they hadn’t been carved at all. Instead, they ensconced these mighty beasts in a hardening solution, which is why they were always mid-snarl or poised in a pose of attack. 

He’d once heard tales of the banquet table being so long it could stretch down the length of a city’s walkway. Goblets filled to the brim, sloshing with rich and heady wine, while all sorts of meats were served alongside it. Venison, boar, aurochs, fat rabbits, fatter chickens. Edmund’s stomach roared, and he shook his head, hardening his expression as he focused on tightening the leather straps of his armour. 

The others around him seemed vaguely familiar. Perhaps they were from other academies; they didn’t look much older than him. The ones that did kept to themselves in another corner, scoffing derisively at them with the minute shake of their heads. These kids, he imagines them thinking, they don’t have what it takes to protect a royal. 

Edmund stood, rolling his shoulders testily while he held his helmet under his arm. Ensuring he could actually move around as freely as possible. He didn’t have the luxury of having a squire, not yet. One squire, a boy with olive-toned skin and shimmery black eyes, rushes through the flaps of their quarters carrying polished armour in his arms that made so much noise with every hurried step that the boy was cringing into his own neck. Edmund hears the murmurs of the servants who walk past, ladies dressed plainly but obviously cared for. 

“It’s a shame the prince isn’t a fan of women; he’s such a looker,” she spoke like the village girls Edmund had met on his nightly endeavours of sneaking into the pub. Bright-eyed, nearly squealing, as they discussed how handsome the knights from the academy up the mountains were. Edmund found them as amusing as one would find an overly affectionate pub cat. Purring against your legs and flopping over to show off their furry bellies, pawing into the air with their tails curling and sweeping across the floor.

’He likes men?’ Edmund tilted his head at the information, brows raising slightly. He supposed it was a good thing the royal family weren’t discriminating. 

An announcer shouts, informing the participants and the honoured guests that the event will begin soon. Edmund ducks under the flaps and squints at the sunrays that reflected off another knight’s armour. 

“Fucking hell.”

You weren’t in the best of moods this morning. That much was evident in your slouched figure and deep frown drawn on your face. “It’s an era of peace,” your tone remained gentle despite your reluctance to upheave yourself from your plush bed. “It’s entirely unnecessary for such an event. What fun would I have watching Ser’s attempt to impale each other with an elongated club whilst they’re sat on horses.” 

Your servants stifle their chuckles. Barely. But their muffled noises of joy cause a grin to tug on the corner of your lips. They coax you from your bed, ushering you to the bronze soaking tub that sat across from the large arches of your room that overlooked the city below. The wind tried to mend your mood, causing the sheer white curtains to float gracefully and the steam dancing over the surface of the water to swirl as if delighted to greet you. 

“I’m sure it must bring you some joy, Your Highness,” Alice folded your night shirt over her arm, averting her gaze as you stepped into the tub. The water sloshes but doesn’t spill over the rim. Further proof of how devoted your servants already were. You trusted them with your life, why would you need a stranger to stand out in front of your door every night so callously? You were comfortable enough with the Kingsguard. 

“Seeing knights fight for you,” Selene chimes in. “I’d be fanning myself just thinking about it.”

”You two are naughty,” they laugh along with you. 

“Truthfully, I feel as though Ser Gwent is just fine —“

”Ser Gwent fell off his horse last week, Your Highness.” Alice plucked your hand out and placed it on the rim, gently wiping you down. 

“Well, yes, but he’s walking just fine. He still holds his sword with a proud stature,” you said like a child convincing their older siblings that their tattered childhood toy was completely fine. 

“Ser Gwent thought that he saw a boar during the hunting party,” Selene leaned in with her brows sloped in concern, “It was a fat hound dog.” 

“Alright! Point made!” 

It was exhausting to constantly smile. Lifting your cheeks just enough to show a sliver of teeth, but making sure your gums weren’t showing, and ensuring you didn’t look insane or dead-eyed. Being a prince had a tremendous amount of perks, especially as the youngest. But that didn’t mean you could completely escape royal duties or procedures. Like this horrendously tight outfit you were wearing — as beautiful as the fabric was and how gorgeous the detailing was, you’d much prefer to wear something looser. The garden was singing siren songs to you, and you had to restrain yourself from running into her arms with a good book so you could enjoy the breeze and sun. 

Instead, here you were. Seated in the stands, your posture is as perfect as your closed-lip smile that you generously send to the familiar faces of high lords, dukes, duchesses and their respective children. The scent of horse shit and iron made your nose crinkle. Your father clears his throat, so you fix your expression with a scrunch of your nose instead.

”It’s abhorrent how you cast Ser Gwent aside so quickly,” You whisper to him.

”He’s been guarding our family for years,” he replied calmly.

”Exactly,” you give him a pointed expression. “Where is our loyalty?”

“Son. I was a boy when he became a part of the Royal Guard. At this point, he’s been begging to be speared by a sword.”

”Father!” You scold him, disbelieving of his smug expression. “He taught me and my brothers how to hold a sword.”

”Yes, just as he did to me,” he said in a guiding tone that came off as condescending just as it had been humorous.

The jousting began. The knights in their gloriously shining armour parade and trot in front of your stand. Tipping their heads, eyes shining in hope, and you do that practised smile again. Alice had told you they’d hope to curry favour from you, maybe a flower, or perhaps a wreath of flowers. Ser Gwent had never asked for flowers from you; he preferred the desserts you’d sneak up for him instead after dinner. He’d always been fond of the chewy bread doused with syrup. 

The knights came and went. Horses neighed, nickered, and bucked. Wood splintered, armour dented, blood splattering and mixing with the mud. It was all so very boring for you. Your siblings had their own jousting events; you’d been to them countless times before. You never quite got the appeal. The knights were skilled, you’d give them that, but they were entirely too haughty. With their toddling squires that they’d kick away and their rowdy horses whose coats were almost as pristine as your mane. You felt your shoulders aching, so you subtly stretched your back to ease the tension. The squirming catches your father’s eyes. He places his bearded chin in his palm and mutters to you; 

“None of them are interesting to you?”

”They’re well trained, Father,” he cocks a brow. 

“Gods, I thought a few of them were decent. The one with the silver mare, he’s got impressive strength, doesn’t he?”

”Hm, he also thwacked his squire’s head with his helmet when the boy didn’t get to his side in time.”Your father’s face twisted in displeasure. 

Then, a horse rides up to your stand. A few of the ladies nearby gasp, bringing their hands to their lips as they fanned themselves, and you level your gaze down to the knight before you. 

He had his helmet held by his side, revealing his dark curls and honeyed skin. This knight smiled — no, smirked — at you as if he was sizing you up. Your face warped into confusion as his head tipped up at you, revealing more details of his visage. Freckles dusted across the high points of his face, his downturned lashes brushing against his skin with every blink, and his lips full with the corners curled into a feline grin. 

“My Prince!” his voice diminished your intrigue. It was pitched, as though he was struggling to keep his voice from wavering, to call out for you. The accent that paired with your name tells you that he’s from the eastern villages. Flowery and smooth, but ear-grating, paired with such a weak voice. He flourishes into a bow, and you incline your head. Your father chortles into his fist, and the ladies all go back to whispering, this time about his humiliation instead of adoration. The knight falters, but he guides his horse back to its place. 

“My Prince.”

This voice held itself with authority. A steady tone that could easily command a room full of people, it makes you curious about who it belonged to. 

He had no helmet. Not under his arm, nor between his legs. His armour was not polished, the animal-hide straps having veins of white from years of use, but the knight who wore it was a curious one. He had dark skin, his hair was cropped like a soldier's, and his eyes were such a deep shade of brown that under the light they almost appeared a deep burgundy. He had high cheekbones, making his cheeks appear hollow, and his eyes were slanted with monolids that made him appear intimidating. 

He bows his head, no flourish, no extravagance. 

“I humbly ask for your favour; it would be a great honour to win with your blessing.” He had a rough accent, not unrefined, but clipped at certain points. This knight was from the South, and he had the most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen. You imagine your father’s brows reaching his crown as you stand up. 

“You’re so certain that with my blessing, you will win, Ser…”

”Edmund, Your Highness.”

You place your hands on the bannister, and Edmund feels his heart jump to his throat. You were a thing of beauty, just as the rumours had said. Your facial harmony was unlike anything he’d seen before — village girls, whores, haughty high-borns who wanted to feel dirty lying with a lowly knight like him — simply couldn’t compare to you. Were all royals like this? With eyes that held his attention, making him detest every blink simply because he wanted to see more details. 

Your lips part, and you say his name.

”Ser Edmund.” His horse shifts underneath him, sensing him tensing most likely. 

“If I give you my favour, will you win this tourney for me?”

”Yes, Your Highness.”

You scan his face, and he’s suddenly conscious of how he holds himself. He tries not to squirm. 

“Don’t disappoint me.” A servant motions for him to lift his lance, and he does. You give him a wreath of flowers. 

“Ser Edmund.”

”Of course, Your Highness.”

Alice and Selene exchange glances. You didn’t have to look to know that; you could hear their giddy whispers and feel a flare of heat rush to your face. You pressed the back of your hand there, just as Edmund turned his horse to get back into place. 

“Going for the runt of the litter, I see.”

”Father,” you chastised. “You said these knights had gone through several trials, some were even recommended. He’s no runt.”

”He’s a nobody,” Selene smoothly added from your right side. Neither you nor your father blinks, listening to her as she speaks. “He comes from an academy up in the mountains, best of the best over there. He was the last to arrive at the trials, but he managed to impress a few of the facilitators. Ser Gwent said his swordsmanship was exceptional."

“It’s concerning how much you know,” your father murmurs. Selene bows her head humbly. 

The knights get into position. Edmund wore no helmet, but the wreath of flowers at the end of his lance drew more attention than his bare face. You hadn’t been indifferent to the previous knights, but you hadn’t given them any flowers either. The knight from the East narrows his eyes, his horse clawing at the mud as he glares at Edmund. 

He was a prick. Ever since he set foot into the makeshift camp, he’d been a judgmental little bitch. Edmund didn’t speak a lot, but his facial expressions were irritating enough. It didn’t need to be said; it was obvious that he thought he was infinitely better than everyone. A flag swings down between them, and both men charge at each other. 

Tourneys were fast. It was the rush of excitement that made it a thrill to watch. But watching Edmund on his horse made your heart race for an entirely different reason — his face of concentration made you think about those romance novels in the palace library, or those moments when your servants would coo about how dashing men looked whilst working. 

He skillfully avoided his opponent’s lance, as though expecting him to be aiming for his chest with an almost murderous intent, whilst his lance hit him right on his shoulder. It causes his armour to concave, and his lance to shatter, but the force of Edmund’s strength causes him to fly off his horse and face-first into the mud. Edmund reigned his horse back, victoriously holding his lance and releasing a long breath. 

Cheers erupted around them. Some yelled in disbelief while the drunker lords yelped in laughter as the fallen knight slipped on the mud, yelling at the servants attempting to help him up.

In the chaos, Edmund makes his way to you on his horse. He allows his eyes to fill with mirth, and when you look down at him again, he gives you a closed-lip smile. There were scratches on his face, most likely the splintered wood from the broken lance, and your brows sloped in minute concern. 

“Well done, Ser Edmund.”

Edmund’s horse tossed its head back as he tensed once again. 

The tourney had sealed his fate. His ticket to a better life was now as tangible and real as the weight of his new armour on him. Ser Gwent had given him slaps on his back, welcoming him into the royal guards like a proud father, and Edmund resigned to his fate of being treated like a boy. His hair was ruffled, and his older comrades all poured more mead into his cup as they celebrated him into their ranks. They teased him about his time in the academy, wondering if he wandered down to the local pubs and laughing when he smiled. 

It felt amusing that these hardened knights were no different from the boys at his school. 

Now, with his new gear and fancy shoulder cape, Edmund stood by your bedroom door with Ser Gwent. 

And they stood.

And they stood.

And they stood.

Edmund shifts in his spot just as Ser Gwent begins to snore. He couldn’t believe the sight before him. The man had his eyes fully closed, and he was still standing there. Edmund blinks, takes a step forward, then waves his hand in front of Ser Gwent’s face. His bushy moustache trembles as he inhales, but he doesn’t stir. The door behind him opens, and you laugh as Edmund flinches. 

“Your Highness —“ he sputters, bowing quickly and causing his head to pulse in pain. Reprimanding him for last night's endeavours. 

“Your servants aren’t here yet. Shall I fetch them for you?” 

“No, no. I was just curious how you'd react to Ser Gwent. He tried to make a good impression for you; he stayed awake far longer than he usually does.” 

“He…he does this often?” Edmund gets a snore in response. You smile, leaning against the wooden doors casually as you nod your head. 

“He’s old. But he’s too stubborn to admit it.” You step out from your room, dressed in nothing but a luxurious robe, and Edmund’s eyes widen. ”Come with me, Ser Edmund.”

”Your Highness, shouldn’t you get dressed?” You snort at the question. “Everyone’s hungover or still drunk from last night, and I’m not that indecent.” 

You turn, and he nearly trips from the unexpected stop. You tilt your head up at him, your bare feet taking a step back as you open your arms. Your robe brushed along the floors with every step you took, and the slit between that revealed bare skin. His eyes climbed up your calves, to your knees, and when they reached the white sleeping shirt you’re dressed in, he glanced away. 

“Am I?” 

“Your Highness…”

Edmund learns quickly that you were sheltered. Not in a comical way, where you didn’t even know what the birds and the bees were. But rather, you were kept away from it all. Something about purity and modesty, royal expectations and the like. As if Edmund hadn’t seen young lords in the rooms of brothels before. Even if they had merely been Little Lords — as Ser Gwent calls them — it made no sense to him how your virtue in bed correlated to your being. 

This all culminates in your naivete about how desirable you were. Everyone else in the castle had seen you grow up; they doted on you like a nanny or an older sibling. So you pranced around in your robes early in the mornings, sneaking past the snoring knight by your door and making your way to the library. Edmund tried not to let his eyes linger too long on your bare skin — those delectable legs, that untainted neck, the way your collarbones tempted him to look — and for the most part, it was easy. You made conversation with him, rambling about this or that with a chipperness he’d never seen someone have so early in the day. 

What could a prince bemoan about in his world? Edmund would be happy too if he were you. 

But then, in the library or in the garden, when you settled down with your book, it was pure torture. You lean on the chairs, then prop the book up on your legs. The robes wouldn’t hide much then; they slid down your thighs like silk, and Edmund swore you were doing this on purpose. Your night shirt would ride up, the plush of your ass peeking out under the already sheer material. 

Edmund would keep his back to you. Listen to your breathing, the pages turning, the huffs of amusement you’d make as you immersed yourself in the books. Sometimes you’d talk to him, explain how stupid some of the characters were, or how boring the book was. Edmund would reply in turn, but never turn his head. 

“Have you always been sullen?”

”Sullen?”

You close the book, and he hears your clothes rustling as you move. 

“You keep your gaze away from me, and you’re so quiet most of the time,” you sniff in what Edmund assumes is an indignant act. Then, he hears you stand up, and he turns to ensure you remain in the library. He regrets it almost instantly. You’d left your robe over the back of the chair, and Edmund felt like a starved lion, and you were a piece of steak dripping with blood dangled in front of him. He chastised himself by shaking his head, resolutely keeping his head forward. 

“I thought you’d provide more conversation compared to Ser Gwent.”

“...Ser Gwent follows you to the library?”

He hears you place the book back onto the shelf. It must’ve been boring, or perhaps you weren’t in the mood. You make a humming noise, your footsteps keeping him informed of how far away you are. 

“Whenever he’d wake up, he’d accompany me.”

“And you…Would you be in your robe?”

You pop out behind him, silent as a mouse, and Edmund turns his head away again. 

“Does my robe offend you that much?” Your voice lifts at the end as you chuckle. Edmund gulps thickly, the grip on the hilt of his sword tightening as you stand firmly before him. You notice his white knuckled grip and take a step forward to cup your hand over his own.

“Your Highness,” he strains out, gently pulling your hand away from his. “You must know what you’re doing.”

You blink owlishly up at him. 

“What…what am I doing?”

Killing him is what you’re doing. He places his hands on your shoulders, squeezes, and takes a deep breath. 

“You’ll catch a cold walking around barefoot in your night shirt and robe, Your Highness.” 

You’re stiff underneath him. He can feel it. He can see it. He can see almost everything, and he shouldn’t be seeing it. But a part of him is filled with a wicked desire to look and commit the details of a royal’s body to his memory. It befuddles him — nothing about you was godly or supernatural. You had a torso like his, arms, legs, fingers. The whole set. You were both human. 

But Edmund knew that social status separated you so much that you might have been from two different worlds. Two different species, even. 

So, he looks. He sees your nipples under your shirt, how your chest rises and falls with each breath. Your waist, stomach, and hips, and when he notices the trail of pubic hair, he inhales sharply and lets you go as though touching you burned him. 

“We should head back to your quarters, your servants will be there soon —”

“Am I…” 

Your voice causes everything to go quiet around you. For a long moment, Edmund swears he couldn’t breathe as he waited for you to speak. 

Why would his people’s happiness matter to a viscount who lived in his guarded manor? He’d parade around with his wealth, his wife hanging off his arm as they hosted competitions to appease the farmers. Edmund still remembered the indignation he felt as he watched them with their wide smiles and expensive clothes. He could still recall that the viscount’s wife wore gloves, and Edmund couldn’t help but scowl. Were they that dirty to them that she couldn’t even touch them? 

Then, the fact that they decided to host a competition for them. The prize? To serve them and earn more money. The viscount could’ve fed all of them, but instead, he made them compete for it.

Edmund’s mother could only shake her head when the news of the winner’s body being found floating in the river reached their home. Nobody wanted to be the viscount’s winner after that. There were whispers that if it wasn’t the bandits trying to spite the viscount, then it was most likely disgruntled competitors. After all, if the person in first place had died, then the runner-up would be the one to get the right to serve the viscount and his family. 

Edmund hated them. He hated what they pushed him to do. She’d been sick from a flu that spread all over the town, and her exhaustion from labouring all day attending to a Lady’s home took a toll on her body. His poor mother needed medicine, and despite her loyalty to a Lord’s wife, she made next to nothing. 

So he used that hatred he had. This spite that muffled his howling stomach, and kept him from collapsing into despair, the only thing he had after she inevitably passed. He joined the bandits. Because he couldn’t stand there anymore, in that pathetic town, ruled over by that selfish viscount and viscountess. 

Because as fulfilling as anger was, so long as he couldn’t get revenge, he would never be sated. 

Small riots broke out. People were hungry, with the bandits blocking routes to other provinces and beating them if they pleaded. They began turning their attention to the viscount. Surely, he would appease the bandit’s leader. Give him what he was owed. Whatever it may have been. Does he not hear their howling stomachs and their wailing women?

He didn’t. 

He didn’t care. 

So Edmund learned how to use a dagger, then a rusted sword. He learned how to be quiet in the bushes, keeping a keen ear for the whispering of townsfolk who wanted to evade them. He would slam them to the dirt. These people whom he’s known all of his life, and warns them to go back. 

“You know who to blame,” Edmund would growl. His young face stern and merciless as he pressed the broad side of his sword to their throats. 

When the townsfolk turned on the viscount, he decided to run. He left his wife and kids behind, rushing into a wagon filled with grain. Thinking that if he stayed still under the bags, he’d trick them. Edmund would’ve laughed — but he was too angry. This coward of a man had caused so much pain and suffering, and yet, he wasn’t a lumbering figure that rose from fire with fangs or claws.

He was whimpering as Edmund continued to land blows on him. His ribs, then stomach, then the back of his head. Edmund couldn’t stop himself. A part of him wanted to rip the man to shreds until nothing but a gorey stain on the dirt remained. It felt good to do it; the idea sent shivers of excitement through him, this twisted feeling of superiority. 

A knight had tackled him to the ground. The wind got knocked out of him from the weight of him, and Edmund wheezed as dots spotted his vision. He hadn’t remembered much from that fight. He knew he had grabbed a fistful of dirt and smashed it to the knight’s face, making him choke on grass and possibly inhale a few pebbles. That, and how exhausted he was by the end of it. They’d briefly fought by clashing their swords, but resorted to fists, and Edmund fell on his ass after being backhanded. 

He groaned, his vision blurred, and his head ached. Any effort he made to keep himself sitting was thwarted as his arms turned to lead. Edmund lay there, one eye swelling shut and blood dripping down his nose and mouth. His teeth stained red as he spat out blood. When he turned his head, he saw the viscount’s shivering body next to him. 

Anger was all he had left. 

So Edmund, despite his exhaustion and pain, turned over on his stomach and crawled towards him. 

He had to kill this man for what he’d done. 

“Fucking hell, kid.” 

The knight watched, chest heaving as he leaned against a tree. The sun had long gone down now. The townsfolk were most likely ransacking the viscount’s manor if the plumes of smoke and orange glow burning were any indicator. He weighed his options, then he weighed Edmund’s. 

The boy’s knuckles were split open and bruised. But he still gripped them around the viscount’s throat and squeezed. 

The knight decided that killing Edmund wasn’t worth it. But neither did saving the viscount.

He grabbed Edmund by his scruff and brought him along to the next province. Edmund despised him in the beginning. Something he told Edmund wasn’t as quiet an achievement as he thought it was. 

“You hate everyone, kid.”

The longer they travelled together, however, Edmund’s anger became less prominent. It was still there, festering in the back of his mind like a wounded beast, but things became less and less warbled. He didn’t try to stab people as a greeting, and he eventually started to talk to the knight.

“Ser Darren, that’s my name.”

He was a smiley man. Taller than most, broad-shouldered, and with his hair a multitude of browns. Edmund remembered how flushed he’d get when he spent too long at a pub, his pale skin turning red while he hiccuped and slurred about pretty maidens. Darren told Edmund that he had trained somewhere up in the mountains. 

“Real fancy school back then,” Darren grinned. Pride was written all over his face as he reminisced about it. “The cold would burn sometimes; winters were harsh. But those were the best years of my life.”

“And for what?” Edmund didn’t know why he was being snappy. That night had wound down just nicely, there were cooking some hares that Edmund had caught, and Darren had bought some bread from a baker. The fire crackled as the meat cooked, and the winds were cool and the crickets were quiet. 

“To serve some high-born cunts?”

“To not starve in the winters,” Darren replied easily. He was used to Edmund’s curt tone. He smiled despite it. “I was born in a family of 10. I was as dumb as bricks, and no woman would’ve ever married me if she knew better.” 

“My father and I worked in the stables of a Lord, and I’d watch his son train. Learning to use swords, wooden swords at first. I thought of how fun it looked, and decided to play with it at night. Sneaked in and hacked at the straw target.

His uncle saw. He said I had a promise for a stable boy. More than his nephew ever would.”

Darren then got quiet. Edmund leaned forward, grunting a bit as he asked, “Then what happened?”

“When I came back home, my family was dead. That winter had been so harsh that when they fell asleep, they didn’t wake up.” 

Edmund was stunned. Darren had never alluded to such tragedy; he’d mentioned his siblings in conversations once or twice, but Edmund had thought they were alive and breathing. He thought Darren had come from a family that could afford to pay hunters for meat, and that his father had been a knight himself.

“Lord Greymane had taken offence to his brother taking me to the academy instead of his son. My father couldn’t provide for my family; he’d tried, but there were too many mouths to feed.”

“...Aren’t you angry?” Edmund asked tentatively. 

“I am. When I think about it for too long, I get angry. I am a human at the end of the day, kid.” 

“Then why don armour? Why serve them?” he felt that beast step out of the shadows of his mind, and Edmund grit his teeth as the fat from the hare dripped into the flames. “They’d never understand, you know. They think just touching lowborns would infect them.”

“Because I want to be better than you, Edmund.”

Confusion warped his face. Then, indignation caused the ends of his hair to nearly lift. Edmund stood up, his fists trembling as he shouted for Darren to repeat himself.

“I’d earned my place in that academy. Best of the best. Any highborn spawn that came to shove me down? I’d show him where he belonged in the field. I got rid of my accent, and I got rid of my traditions, and I buried them with my family.”

Darren looked up at Edmund, and the shadows that danced across his face made Edmund’s breath hitch. 

“How far do you think your anger can carry you, kid? All that raw talent and determination wasted by becoming a bandit and killing highborns. You could be better, Edmund. Be better than them.”

Edmund wasn’t sure who Darren meant — who they were—  but he could not sleep that night as he mulled over and over again about his words. 

Darren dropped Edmund off at the academy weeks later. He gave Edmund a firm squeeze on his shoulder, then ruffled his hair, and got onto his horse. Apparently, he’d paid the academy a hefty weight of coins for his admittance, even vouching for him when they doubted that he could do well. 

Edmund found himself bruised for weeks by the end of the day. He could fight, but not in the way the teachers wanted him to. Any attempt he made to retaliate, he’d be disqualified. Then there were the written tests, because knights had to know how to read and had to understand how to be courteous. Edmund hated those lessons the most; his writing was chicken scratches on parchment. The teachers would shake their heads at him. A bored look of disappointment washed over their wrinkly faces. They said what they thought without opening their mouths, and Edmund had always found himself staring at the gate of the school. He could run away — they would have no way of finding him, nor would they have cared enough to put in any effort to — but he thought of Ser Darren’s words that night.

“Be better than them.”

His nose wrinkled, as though tasting something sour, and Edmund turned his gaze away. 

“Fine,” Edmund would grumble under his breath, “you smiley bastard.”

So, the last thing Edmund expected from becoming a proper knight and being a part of the Royal Guard was to stare down at a princeling. Who wore nothing else but his night shirt that brushed along the top of his thighs with every bit of movement you made.

“Ser Edmund?” Your voice was soft, but it still managed to pierce through the cotton that stuffed his ears. He gulped thickly, thinking of Ser Darren and his drunken rambles of men with voices as sweet as honey, and how tempting they could be at times. Edmund’s jaw tightened resolutely. 

During the days of the trials leading up to the jousting competition, Edmund wondered what sorts of sins happened behind palace walls. If they could trap mighty beasts in stone and have banquets so lavish that all manner of creatures would be served, he imagined debauchery. Higherborn ladies and beautiful prostitutes; the lustiest boys and girls at your disposal, along with the finest wines and meads and all that. 

Nada. None. Zilch. 

You instead spent your days riding, and if not, you’d be reading. Walking through the Royal Gardens with Alice and Selene, talking either about politics or about the latest gossip Selene had been there to lend an ear to. The handful of times that you had gone out of palace grounds, you’d gone to the shipyard and talked with the men there. 

Apparently, your brother had sent over a gift, and you wanted to be the first to look at it. Your childish excitement is causing Edmund to wonder if you could even hold your ground during a fight. 

You could.

Ser Gwent had summoned you for a lesson in the yard. He watched, amused, as he placed his elbows on the stone walls and peered down at the sight of you. That bright smile and carefree stance as your sheathed sword thudded against your outer thighs. 

“Has he ever drawn his sword outside of the yard before?” Edmund wondered. The knight beside him — older than him, as most of them were, and balder than a cauldron —  laughed heartily. “Now, why would our prince have to? As the youngest, he does not expect marriage, and as the tides are calm, there is no political need. The people adore him, too; you’ve seen how smoothly he can descend all the way down to the shipyards. Not one insult!”

Edmund thought it was stupid. With armoured guards by your side with their swords displayed by their hips, even the dumbest commoner would’ve realised the consequence of rushing up to a prince and hurling insults in his face. But he kept his mouth shut, his attention returning to you just as you block Ser Gwent’s mighty swing. 

It was impressive how much strength you had. He’d always seen you dressed in light colours, flowy sleeves, and gold decorating you in some shape or form. Either threaded through the sleeves of your shirts, looking like dragons weaving over the other in a dance. Or dangling from your ears, decorating your fingers, and once he’d seen you with your crown whilst you accompanied your father in his throne room to listen to the people’s concerns. 

You had no gold on you now. Instead, you were in silver. Held it confidently in your hands while you lunged at Ser Gwent. Your pedigree was clear as day to him in that moment. He was entranced by your fluid movements, by your precision, and how you did it all with sly curl dancing on the corner of your lips. 

“Are you a virgin, Your Highness?” 

The prince sputters. The blood rushed to your chest, face and ears. 

“Forgive me for being so blunt,” he whispers. Then he clears his throat and glances up at the ceiling for a moment. Edmund was someone who was trained by a prestigious school of knights. But. He was also a young man, which meant before he took his knightly oaths, he was someone whom the whores knew very well. After all those bruises and self-inflicted cuts, his rendezvous with the village below and being treated as special by them felt like a well-earned reprieve.

He was not naive despite his honour. Or maybe he never had any honour at all. That seemed more likely.

“But you flaunt around in nothing but a robe before me. Then ask if you’re tempting me. You must know the answer to this.”

You walk past him, reaching for your robe and bringing it over your shoulders. Gone was the prince with a sword and confident smile, or the prince who helped the shipyard boys with carrying shipments, charming men and women alike with your carefree laugh. 

You shrank into yourself, shoulders drawn as your back faced him. 

“I’ve…I’ve spoken out of turn —”

“I am.”

A pin could drop in the moment, and the sound would’ve rung like a bell tower. Edmund sees the curve of your ears warm from the sunlight that’s beginning to flood through the large windows across from you. You resembled a myth in that moment. The sun casts your shadow down on him, but brightens your silhouette. There was a halo of light that shimmered above your head, and when you turned to face him, Edmund felt like he’d found religion. 

“I see,” Edmund’s throat squeezed as he spoke. It does little to weaken it. That authoritative voice, you could so clearly hear it carry commands over the wind and hills. He’d make a fine general, but that would require a war. 

What would a prince like you know about war?

Still, he stokes that fascination in you. You wanted to see him on his horse again, his posture proud and his eyes determined. He looked regal and hungry; there was a craving he planted within your stomach. Your mouth had never watered before. It never had any reason to. Everything you wanted was always handed to you on a gold platter encrusted with jewels as thick as a man’s knuckles. Yet Edmund was a feast you’d never had before, a book you wanted to open and trace your fingers through the ink-stained path. You wanted to see him do more than just stand and watch you — you wanted him to show you that beast again. 

That rippling strength that blew off that high-pitched-voiced knight from his horse with a brutality he held back. Then the sharpness in his eyes as he rides his horse next to you. He thought he hid it well. But you could recognise hunger as easily as breathing; it’s a darkness in their eyes. Sometimes it's envy, other times it’s greed, but Edmund’s hunger was a burning ember, and like fire, you knew all he wanted was to consume everything. 

His honour held him back. You wished it didn’t.

You wanted him to set fire to your skin. You imagine it like watching fire dancing on oil spilt into water, defiant and beautiful. His skin was a russet, reddish-brown, and his eyes were like red ochre. You see the thin lines on his face. The scars from his jousting event didn’t heal over, but they still left these stark white lines. You tentatively reach for his face, and his brow furrows instantly. You curl your fingers away, bringing your arm to your chest as you try to calm your racing heart. 

“They talk about you as if you’re innocent.”

He lifts his chin slightly, nearly flinching as he takes the sight of you again. He’d learned of the word ethereal once. He thought it was just like these haughty highborns to make words that were overcomplicated when they really meant to be pretty. He hated that you once again proved your pedigree to him.  

“Sometimes, I wonder if you’re truly a man. Do you not lust? Don’t you crave for warm bodies next to you? You have more than enough gold for it. When I say this to your servants, they look…aghast. They tell me you’re pure of soul and heart. But here is that pure prince of theirs. His legs are bare as he admits to me that he’s untouched. Admitting to me that he’s leading me into temptation.”

Edmund lets his words linger in the air. He sees you squirm under this gaze. He takes a step forward, stepping closer and closer to you until your chests are a hairbreadth's distance away. 

“Is it just in your blood to ruin?” Edmund mutters this as he reaches to hold your face. Your eyes flutter as you squint slightly up at him. He parts his lips, his brows pinched together as he takes in the details of your bewildered expression. 

“Ruin?” You feel his thumb drag down your cheek, using enough pressure to lightly pull at the fat under your eyes and distorting your proportions. It makes Edmund scoff. So you were human then — or just sometimes. In fleeting moments, you become something entirely untouchable, but when he’s towering over you, you become so painfully human.  

No different from him at all. Just flesh wrapped over bone. Admittedly, beautiful flesh. But flesh nonetheless. 

“...The sun is up. Your servants will wonder where you are. Your sister will be visiting to celebrate her son’s first birthday tonight. Shall we go back to your quarters, Your Highness?”

He pulls his hand away from you. Then straightened his posture and posed his hand back on his sword’s hilt. 

You fight back the urge to protest like a petulant child and nod.

The palace stirred with bustling energy. It has been for days now in preparation for your sister and her family’s arrival, what with the palace chefs ensuring they had all the ingredients they needed, and the servants bustling about with sheets and wiping down every surface they could find. The cellars were opened to pull out the finest wines they held. Invites had been sent out weeks ago, and now the rooms were being prepared for all sorts of highborns. 

Yet, much to Alice and Selene’s concern, you stayed sullenly in your room. They watched you cautiously as they fixed your outfit onto your figure. Usually, you’d be much more excited. You often were when your older siblings came to visit; they had their own responsibilities now, after all, and so whenever they could come, you’d be over the moon. But you had barely spoken a word the whole afternoon. Nothing, not even the latest gossip about the affair the cook was having, was pulling you out of this funk. 

“Are you feeling well, Your Highness?” Alice enquired as she fixed your hair. 

“You’re awfully quiet, Your Highness,” Selene continues.

“I’m alright. Just a mild headache. I’m sure it’ll go away as the festivities continue.”

You give them a reassuring smile, and they coo their concerns at you, fretting over you. Alice turned on her heel, telling you she’ll get the knights to fetch someone from the kitchens to fix you some tea. You shake your head, calling her name and telling her it wasn’t necessary. 

“I’m sure Ser Gwent and Ser Edmund won’t appreciate being disturbed over such menial things. I’ll be alright.”

“Your Highness —”

You narrow your eyes at her sternly, and Alice bows her head. Sometimes, she forgets that you’re not just someone she cares too. Not just a boy whom she accompanies in the garden because she enjoys your presence. You were the prince of the kingdom, and these rare moments when you remind them of it always feel like a harsh wake-up call to reality. 

“Yes, Your Highness.”

The princess has the same smile as you. Edmund notes the way her lips part in that familiar pattern, the traces of the king’s facial structure evident in the shape of her brows and nose. She embraces you tightly, cupping the back of your head like you were something precious and pure. Edmund held his personal feelings back, jaw clenching as he remembered the events of this morning in the library. 

Your guilt-stricken face, the way your lips parted when he held you in his arms, as though waiting for him to do more. Begging for it with your brows scrunched together and your eyes searching for a flicker of weakness within his own. 

He would not throw away what he’d worked so hard for just to taint you. Edmund wasn’t stupid; he could think without the help of his cock. 

So what if his stare lingered on the shape of your ass whilst you rode your horse — something his crotch guard never appreciated. Or those moments when Alice served you sweets during tea time, watching you suckle the sweetness off your fingers after eating fruit makes his cock weep. 

 Then, during dinner time, the way the prince laughs with a sheen of mead and oil on his lips from the meat he’s eaten makes Edmund breathless. When the prince drunkenly licks the stem/stick of the candied apple to chase the gooey, melted sugar? 

Edmund wanted nothing more than to fuck his throat until he choked on it.

But alas, he shouldn’t. As much as the thoughts fuelled a sick desire in him, he risked too much for a fantasy that should only remain in his mind. Even if you peeked into it, and seemed to plead for him to show you more. He would not spoil you. Edmund was meant to protect you — not fuck you. 

The royal family was seated at the top of a stone platform, elevated enough to separate them from the rest of the highborns, so they all would need to lift their heads to look. The king sat in a mighty chair, the high back having an amalgamation of creatures carved into the wood that looked almost as uncomfortable as it did magnificent. But if the king was uncomfortable, he did not even allude to it. The banquet was laid out on every table. Perhaps not on a table as long as the winding roads of the town below, but Edmund imagined just one table could feed a starving village just fine.

You were bathed in candlelight, the chandelier hanging above casting the room in a warm glow. You wore a gentle expression on your face, your posture proper as you held your nephew to your chest. His chubby hands reached for your earrings, and you carefully evade his grip as you adjust your hold on him. You looked beautiful. Dressed in your sister’s colours, a patterned sash of silk draped across your chest and golden earrings twinkling under the light. The baby squealed happily as you leaned down to kiss his nose. In a tender gesture, you nuzzle your nose with his, and he places his hands on your face sweetly. The babe was wrapped in a patterned cloth that had probably been handwoven the moment your sister realised she was pregnant — or perhaps it was a royal heirloom that your family had kept. He imagines it's priceless either way. 

The feast continues. Performances of aerobatic dancers and fire eaters delight everyone in the room except the sleeping baby, who’d been whisked away by his mother’s loyal servants and his wet nurse. You and your sister danced together, your father watching on as he conversed politely with a viscount that Edmund vaguely recognises. 

Your legs moved gracefully as the stringed instrument of the musicians echoed through the hall. Your shoulders moved in tandem with your spry sister, moving as freely as a fish through water. It was the first time he’d seen you smile wide enough to see hints of your gums; unrestrained and elegant all the same.

You looked painfully human and unreachable all the same. 

The dance finishes with a flourishing bow that causes you to spill into bright laughter. You embrace your sister again, and again she cups the back of your head as she holds you.

Then Edmund notices him. The shape that’s been moving among the glitz and glimmer of the crowd, his hair the colour of moonlight and his eyes like sapphire. For a second, Edmund thought he was seeing a ghost. But the man breaches through the crowd, and his mouth forms the syllables of your name. So, you turn to face him. 

This man had pale hair, his beard that framed his jaw, and even his eyelashes continued the colour. It made him look fairy tale-like, an elven prince with his pale blue eyes and unblemished, deep bronze skin. 

“Lord Elowen,” you greet politely. He bows, taking your hand into his own and pressing his lips to your skin. Edmund’s cheek twitches as Lord Elowen keeps his eyes on yours the entire time. 

“You’re as handsome as the stories say, Your Highness.”

Your eyes widen a bit, enough for Edmund to notice from across the room, and you duck your head in thanks. But Lord Elowen does not release your hand from his own. He holds it between his, speaking to you in a hushed tone that makes your face warp into delighted confusion. 

Edmund stalks forward from his post. 

The people part for him, uncaring of his lack of a lineage, as he wore the royal guard armour. That, or the fact that he had a sword on his hip. It made his job easy either way. When you spot his silver cape, you give him a look of minute panic. 

Lord Elowen leans down to your ear, and Edmund watches as your lips part as his jaw moves. 

Whatever he’s speaking to you, whispering to you, it makes you turn to look at him with that expression again. Those pleading eyes, your parted lips, your gaze flickering through his like you’re hoping he finds a reason or an excuse to keep his touch on you. 

“My Prince,” Edmund says stiffly. He makes a show of standing a bit too close to your side, glowering at the strange lord as you finally slip your hands away from him. Lord Elowen smiles, smoothly recovering as he regards Edmund with a once-over. Edmund’s heart jumps to his throat as recognition goes through him. Lord Elowen looked older with that full beard, but his sapphire eyes were unmistakable, especially this close. 

“Such a sweet princeling,” Lord Elowen purrs despite Edmund’s intimidating presence. “How lucky for him to have such a noble knight protecting him.”

Edmund knows what Lord Elowen means. He’s bumped into him in the hallways of brothels when they were younger. Victor Elowen would know how truly noble Edmund really was. 

“Lord Elowen was courting you.” He speaks so suddenly, you nearly jump. The festivities were still ongoing, but you had been swaying on your feet from the wine. So Edmund advised you to go to your quarters, accompanying you through the quiet halls of your wing. Keeping you hidden behind his frame as Lord Elowen watched on.

“He was vulgar. He was not courting me,” you refute.

 “He was. He was courting you to bed, as men do.” The puzzling expression on your face emboldens Edmund. 

He grabs your face again. Still gentle, but there’s a firmness to him now. His figure is imposing as he walks forward. You nearly stumble on your feet as you walk backwards, trying to put a bit of distance, something, anything, to find air again. Your back meets the stonewalls, the grooves and divots providing ample texture for your fingers to dig into as Edmund stares at you. 

Despite how hard you try to hide or turn your face away from him, Edmund presses and presses until he’s nearly on top of you. 

“You do know what men do in bed, don’t you? All those books you read, all the stories Selene tells you about.”

“I’m not an idiot, I know how sex works,” you retort indignantly. 

Oh, you’re too sweet, little prince. Those pinched brows and pouty lips are begging for something you don’t even understand. 

Edmund smirks. It’s sharp, and cocky, and handsome, and your tongue sweeps over your lower lip unconsciously. He drags his thumb to your chin and tilts your head, his eyelids going heavy as yours. You close your eyes, fully trusting him. 

Him. Edmund. The troublesome knight who maims highborns and leaves women heartbroken. The knight who cut into his own skin to keep himself awake as he read books from libraries just so he could keep up with his haughty, richer peers in the academy he hailed from. 

You two could not be more different. 

Don’t you feel the callouses on his hands? These aren’t the ones that should hold you. But he would be lying to himself if the thought didn’t turn him on. 

What would it feel like to fuck a prince? 

The prince?

His lips meet yours, and your breath stutters. Edmund applies pressure at first, lips pouting with yours, then he tilts your head again. This time, he moves his jaw, and you follow along. He steals your breath away with a muffled chuckle.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders. Shivering at the cool surface of his glimmering silver armour. He uses one hand to hold your waist, and you pull away for a second — he chases after you. You can’t breathe. He won’t let you.

His tongue slips between your lips, and you don’t even fight it. You let him taste you. The rich wine flavour on your tongue, the taste of luxury, and heaven. You make these soft noises. These little gasps. As though every squeeze his hand gives you pleases you.

He pulls away just to place his forehead over yours. He feels your lashes flutter against his own, the tip of your nose pressed to his cheek as you purse your lips. Like you still craved for the pressure of his lips on yours, like you wanted to commit it to memory. Edmund moves your head again and tilts your chin up.

You looked so fucked out just from tasting his tongue. Neither of you should be here. It’d cause a scandal if anyone saw you groping each other in the darkness. Especially someone like Selene. So Edmund reluctantly took a step back, giving you the air you so desperately needed mere minutes ago. 

You didn’t want it anymore. You didn’t need it like you needed him. 

Your white curtains sway as you enter. The heavy door makes a thud; there’s a finality in the noise, and Edmund finds himself uncaring of it. He slips a hand under your silk sash and twists it in his grip. You gasp as he pulls you forward, your hands bracing themselves on his breastplate. Edmund kisses you again, hungrier than ever as he shamelessly tugs and pulls at your clothes. 

Your knight’s strength easily opens your top, the buttons clattering onto the floor as his eyes roam over your bare neck. His open mouth places itself on the column of your neck, and you shiver, trying to find purchase of him. All you feel is his armour, the raised insignia of your family’s symbol over his chest pressing into you. You felt a flicker of fear as his teeth brushed over your skin, but your lips lifted into a smile despite it. 

This heat, this passion. It’s something so frighteningly new, yet you refused to let it go. No matter how much it burned. You just wanted to be consumed. 

Edmund brings your hand to his mouth, and you squeak when his tongue traces over your knuckles. You try to tug your hand away from him, but he tightens his grip on your wrist and brings your palm to his nose. He presses kisses there, his eyes dark as he intently drags his lips to your wrist. 

He swears he could still see Victor. Could see his horrifying blue eyes as he openly undressed you. 

Edmund pulls you into him again, swallowing your gasps. 

“S-Ser Edmund,” You whimper softly. He groans as he lays you across one of the many seats in your bedroom. Your bedroom hearth flickered, a log crumbled and sent a flurry of sparks into the air. His hands quickly pull his armour off. It was with practised ease, something he’d done a thousand times now. His honour falls to the ground with dull, empty thuds. 

Your hands roam over his shoulders, shy in their conquest, and Edmund gives you an amused grin. He guides your hands down. To his chest, letting you feel his thin undershirt, and then to his stomach, where you can feel the definition of his muscles. 

“This is a warrior’s body,” he tells you as he places a hand next to your head. You slip your hands under his shirt, and he lets you feel it. Every scar on his body from his sparring sessions, or when the highborns had decided to pin him to the ground at night and kick him over and over, humiliated by his standing victorious over them. That was a beating he took with a smile on his face. 

He was proud of those scars. He feels your touch lingering over the raised skin, but your smile doesn’t spread with pride. He sees the flicker of anger, and when he calls your name, he pauses at how the fire from the hearth reflects in your eyes. It’s gone in a blink, but he feels lust burning within him now. Where did you hide that fierceness within you?

 He pulls his shirt off and reaches to do the same for you. 

“Is my body any different from yours?” You ask him. 

It was. You had unblemished skin. Perfect and pure, soft to the touch. He traces his fingers over your chest, feeling the pebbling of your nipples and finally tracing the scars hugging the underside of your chest. He wouldn’t consider that a blemish. It complemented you, almost like a beauty mark rather than a scar. 

“Of course it is, you’re a prince.” 

His words cause you to squeeze the base of his throat. He narrows his eyes at you, his hands pausing over your chest.

“Am I…your prince?”

Edmund can’t fight the smile that crawls onto his face. 

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Edmund traces his touch to your jaw, and he’s back to kissing you. You feel his strong arms, your path unsure but curious as you feel the contours of his body. The cropped hair that tickles your palms as you feel his nape, and the curve of his spine as he moves his hips. You gasp, and he watches you closely.

“There’s my cock, pressing into yours.”

He smiles loosely as your legs widen. Edmund slots himself right where you guide him to, and he lets you feel his hardening bulge as he puts what he’s learned from brothels to good use. Even over clothes, you can’t help but moan softly at the pressure he applies there. Knowing what he’s grinding against you, hearing him groan softly as he hovers above you — it makes your head dizzy with desire.  

“Are you getting hard, too, my prince?” You pant for a moment. Then, you reach down to the ribbons that laced you into your pants. You pluck at the knots that come loose for you and untie yourself from the constraints. You reach for his hand, then bashfully guide it to slip underneath the clothes. 

He feels your warmth. He releases a shuddering breath when he goes further down, and is met with slick. Your slick. He groans as his fingers trace your sex, the heel of his palm brushing over your twitching cock. You cover your mouth, and your cock pulses again. 

“Does it feel good when I rub you here?” 

He does it again. A slow grind to your dick. A firm pressure, a warm hand, the rough callouses that cause shivers down your spine. 

“Yuh-yes, yes, it feels good.”

Edmund’s fingers slip between your folds and tap at your winking cunt. Your eyes widen, and you try to twitch away from him, but Edmund presses on. 

“Ah!”

“Your Highness,” his voice goes lower than before. The timbre borders on a growl as he slips past his first joint. “You’re tainted now.”

“How filthy of you, to allow a lowly knight to touch you here. To know what your royal cunt feels like.”

“Edmund —”

“What would your future husband think?”

You squeeze your thighs together as he sheathes his finger inside of you. He angles his palm to rub at your cock as he curls his digit inside. You moan weakly, grasping at the throw pillows on your seat as he braces himself on one elbow above you. He’s hypnotised at the sight of it; of a prince virgin who’d never experienced this before. How the pulse on your neck jumps as you toss your head to the side, how wet your lips were as you moan airily. 

Your usually neat hair is now getting tousled as you shudder beneath him. Your hips are jerking as your chest picks up its pace. 

“Oh, you tightened around my finger. Are you hungry for more, my prince?”

He’s not rough as he slips another in. He doubts he could be. You were so wet, your cunt barely gave any resistance.  You gasp again, choking on a moan as two of his fingers begin to thrust in and out of you. Your eyes are getting glossy, and he presses kisses to your cheek as he strokes your jaw sweetly. 

“Do you feel it?”

“I — I feel like I’m going to die,” you admit in a whine. “My heart's ra — mngh! — racing, Edmund.”

He smiles. You can feel his teeth on your blushing cheeks. Your brain is getting hazy. The taste of him on your tongue, the wine, the heat from the hearth, the cool breeze from your windows; you’re feeling everything and nothing all at once. 

Your back arches, and your mouth hangs open as his fingers brush against a spot within you that causes you to clench around him like a vice. 

“Right there?”

“N-no! It’s – ah! — Too much!”

He shushes you, kissing your lips in cute pecks as he speeds up his pace. Your muffled noises of pleasure make his cock ache to be inside of you. He reaches for your clenched hands and threads his fingers through yours, pinning them next to your head as he watches your orgasm wash over you. Your eyes squeeze shut, and when it washes through you, he moans along with you. 

You go limp underneath him. He licks his lips as he notices the sheen of sweat on your neck. He knows he can’t leave marks on your neck — your servants would notice and they would most certainly tell the others — but he leaves kisses there anyway. He lets you feel how good it could be, and faintly wonders if he could have you begging for him to leave marks. The thought makes his eyes darken. 

He pulls your pants down. You watch in a daze, mouth going dry as he places your thighs over his shoulder.

“Ser Edmund?”

How dirty. Calling him with his title with your cunt mere centimetres away from his face. 

“Hm?” He licks a wide stripe over your cunt, and whatever you were going to say breaks into a series of shaky moans. He wraps his lips around your dick, ignoring the way you squeeze his head as he grinds against the soft seating beneath him. 

“T–that’s filthy — please, you mustn’t —”

“You taste delicious,” he murmurs against your thighs. He bites hard enough to have it twitching, then laughs when you pout at him. “Your boycunt is the finest thing I’ve tasted.”

“You’re vulgar,” Edmund’s eyes shine in mirth. Then he descends, and you toss your head back, your ass pressing into the soft seat just as your heels dig into his back. He groans against you, the vibration making you mewl as he sucks your dick. His slick fingers find themselves inside of you again, accompanying his tongue in consuming you.

You squirm, panting out that his tongue feels odd inside of you. He makes no retort, just slips his eyes closed and savours you like your body was a feast made for him. You feel that coil of heat build in you again, and reach for his hand. Edmund felt his heart skip a beat as you shakily thread your fingers together. He rests your hands on your hip, whispering your name as he feels his own orgasm draw close. 

He ruts into the seat, and when he feels you clench around him, he lets out a growl of pleasure when he comes undone in his pants. 

You whine at the hot breaths he pants against your twitching cock, flustered at the sight of his wet lips and wetter chin. He sweeps his tongue over his lips, his pupils expanding at the taste, and you swear your head is going to explode from the blood rushing to your face. 

“Ser Edmund…”

“...Yes, Your Highness?”

“Stay with me until the morning?”

It left you with the task of “babysitting” his partner—the ever-famous and reliable Connor. 

You didn’t mind him. Truly, you had no qualms about working with an android. You’d much rather him than Detective Reed. He was a real piece of work. But, there were times when Connor could be a teensy bit unnerving, which was no fault of his. As far as you know, he’d only been made a few years ago.  

Hank had even invited you and a few other detectives and uniformed officers to watch a basketball game. Connor had told you he nudged him to be social, and you distinctly remembered snickering quietly as you stood next to him, bringing the plastic cup of alcohol to your lips as you told Connor he was performing miracles. 

So it wasn’t like you were unfamiliar with Connor. Neither of you had worked a case together. There was a difference between casually watching a game of basketball and working on an attempted homicide case.

“Yeah,” you slipped your eyes closed and peeled away from the window. “I’m just thinking. Sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?”  Connor tilts his head. Looking all the more puppy-like. 

You hesitated to answer him as you turned to face him. Would an android be able to understand the inner turmoil in your head at the moment? You doubted that they even had brain fog, or that their ability to be happy sometimes partially relied on the weather. The thought of even confessing this to him caused heat to rise to your cheeks and you shrugged it off.  

“Taking my sweet ass time to think,” your muttering earns another head-tilt from the detective. “It is a tough case,” he responds neutrally, “the circumstances have me…bewildered.”

You scoff as your expression turns incredulous. Connor offers a gentle smile, his brown eyes as warm as ever as his knees shift to point your way in his seat. It escapes your mind that this man was capable of inhuman feats— vaulting between the gaps of buildings, tanking bullets to his torso with minimal issues, being a walking forensics lab to name a few— and you loosen your grip on the steering wheel. 

“The evidence left was nearly nonexistent thanks to the rain. The victim’s in a coma, and the perp was careful. It was a methodically planned out crime. I’m frustrated.” 

“You don’t show it,” your tone is lighthearted and Connor breathes out a laugh. “Sorry, is that offensive?” you grimace, shoulders lifting. 

”Because I’m an android?” Connor laughs again. He leans into the seat, posture still impeccable somehow, and shakes his head. “I’m not offended. It is something I have to work on. Hank says my dry humour isn’t always appreciated. He suggests I have a sunnier disposition.”

”What? Like his?” 

Connor coughs into his fist— you belatedly realise he had snickered and feel the brain fog slowly begin to fade away as you turn your car's ignition. The smooth rumbling and the radio announcer's voice blend seamlessly with Connor and your laughter. 

“You don’t have to apologise for being thorough, detective. It’s an admirable trait to have.” His reassurance should not have your heart picking up speed, but it does and you focus on the road before you instead. Your brain reminds you of every little road law that you had not thought about for years as the other vehicles on the road— including yours— fall into a monotonous routine. 

“So you admire me? I’m honoured,” you jest. Connor knows you’re joking. But his gaze lingers on you, the darkening bags under your eyes, the grip on your steering wheel, and the way your heart rates slightly elevated despite simply driving. Connor is perceptive, he was made to be. He noticed just how— for lack of a better word— funny your body acted when you were alone with him. At first, he assumed the rush of blood to your face and your slightly clammy palms indicated anxiety. All signs pointed that way. 

But you carried on conversations with him as smoothly as ever. He wondered if you had a knack for acting, most people do in their own ways, but you weren’t someone that was distrustful. He could hardly imagine you being deceitful. You were like he had said; admirable. Maybe a little clumsy at times, hard-headed too when you find a lead but Hank says that’s normal for younger detectives. 

‘The need to prove themselves, make a name in the precinct.’

Hank had told him. The human desire to leave a mark on the world, to be remembered. Connor could flood his entire brain with historical figures with a blink. Some more infamous than famous, some with their names used as a stand-in for another word even. So he knows that’s a fact.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts as you stop at a red-light. The pitter-patter of rain makes you squint at the warbling sight past the windshield. You pinch your brows tight, and Connor says something funny. 

“I’m starving.” 

“…What?”

He points to a diner. The red and yellow colour scheme stands out brightly in the gloomy hues of the weather and Detroit smog. The place was less than desirable, and as Connor read through the reviews and health department ratings he found himself tightening his smile. Still, he urged you to park in the parking lot next to it because he was ‘starving.’

You didn’t want to offend him by asking what exactly he meant. Maybe he’d gotten a stomach upgrade or something to be able to fit in a bit better. Eating together was an important aspect in socializing after all. So you kept your questions to yourself, simply parking all the way in the back and unbuckling your seat belt. Only to stop when Connor places a hand on your shoulder. You stiffen, turning to face him with your eyes widened and your brows raised in question.

”How long have you been awake, detective?” 

You sputter, your words barely tangible as your mouth gapes. Connor’s head-tilt this time seemed more like a honed police dog than a puppy, and you pressed your lips together. 

“I don’t know. I don’t exactly count that down, ya’ know?” You motion your eyes between him and his hand. Connor reluctantly slips it away and folds them politely on his lap. You try to ignore the lingering feeling of his body warmth on you. Your brain was playing tricks on you, mocking you again for not having a supercomputer instead of a mass of flesh and short-circuiting neurons. 

“I estimate 16-hours.” 

‘Way to rub it in,’ you thought bitterly. More so to yourself than Connor. But he catches the twinge of displeasure in your eyes. 

“Maybe we should end our day early. Both of us are tired.”

”Jesus, Connor. First, you’re starving and now you’re tired? Are you trying to take pity on me, or something?”

The anger in your voice is beginning to make itself known. Your lips curl as you hastily unbuckle yourself and practically swing your door open. Cold air rushes in, and so does rain, but you stubbornly soldier through. 

“I’m a grown-ass man. I can take care of myself.”

The car shakes when you close your door and Connor’s reminded of Hank. Logically, there was no way every single detective he’d known could be such…hardasses, but yet here he was with his own sample size. The thought of you sharing similarities to Hank causes him to scrunch his nose, as if tasting something sour, and he sighs softly. Connor rushes towards your grumpy figure, entering into the restaurant just a few steps behind you. 

The servers glance Connor’s way, wary but trying their best not to show it. As long as they didn’t commit any crimes in front of him, Connor would stay out of their way. Besides that, he had more pressing things to attend to. You, in particular. You find a quiet corner to sit at and Connor sits across from you, watching as you rub your hands together. 

He wanted to ask if you were cold. But he shouldn’t push his luck. Maybe he should’ve been more tactful leading you here, but he wasn’t unhappy that you weren’t behind the wheel anymore. For a while, the ambience of the restaurant muffles the awkward silence. You reach for some of the tissues and wipe off as much water as you can from your jacket, and face. 

Then, you push the box to Connor. He nods, then methodically wipes off as much water as he can. The peace offering was taken, so the silence was less thick this time. 

“What can we get for you, man?” You give a tight smile to the waiter, telling him you’d like a warm cup of coffee. He tells you the coffee here is shit. Connor knows he isn’t lying— the reviews didn’t exactly hold back on them regarding that. 

“Shitty coffee is exactly what I need,” sarcasm drips from your words. You add on a sandwich with a side of fries and the waiter goes off to fulfill your order. Another bout of silence. 

“Is the case keeping you awake?” Connor takes in the micro-expressions on your face. The twitch in your cheek, the tension between your brows, and when you brush your tongue over your lips his eyelids flutter. 

“It’s frustrating. I know. But you’re one of the youngest detectives in our precinct for a reason, your record’s impeccable.” You know he’s telling the truth, and using it as a way to comfort you. It was sweet, and you resist the urge to grin his way and say ‘thanks’ like some bright-eyed idiot. 

“It’s not just that, Connor,” you knead at the nape of your neck. Barely straightening up when your shitty coffee arrives in a white mug. The smell and warmth loosens your shoulders, and even when you grimace as you take a gulp the comforting heat that travels through you further eases the tension from you. 

You dismiss his reassurance. He takes note of it, but doesn’t push. Connor slides the sugar your way and you squint your eyes up at him as your cheeks barely lift to give him a pursed-lip smile. You were exhausted. It’s like the walk from the car to the diner sapped everything out of you. 

“The victim’s mom…God, she was…”

Connor knows. He saw her rush to you with tears streaming down her face as she begged for answers that you didn’t have. Her daughter was in a coma from an attack, her stitches fresh and bruises discolouring her skin— it would cause any parent distress. 

“It’s been days of nothing. No trails, no motive, we have a shitty CCTV clip of him running out the door but then what? We owe it to her to find answers for her daughter.”

”I know, and we will bring him to justice. But, detective,” Connor’s voice turns severe as he searches for your gaze. “It does no one no good if you’re sleep deprived. I need my partner to solve this case, so I need you to be 100%”

You scoff, ignoring the clink of the plate of food being put down your table as your sandwich arrives. It’s suspiciously room temperature while the plate is warm, and the fries are a little limp but you just stare down at your coffee. 

“You don’t exactly need me. I can barely think.”

”Yes, that tends to happen when someone experiences sleep deprivation.” 

You curl your nose at him, and he just gestures to your plate of food. You take a few bites and with each of them your face twists into further confusion. Eventually, you settle on eating your fries, something Connor thought was the safest option. He tries not to stare at you too much, occasionally looking out the window and noticing the Raindrop Race as most people do during a storm. 

There that puppy is again. Your eyes soften, and you grumble with your mouth still full of food. ”Sorry for being a dick.” 

Connor just chuckles. 

“Sorry, but Detective Anderson’s got you beat there. I didn’t even notice you were being a dick.”

Connor can’t drive. Something they were still pending on regarding androids driving personal vehicles. It was dumb, if androids were allowed to commandeer buses and aeroplanes then why couldn’t they drive their own cars? 

He’s not happy with you buckling into the driver’s seat. But the shitty coffee wasn’t worth a refill and you were in no mood to order anything else. 

“You should rest before you get behind the wheel, detective.”

You look over your shoulder and sigh. “There’s a motel, but I’m not shelling out 40 bucks for a 3-hour nap. I’ll be—“ you yawn, and you try to speak through the yawn “—fineee. I just had a coffee anyway. It’ll kick in.”

When you reach for the gear, he places a hand over yours. You’re always a bit surprised at how skin-like his touch was. You’d seen him exchange information with other androids before, how the flesh just smooths away to reveal that pure-white shell. You didn’t hate it though. He felt nicer than the cup of coffee. The weight of him, the feeling of the lines on his palms. Artificial or not— it was still Connor.

He narrows his eyes. His head tilts. Connor leans in, and you don’t lean away. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, detective. Do I make you nervous?”

”E-excuse me?” Your grip loosens, but Connor keeps your hand pinned beneath his. It was effortless; naturally, what with him being made of some sort of metal. 

“Your heart rate rises, you get clammy palms, but your pupils they,” he trails off as he catches your gaze with his own. Curiosity was so clearly written across Connor’s face, you felt like he was attempting to read you— as though you were some case file that he wanted to pour hours of attentiveness into. A steel-trap resolve to understand you more, to know your motives and intentions and grasp you in his arms. 

If you were a criminal, maybe you’d feel much more frightened. 

You tried to mask your expression, twisting your mouth into a frown.

”My pupils…what?”

”They…expand.” Connor tilts his head, then his mouth parts like he came to a stunningly miraculous conclusion. 

“Detective, do you perhaps have an infatuation towards me?” 

The radio plays a jaunty tune from decades ago, and the rain doesn’t lighten up the slightest. You don’t say anything. Stunned at your own stupidity for thinking Connor out of all people wouldn’t have noticed— the guy read your heart rate for fucks sake!

You try to slip your hand away from him, but he carefully cinches his fingers around your wrist. 

“Connor,” you warn. Your voice coloured with embarrassment. 

“Please, I’d like to know,” he sounded sincere. You wondered if he was morbidly curious about it. It wasn’t that humans falling in love with androids were anything new, there were plenty of cases. 

“I…shit, maybe I do have an infatuation with you, okay? It’s not like there’s a lot of options at our precinct,” you grumble as you finally slip your hand away from him. You place your hands on the steering wheel, but make no move to actually drive. 

Connor’s lower lip almost juts out as he processes what you said. Then the corners of his mouth curl up, and he faces his knees your way again. 

“You had a process of elimination to determine who’d be your precinct eye candy, detective?”

Your ears nearly turned red at the teasing tone he takes. You narrow your eyes at him, cursing for him to shut up as you reach for the gear again. But again, Connor’s hand grasps yours. 

“Are you trying to fuck with me or something, Connor?” 

“…I could if it’d help you rest.”

”What?”

Connor offers that gentle smile again, then glances down at your hand in his. He smooths the pad of his thumb over your jutting knuckles, and he feels the rush of blood on the protruding vein. 

“Orgasms are known to help with sleep.”

Your jaw drops. 

“My model doesn’t have functioning genitalia, but I can still provide—“  He flutters his lashes when you slap a hand over his mouth. Your brows are furrowed as you try to find the words. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is the offer offensive to you, detective?” Connor’s voice is muffled from behind your hand but he continues.”I just assumed that it would…my apologies.”

”I didn’t even know you could talk about those sorts of things…” You said in a breathless voice, stuck between feeling appalled and amused at the absurdity of it all. He tilts his head and you unmask his mouth, retreating into your seat again as you try to process his words. 

“I am…” he searches for the word, and you watch as he thinks. “Fond of you, detective.” Fond wasn’t a common word in these modern scenarios, and you’re unsure what he means exactly by it but you allow him to continue. 

“And I would rather you be well-rested than not. I can help…if you’d like me to.” You try to find any trace of bullshit on his face. You find none.

”Christ, you do this for every partner you have?”  Connor’s face twists into genuine disgust at your lacklustre joke. “Please don’t even imply that with my relationship with Detective Anderson.” 

You grimace, and apologize as you knead at the back of your neck once again. 

“Do you even know how to—“ Connor smirks at you when you ask. You shut your mouth and scoff. Of course, even if he didn’t know now…he could learn how with a few blinks.

”Show off.”

”We all have our flaws.”

”Shit, am I really going to spend 40 bucks for a nap and a lay?” You reach again for the gear and Connor’s had it. He reaches for your chin, pinching it between his thumb and pointer finger and he forces you to look at him. 

“Visibility’s low with the rain, detective. This diner isn’t well-liked. Your window tint provides enough cover as is. You can rest in the backseat.”

“Holy shit,” you utter. A lazy roll of heat crawls down your spine at his assertiveness. You’d never seen it aimed your way before— maybe a few times towards Hank, and a few interrogations as well. But never at you. You gulped thickly, then nodded. 

“Okay.”

You’re both sitting side-by-side in the backseat. The rush of cold that flooded in from opening the car doors causes you to shiver, so Connor slides his hands into yours. He raise his body temperature and you sigh in relief. You turn when he gets closer and when your nose brushes against his own he pauses. 

You’re wide-eyed. So unlike the detective he’s known. It’s adorable. Connor reaches and cups your cheek in his warm palm. Your breath stutters when he ghosts his fingers over the curve of your cold ears. 

“May I kiss you, detective? Studies show that foreplay can lead to a more pleasurable—“ You press your lips together. His eyes widen a bit, but he then adjusts to accommodate. 

It’s unfair how good he is at kissing if this was his first kiss. You frown, and pull away as the thought crosses your mind. 

“Is this your first kiss?”

”Yes.” 

Connor pulls you in again and you gasp. He doesn’t slip his eyes closed. He didn’t want to— though he knows it's what was expected. Connor was curious, and he wanted to make sure you were enjoying yourself. His attentive, thorough, partner deserved the same dedication in the bedroom. Connor could keep watch while he read through the case files, it wouldn’t be any less productive. 

You made a sweet noise when he experimentally bit down on your lower lip. He slips his hands into your jacket and slips it off your shoulders. His warm touch causes goose flesh to ripple under your clothes. Your flesh is so soft— he’s always marvelling at how soft humans are. So plush, and so fragile. 

You flutter your eyes open when he trails his kisses down your chin, to your jaw, and after a sweet kiss under your jaw he descends to your neck. You crinkle his coat when he traces his tongue on your pulse. 

“Your neck is sensitive,” he notes in a whisper. You slip his coat off next, your fingers crawling up to his nape and feeling the scratchy texture of his ‘shaved’ hairs. He grasps at your waist and you groan his name.

It stokes something within Connor. 

“Am I doing good, detective?” You nod wordlessly against the junction of his neck and shoulder. Your body is louder than you are— rising heart rate, the flushed ears, the perspiration on your skin— and he finds himself a bit upset at it.

He calls out your name, and you turn your head to look at him questioningly. 

“I…” Connor pauses for a second. This word always felt foreign for Connor, but he should say what he means if he wanted this interaction to go well. Studies had shown open communication during intimate acts proved more positive results, and he didn’t want the foundation of trust and infatuation between you to become shaky. 

So he continues. 

“I need to know if I’m making you feel good.”

You press a kiss to his cheek, then to his lips as you nod again. 

“You’re making me feel really nice, Connor. Your hands are so warm, and as annoying as it is you’re a real good kisser.”

Connor preens inwardly, and his grip on your waist turns more confident. 

“I’m sorry for being a good kisser,” he teases. You chuckle, brushing your teeth over his neck as you undo his tie. There was something fun about unwrapping Connor from his usually perfect shell. You can’t deny the rush it gave you, and he returns the eager sentiment as he unbuttons your top. 

You shoulder it off and he presses his kisses there too. His warm hands touch your bare torso and when it reaches your pebbling nipple, you bite down gently on his neck. Connor chuckles, tilting his head down at you as he nips at your collarbones. 

“You might break your teeth if you try any harder.” 

“Worth it.”

”Absolutely not.”

You feel his hands reach to unzip your jeans and when he does, he pats your outer thigh. You look at him, panting while he motions for you to lay down. The second you do, he descends onto you like a heated and weighted blanket. A very handsome one. 

Your eyelids go a bit heavy and Connor relishes at the signs of success. You shimmy out of your jeans, Connor helps. 

You’re now in your underwear and Connor zeroes in at the darkening spot on it. You curse, telling him not to stare but he remains fixated on it. 

“You’re aroused. Very aroused.” 

”I’m very aware, Connor,” you reply dryly. 

He braces himself on his elbows, kissing you again and you’re struggling to keep up. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, his loosened tie dragging across your torso as his tongue battles for dominance. He reaches to place a palm against the window when he feels the seat under him giving away under his hand. It leaves a print, thanks to the panting you’re doing and him raising his body temperature. 

You inhaled sharply when that same hand sneaks down your sides. Connor watches you as your brows furrow, your jaw loose as every little noise excites him more and more. 

“Does this feel good?”

He slips his hands in your underwear and you flutter your eyes open. 

Connor’s eyes are hungry for your praise. 

“Touch me more, Connor. Please.”

He finds your slicked hole. You moan as he presses his fingers on your cock, and begins to rub you off. You stretch your back, tossing your head back as your hips ground on the seats. He’s entranced by it— by you. 

“Fuuuck, that feels good.”

”Forgive me, I didn’t think to ask what terms you’d like to use for your—“ Connor is cut off by your wanton groan. “Dick, cock, cunt,” you mutter against his lips before sneaking your tongue into his mouth again. He finally slips his eyes closed this time, focusing on your cock as he swallows your moans. 

“You’re too tense,” Connor tells you as he grasps the back of your neck. The car’s swaying slightly with the movement, and you mewl when he slides two fingers down to your cunt. 

“I was going to cum,” you pant out. Connor narrows his eyes at you. 

“Liar.”

He slides his fingers into you and you cover your mouth, thighs trying to snap shut around his hand if it weren’t for him quickly slipping out again. 

“Hm,” Connor peels away from you and you’re left a bit confused until he’s maneuvering your body around like a puppet master. You find yourself on his lap and he’s gazing up at you as your underwear is looped around your left thigh. You looked like a desperate slut— your button up still sleeved on your arms, your badge swaying between your bodies as your underwear’s rolled down, while your boots are still on. 

But Connor? 

With his loose tie and tousled brown hair. Pants still intact, and despite the crumpled shirt; he looked much more composed.

He holds your police badge, and then pulls you down for a kiss. Your bare cunts on his lap and he spreads your ass apart causing you to lift up. 

“You need to relax,” he whispers to your skin. “I can assure you that there’s no one here, just us. No one can see us.”

”This…This is still illegal I think,” you laugh at it. Connor gives you a pointed look, groaning a bit as you giggle about it. 

“Must you remind me?” Connor nearly grumbles. You press another kiss to his cheek, then to the tail of his eyebrows. 

“My bad, Mr Goody Two Shoes— Ah! Fuh—Fuck!”

He’s slipped two fingers in again, and you barely give any resistance to it. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, glancing out the window to ensure no one else can this— see you. So exposed on his lap, dishevelled and shivering in pleasure.

He presses a hand to the small of your back and it forces you to arch it further. He pumps his digits in and out of you. A slow pace that has you bunching his shirt in your fists as you mewl on top of him. He curls his fingers and you moan out his name.

That lick of fire within him grows bigger. You’re sweating now, and he strokes up your spine to impede the race your droplets of sweat were in. Connor takes your nipple in his mouth and you brace a hand on the roof of your car. 

You tighten around him, hips jerking and brushing your dripping dick onto the front of his pants. Marking him with your slick. 

“You’re— You’re making me— I’m going to—“

Connor looks up at you through his lashes, his expression puppy-like and you cum around his fingers. 

He releases your nipple with a lewd ‘pwah’ and reluctantly snaps the string of saliva that connects him to you with a sweep of his tongue. You try to catch your breath, swaying slightly as the aftershocks of your orgasm lazily wash over you. 

You fall forward into him and Connor wraps his arms around you, smiling a bit as he feels your breathing slowing down until you’re limp across him. 

He darts his eyes to his fingers, spreading two of them apart and admiring the traces of you still there. Connor brings them to his lips and into his mouth. 

Your apartment was humble, but cosy. You prided yourself on the trinkets you had collected over time that decorated the apartment, each bringing forth a fond memory when your eyes lingered on them. This space was proof of how far you’d come from the little you who had never thought that he could ever feel comfortable enough in his own skin to exist outside of his bedroom. You couldn’t deny that there were moments where that darkness and self-doubt would come back to hound you — especially on days where your brain seemed particularly nitpicky in every choice you’d made —  but those moments were scattered now. 

They didn’t drag along needlessly. Your phone buzzes on your kitchen counter, and you’re sure that if someone had been there, they’d gag at how your eyes instantly lit up as you saw his contact name flash across your screen. 

You accept his call, propping your phone against your jar of salt and grinning as you catch him peering down at his phone screen. His lips curl into a gentle smile, something that reminds you of the sunlight that warmed up your wooden floors just moments ago, and you can’t help but return it. 

“Good morning,” he says. When your name leaves his lips, his tone softens in a way you couldn’t describe. It was like he was uttering something sacred to him, and you return the sentiment as much as you can in your reply.

“Good morning, Kento.”

You hear rustling as Kento places his phone against his entrance mirror. He fixes his patterned tie, and you ask where he was headed.

“An early mission. I should be done by lunch, I’ll pick you up then if you’re not busy.” He glanced at you, a frown overtaking his chiselled face at the thought of you being too busy. He was consistent with his dislike of overtime and unnecessary workloads, that was for certain. 

“I shouldn’t be,” you erase the frown from his face into a neutral but pleased expression. “With the third-year students suspended, there’s less workload.” 

You shake your head at the reminder. Kinji and Kirara were a handful; you didn’t even know where to begin with those two. Despite it all, you cared for them, and it was plain for anyone close to you to see. That was the kind of person you were, and Kento’s heart warmed as you continued to cook your breakfast.

“But you never know what to expect when practically the only other teacher there is Satoru.”

Kento says nothing, but his icy silence is loud enough to make you laugh. 

“He’s just energetic.”

“Try eccentric.”

You don’t chide him for his words, just shake your head a bit. 

“I’ll have to head off now. Ijichi should be arriving soon. I’ll be there at lunch, stay safe, sweetheart.” 

“Mm, have a good day, Kento.”

Satoru was annoyingly light-footed for a man of his height. Sometimes, it’s as though he just floats around with how gracefully he moves. That is, if he wanted to move around gracefully, but even when he was boisterously bouncing around and throwing around peace signs like a child on a sugar rush, it became second nature to keep his footsteps muted. 

If you weren’t constantly spooked by him popping out of nowhere, you would surely admire this trait. You had clutched at your clipboard when the famous sorcerer materialised before you out of thin air, his smirk as cocky and as carefree as always. He leaned forward, hands in his pockets, as he greeted you in a sing-songy voice. 

“Gojo,” you groan out, walking past him as you try to calm your racing heart. Seriously, you know he’s the Head of the Gojo Clan and all, but surely he could be courteous and not give you heart palpitations when he jumpscares you. 

“Hey, c’mon. Gojo is too formal. We’re friends, aren’t we?” Satoru falls into step next to you. His hands now folded behind his blindfolded head. You muse his request, uttering his name with only a hint of exasperation. 

“So, I was thinking of taking the first years out for lunch,” he says.

“Then you’ll drag them onto a new mission and watch them puke their guts out?” you reply. 

Satoru doesn’t even pretend to be sly. He just gives you a big thumbs up, rounding the corner of the school’s hallway and giggling like an excited schoolgirl. 

“Satoru, don’t upset their stomachs too much.”

He gives a few noncommittal ‘yeah, yeahs’ before asking if you’d like to join. 

“Mm-mm, Kento and I made plans for a lunch date.” 

Satoru goes limp at the waist, falling over like a soggy French fry as he groans. 

“Booooo!” Satoru makes a show of using both his hands for a thumbs-down. You nearly guffaw at the display. “Nanami is not fair. Snatching up my only other co-worker, that damn playboy.”

Now, that makes you blink. Kento had been described as a lot of things. Studious, stern, strict, punctual, and on one occasion, he was called ‘sauce-face’ by a group of university students who had walked past both of you. 

But Kento, a playboy? 

Satoru sluggishly moved ahead of you, still groaning on about how much he missed shittalking about Principal Yaga with you. It took him a minute to register you’d stopped walking, and when he glanced back at you, he tilted his head questioningly. 

“...Did I say sumthin’?”

“What do you mean by playboy?”

Kento waited for you by his car. He wasn’t the type to make Ijichi chauffeur him around for personal and private matters, like going on a lunch date with you. So he came here with his own car, something luxurious but quiet. Not a roaring sports car, nor a needlessly advanced self-driving car. Something practical and comfortable all the same. 

You wondered, suddenly, how many of his dates he had driven around with in his car. If those leather seats had ever been witness to thighs that didn’t spill over them, and if there’d been prettier men poised on the passenger seat. 

Had they looked good next to him? Had they turned heads when Kento and he walked together?

Did people whisper about how much of a handsome couple they made instead of just complimenting Kento? 

Your heart squeezed as his eyes landed on you. You hear him greet you — as always, in that gentle tone — but you couldn’t bear to look at him. It was an uncomfortable sensation. But one that came with less pain when you did take him in. He opens the door for you, and you feel stupid for thinking it, but you wonder who else he has done this for. 

Behind you, Satoru gives him a greeting. Kento returns it, narrowing his eyes at your tightened expression before he closes your door. 

“Uh, so, where were you thinking of going for lunch?” Satoru gesticulates with his hands as he talks. Kento tries not to quirk a brow at it. 

“There was a restaurant he’d been talking about in Shibuya.” Kento moves to the driver's side, and Satoru places his elbows on the roof of his car. He levels his stare at him, but Satoru continues to talk. 

“You made reservations in advance, I’m guessing?”

“Yes.” 

“Aha, as expected from my ever-so-trustworthy junior!” 

“We’ll be going now.”

Satoru scrambles as Kento closes the door, nearly stumbling over his long legs as he knocks on Kento’s window. He pauses for a split second as he catches your expressionless face, noting the tension between your brows. It causes his smile to become less cocky, leaning more on desperation as he braces a hand on Kento’s window. 

“Y-You know what would be fun? If we had a double date together! But instead of me bringing someone, I just watch you two, and we hang out! Haha, doesn’t that sound fun?”

Kento drives off, leaving Satoru with his mouth agape as he tugs on his hair. 

“Shiiit, why’d I go and tell his boyfriend all that in the first place! Nanami is going to kill me!” 

The restaurant Kento had chosen had mahogany panels and glorious Majesty Palms tastefully scattered around the floor, while circular marble top tables were already occupied by other couples. It was romantic, and you couldn’t help but feel a stab of insecurity hook itself under the surface of your skin. Wriggling itself snuggly into old burrowing paths they had made before and sighing like they’d returned home. 

You were guided to your table by the large window pane, meaning you could glance out at the people and, in turn, they could take you in. You felt your skin prickle at the thought of all those eyes. The coat you wore all of a sudden felt too snug around your arms, and you self-consciously tried to simultaneously straighten your back to stand, and hunch your shoulders to hide. It’s a futile attempt that leaves you frozen in place if anything else, but the humiliation of it still sticks. 

Your chest tightens, and you swear your ribs do as well. The binder you wore had been meticulously chosen to fit your size. It was the responsible thing to do. If your students were in danger, and your binder made it difficult to breathe, you knew you’d never forgive yourself for it. So why now did it suddenly feel like a constrictor boa? 

Why had your body decided to feel as though it was gaining weight simply by breathing in air?

“Sweetheart?” Kento’s hand squeezes your shoulder. His touch shocks you out of your internal monologue, and you hastily sit.

“I’m sorry,” spills from your lips embarrassingly fast. You take a breath, hoping to ease the way your heart is beginning to double in speed. “Just a lot on my mind, I guess.”

Kento sits across from you. His posture is perfect as his hand is upturned on the table as he offers it to you. His glasses were placed on the table, put neatly out of the traffic flow of cutlery. Everything he does, from the way he talks to his most minuscule actions, is so deliberate and graceful. You shouldn’t have found it surprising when Satoru told you that Kento had a long string of lovers before you. If not for his looks, height, and hefty wallet, it was his gentlemanly wiles. 

What could he have possibly seen in you to think you were even on the same level as him? 

Beauty was subjective. That’s what you’d told your friends and yourself on several occasions. You had told yourself that you didn’t care that you were bigger than what the perceived beauty standard was, and truthfully, you didn’t. You’d learn to appreciate your body regardless of what the world thought. When you realised that you were trans, there was a brief moment of relief. Naively, you thought that a man’s beauty standard was different.

But the world made its preferences known. The shape of your body was now too feminine, and fat on top of it all. You found yourself watching from the sidelines, confused as you tried to navigate all of these feelings. 

Your self-worth wasn’t tied to your body. But you wondered too often how it’d feel to be different. To be in a body that wasn’t this, wasn’t yours. 

Kento’s outstretched hand felt mocking now. Because now, it clicked in your head just how differently he navigated through life. Desirable, tall, studious, handsome, and capable. You could still remember your first kiss. You doubt Kento would be able to even remember the name of the first person he kissed. 

‘How did it feel to grow up being so wanted?’ You thought defeatedly to yourself. 

“I could carry the burden of your thoughts, if you share them?” Kento’s baritones make you self-conscious of your voice. Your throat closes up, and you stiffen your lips as you shake your head. The world passes by next to you, separated by a pane of glass, and you swear you can feel them.

All these eyes on you. Watching your every move. Sneering at the way your clothes shift and wheeze to hold onto you. 

He says your name, and your eyes well up with tears. 

It’d been two days now since that disastrous lunch date. You grimaced, just reliving that moment. Kento’s shocked face as he saw your tears streaming down your face. Then he tried to reach out to touch you, and you retreated from him. The whispering that followed you as you walked out of the restaurant by yourself was overwhelming; whatever Kento had tried to tell you fell on deaf ears. 

It was a mess. 

You were a mess. 

Tokyo rumbled to life with a roaring screech of the trains. The force made your walls shake, and that had been more than enough to stir you awake from your fitful sleep. Your gaze floated around the dim room. Your eyes followed the listless pattern of the dust in the air, floating in the light from the slit in your curtains. 

You hadn’t gone on any missions. But your body ached like it’d taken a harsh beating from a Grade-1 Cursed Spirit. Your head pulsed, and you allowed yourself to let out a pathetic whimper as you curled up under your covers. 

Principal Yaga had been confused by your sudden request for leave, but Satoru covered for you. He’d cover school duties for a week, and Principal Yaga would never pass up the chance to make Satoru do more work, so he agreed wholeheartedly. 

[ SATORU: Hey, heyyy! ]

[ SATORU: I ordered some things to be delivered to your apartment. For your fever and everything. ]

[ SATORU: Get better soon, my sweetiepie co-worker! Yaga is already bullying me! Bleh! Blehhh! ] 

As coarse as he could be, Satoru was a true friend. You sniffled, staring at his messages with your eyes still feeling hot. You shouldn’t leave your things out in the hallway — what if Satoru had given you food?

Your stomach growled weakly, and you grunted as you sat up on your bed, rubbing at your eyes with your bed head, making you look like more of a mess. You should eat. If you wanted to get better and go back to being a productive member of society, you shouldn’t be wallowing in bed with a fever. 

You needed food, then you could eat your medicine. 

But you remembered Kento’s shocked expression, and thought of that pretty boy you imagined sitting in the passenger seat of his car, and your mood soured just as your appetite disappeared. You hadn’t returned his messages or calls. You’d holed up in your room again, as if you were some teenager. 

You stand up, and the room spins. You clutch onto your bedside table, gasping.

Your morning started slowly. You made your way to the bathroom and avoided glancing at any mirrors. In the shower, you grimaced every time your hands ran down your body — treating it like a foreign, disgusting thing. You hurried to dry, hating that the towel was wrapped around your chest instead of your hips and dressed in something loose. 

You found yourself staring down at your bowl of oatmeal, stirring it with a spoon, hoping it would give you the answers to the universe with enough intention. In your world, full of Cursed Spirits and fantastical sorcerers with powers that defied reality, a man could hope, couldn’t he? 

Your oatmeal hailed no revolutionary self-help guides. It was just plain old oatmeal, and you glared at it while it soaked in the sink. Finally, you suppose, you should bring in Satoru’s gift. 

Kento had his finger mere inches away from your doorbell as you opened the door. You both gawked at each other, as if time had just stopped and suspended you both in animation.  

You realise that you must’ve looked like a mess. Even after a shower, you hadn’t gone out of your way to do your usual routines of skincare or taming your hair, other than lightly patting it dry. Your skin felt both fresh and unclean — and Kento was the exact opposite as usual. His outfit was put together, but much more casual than usual.

He wore a long-sleeved shirt and a coat over that with a pair of black pants and practical sneakers. His blond hair swept back messily, but in a way that irritated. Despite the stray hairs that fell across his forehead, it highlighted more of his features rather than making him look messy. 

His hazel eyes flitted over your form as he assessed your state. You looked paler than he’d like, the bag under your eyes darker, and the chapped lips concerned him. He wanted to reach out and press the back of his hands to your neck, to feel if you were warm. But he restrained himself. 

“May I come in? You have some packages.” 

You couldn’t say no. Kento wouldn’t cause a scene; he wasn’t that kind of guy. But he was the kind of guy who’d show up at your house, handsomely dishevelled as he held a bag of homemade food. 

Kento’s been in your home before. Carried you into your room after a particularly rough mission that left you worse for wear, and stayed through the night as he slept on your couch. He confessed after you’d felt better, and he’d left such a warm presence in his wake. 

It felt awfully frigid now. 

You sat on your couch, curling your legs up as he moved around your space. He pulled your curtains apart, and the sliding door followed. Fresh air rushed out, the stale, sickly air you’d been in for the past two days. Satoru’s packages consisted of packets of vitamin-boosting drinks and a variety of traditional herby soup packets.

Kento then made his way to the kitchen to pull out the food he’d made. You heard him wash your bowl of oatmeal and let out a soft sound of protest. He turned his head, attentive as always. 

“I can clean my own dishes just fine, please don’t trouble yourself,” you murmur. 

“It’s no trouble, I want to help you,” he turned his attention back to the sink, “I’m your boyfriend after all.” 

It felt oddly juvenile to hear him say it. Kento and you weren’t that old, even if the back pain you had told you a different story, but the word ‘boyfriend’ felt so… high school. 

Kento paid no mind to your silence. He set up a bowl of something warm and comforting in front of you and kneeled. You slipped down to the floor, copying his pose as your mouth watered from the smell of the chicken porridge.

“Gojo said you were feeling under the weather. I added a few red dates to help you boost your immune system.”

You nodded, shifting uncomfortably until he brought the spoon to your lips. You flinched backwards in alarm, but Kento stayed patient as he held the spoon and bowl in his hands. 

“You don’t have too –”

“I want to.” He said resolutely. 

You leaned forward, and Kento said nothing as you sniffled, simply wiping away your tears before resuming to feed you. Once you were full, he carefully cleaned everything up. The sounds of him moving around your house made the pulsing in your head soften into a dull ache, and you waited patiently for him to be done. 

“You should rest. I’ll keep watch over you.” 

“Kento,” hearing his name from your lips instantly causes him to zero in on you. Those pouted lips and the tears that were beginning to line your eyes again made him forget his restraint. Kento cupped your face in his hands and ever so gently swept his thumb under your red eyes. 

“I’m sorry for ruining our date. I didn’t know why — I just — I felt overwhelmed, I think.”

“You don’t have to apologise, sweetheart.” You shake your head, and he pulls you closer into his embrace, until you are snuggly between his legs. 

“But I do, I was being ugly. I am ugly.”

You feel him tighten his grip. He pulls you away enough to look at you, his hands travelling down to your shoulders, and you tip your head down, trying desperately to stop your tears. 

“I…I found out that you had other partners before. I don’t know why, but I felt shocked.” You let out a wet laugh, bringing your hands closer to yourself and tugging your sweater so your chest wasn’t as defined. 

“You’re so handsome, of course, you’d have partners. Then I…I spiralled into this and just, well, look at me.”

Kento looks, and he’s floored at how you don’t see how gorgeous you were. How the shape of your eyes drove him crazy, how your nose scrunches when you laugh, the way your lips curl was something he often dreamt about. The softness of your hands in his own, the very colour of your skin, warranted a cold shower for him sometimes. 

“I’m a mess. I’m fat, and I’m barely a man —”

“That’s enough,” Kento says. His lips were pursed, angry, as he glared down at you. “Do you think I’m a shallow man who cares about your size? I’m in love with you, not despite your size but because of you. You’re the man that I want to be with.”

“You’re just saying that,” you protested weakly. “You could have anyone you want, Kento. I’m…How could I even measure up? You’re my first boyfriend, what could I offer?” 

Kento squeezed your shoulders, then sighed. You braced yourself for the break-up, held your breath and closed your eyes. But instead of icy cold rejection, you feel his breath at your neck. You bring your shoulders up, but he keeps them in place, sliding them over until his arms are slithering around you. 

“I love you,” and he says your name like a prayer, worship dripping from every syllable as though you were the very deity he was pleading to. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t disclose my…apparent…reputation. I should have been more forthcoming, but truth be told, none of them compares to you. I wish you could yourself through my eyes.”

You press your nose to his shirt, hands hesitantly bringing themselves to hold him in return. His chest rumbles, and he tucks your head under his chin, bringing you closer to himself until you are practically sitting on his lap. You feel his hands guiding your legs over his thighs, and you are too tired to protest. 

“I think I love you, too,” You feel him smile against your temple. Kento rubs along your back, giving you time to get your tears out as he anchors you to himself. 

Tokyo continues its usual course outside. You hear the train, the cars, and the people as they go on their routes. Things moved and roared, but in Kento’s arms, everything was muffled. You were certain nothing could hurt you when he held you so firmly in his strong arms. 

Not people, and not Curses. Not even yourself, apparently. 

“Kento…”

“Yes, sweetheart?” 

You tip your head back, hoping your clumped-up lashes and too-warm complexion weren’t too off-putting as you ask him;

“...Can we…can we have sex?”

Kento was washing up after dinner. But truth be told, the anticipation of what’s to come was causing his hands to tremble a bit. It was silly, but he truly didn’t want anything bad to happen tonight. 

He’d missed you. Dearly. Direly. Those two days of radio silence from you felt like torture, and Kento prided himself on his level-headedness. But you were the man he loved, and he wanted to show you just how much he adored you and your body. 

He hears rustling from your bedroom, your footsteps as you pad around to make space for him. Kento wiped himself down, feeling ashamed as he spotted himself already beginning to chub up between his legs. You were dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of boxers. 

Kento wore a towel around his waist. 

You blushed, turning away, and the reaction elicited a chuckle from him. It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one feeling his heart beat out of his chest. He approaches your bed, then sits next to you. 

“Look at me,” he reaches for your hand on your lap. “Please?”

You look, and you feel a rush of heat washing over you. 

“We don’t have to do this,” he tells you, “I don’t want you to push yourself just because of my past. I want you to want this.”

You trail over the contours of his body. Every curve and sharp edge, the work he’d put into himself is evident in the muscles in his bicep and chest — his stomach wasn’t defined like those magazine covers of athletes, but with every inhale, you can see the muscles just lurking there. You imagine if he were flexing, his stomach would feel like an iron wall. 

“I want this…I want you, Kento.” 

He smiles at you, murmuring under his breath that sounds awfully like ‘I’m glad,’ before he kisses you. 

It's different from his usual kisses. He’s more solid as his pinkie slides under your jaw and pulls you in further. There’s a heat to him now, a burning ember hidden in his mouth that he’s been wanting to share with you, and you gasp to receive it. 

Kento’s taste floods your senses. His lingering cologne, mixed in with your shower gel, then the callouses on his hands as he guides you closer to him. His body heat is warming yours, burning you up despite his gentleness. Your head spins delightfully, making your heart beat a mile a minute. 

He holds onto your hips and, without even so much as a grunt, manhandles you onto his lap again. You yelp, gripping onto his bare shoulders as he pants and looks up at you. He looked almost proud of himself for making you blush. 

You feel him poking you. Kento says he’s sorry, but he doesn’t seem sincere. 

You lean in again. Letting his hands wander around, despite the prickling sensations telling you to make him stop — those hooks of insecurity digging deeper and deeper — you don’t because your desire for him was stronger. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips. He presses a kiss to the corner of your lips, then trails it down to your neck. Your fingers stutter unsurely, and Kento grips onto your hips as his breath fans across your skin. 

“You don’t have to worry about me. Do as you please, just focus on how it feels. Just let me make you feel good.” 

Kento’s mottling your skin using his mouth. Leaving hickeys in his wake, each one making you shiver on top of him as your hips move involuntarily. His hard-on was beginning to grow between his legs, giving you more to work with. The towel you’d given him had long split open, but you were too embarrassed to look. Kento simply groaned with every grind, encouraging you as he guided your clumsy hips. 

“Does that feel good for you?” You whisper. Kento moans, tilting his head to look up at you. His blond hair was a mess from your fingers threading through it, and his pupils blown out, leaving a ring of hazel. 

“You feel amazing, sweetheart. You’re doing such a good job, grinding your cock on mine."

You’re not sure how your heart is keeping itself going; you could feel your pulse jump as he said that. Kento’s fingers slip under your boxers, and you let out a soft gasp. Instantly, he pauses and asks if he’s going too fast. 

“I’m just — this is my first time. You’re, you’re my first time.”

Kento admires you again, bathed in the light from your bedroom window and dimmed bedside lamps. You were a vision like this. Vulnerable and trusting. Giving him a window into your soul, albeit shyly, Kento slips his hands to your wrist. Then, he presses your hand to his chest. Your eyes widen as you feel the loud thumping against his ribcage. It was almost catching up with yours!

“It’ll be my first time with you. I have the most handsome man in my lap and I’m nervous.”

You try to protest, wanting to chuckle off his compliment, but he doesn’t let you duck your gaze away. He maintains eye contact, and your nails drag lightly on his bare chest. 

“Let me worship you.” 

For a moment, you wondered if there was anything to worship. Kento slips his hands under your thighs, and in one smooth movement, he’s carrying you. You cling tightly, eyes wide as you cinch your legs around his now naked waist. Kento laughs, actually laughs, and you scold him half-heartedly. 

“Kento, you’re going to hurt yourself!” He cocks a brow your way. Arrogance never looked so good on a man’s face before. 

“I’m not a boy, I can lift my boyfriend just fine.” 

Kento holds onto your ass with one hand and sweeps your hair behind your ear. You swear your boycunt got so wet in that moment, you were sure it left a spot in your boxers. Kento switches your earlier position, laying you onto the bed and crawling on top of you. 

 Worship, Kento decides, starts from the tips of your feet. His hands squeeze and massage your ankles, lips trailing up the curve of your feet, and the skin stretched over your tibia; you shudder as he speaks praises about you with every inch he travels. 

“These strong legs, they drive me crazy every time I see them.”

“You don’t know how handsome you look right now, sweetheart.”

“Shit, your thighs are so soft.”

You can’t look away. Even when you feel like you have to. You can’t. 

His teeth introduce themselves slyly. Ghosting over your thighs and causing your legs to involuntarily twitch. Kento soothes you down, rubbing mindless shapes into your hips as he holds you down. You shiver when he finally reaches your sex. 

“It’s so big,” he groans out. It’s twitching in front of him, peeking out from its hood, the longer he stares. You squeak out a gasp when he presses a kiss there. Kento can see you leaking more slick, and he moans. You were so receptive. It was expected — but it warmed his heart nonetheless. 

“You’re — Ah! You’re teasing my clit too much,” you buck your hips as you moan. Kento’s brow twitches, and he pulls away to lean over you. But his actions don’t stop. He takes your cock between two knuckles, jerking you off as he catches your gaze again. 

“What part of you am I pleasing?” 

You furrow your brows, confused at his righteous expression. 

“My clit? Ghk!”

Kento squeezes it between his fingers. Not strong enough to cause you pain, but the pressure made your back arch off the bed. 

“You’re my boyfriend,” he reminds you. “I’m stroking your cock. Men don’t have clits.” 

You feel affirmed and ashamed all the same. Like a pet getting scolded, you whimpered for forgiveness. Of course, how silly of you to forget. You nodded at him, whispering; 

“M’sorry, yeah, yeah. It’s my cock, yuh-you’re stroking my cock.”

Kento kissed you, telling you how good you were being, and you wrapped your arms around him. He stayed there, looking over you with one hand between your legs. Watchful, committing every twitch and shaky gasp into memory. He can see sweat begin to sheen over your forehead, and presses a kiss there, tasting you. 

When you start to clamp your thighs around his wrist, he holds the back of your neck. Not forcefully, just firmly. Again, he guides you to look. 

“Does it feel good, sweetheart?” You nod at his words, fluttering your eyes as your hips buck. “Are you going to cum?”

“Mhm, I’m gonna — Fuck, Kento, I’m going to cum.”

Kento says your name, encouraging you as he maintains his pace. The heat that pools in your stomach coils like a serpent, growing hotter and hotter until it finally reaches its peak. You gasp, eyes widening as you dig your nails into his shoulders. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just let it go, yeah. Just let it go.”

Kento’s achingly hard now. But he didn’t want to hurt you — it was your first time, and he wouldn’t indulge you in those things without having established better rules. It wasn’t as though he found stretching you out tedious, though. He was loving every second of it.

You were squirming on the bed, your boxers now tossed somewhere on the floor as he carefully pumped his fingers in and out of you. You had chosen to keep your shirt on, and Kento found it to be a non-issue. It’d be something to work towards, too, not something to rush you about. 

What mattered in the moment was you and your pleasure. 

Your insides were hot. Not warm. Your fever is still making its rounds in your body, but Kento didn’t hear any protests from you. You were soaked, practically dripping onto the bedsheets as he worked a second finger in. 

They were long and reached parts of you you didn’t think your digits could. You moaned, struggling to keep your legs open whilst he curled his fingers up and pressed into a spot that made you let out a wanton noise. 

“There?” 

You nodded shakily, trying to find your voice again. 

“I-I’ve fingered myself before.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Kento tilted his head, the corners of his lips curling slightly. “Is this the pace you usually like?”

You purse your lips, which quickly turns into you biting down on your lower lip as he pushes past his second knuckle. The base of his fingers presses against your cunt, and he growls softly when you squeeze down on him like a vice. 

“I can — I can take you now,” you tell him as you try to keep your voice steady. 

“Not yet, darling. Just a bit more. I promise.”

Just a bit more turned into three orgasms that left you limp on the bed. Kento licked traces of your cum from his lips and chin, sweeping up any remains and sucking it off his thumb like it was honey. You groan, turning onto your side and closing your legs as you try to sit up. Kento helps, bringing you to his chest as he holds you steady. 

“Are you tired? We can sto —”

You smash your lips together, your brows furrowed as you growl against his lips. He reciprocates, gasping as you clumsily bite down on his lips. But when you try to apologise, he simply pulls you in for another kiss.

“Please, Kento…”

You look at him, your skin warm to the touch as you reach for his cock. He moans when you wrap your fingers around him, and you try not to gulp when your fingers barely wrap around his girth.

“I want to feel you…inside of me.”

Kento releases a shuddering breath, as if every part of him was trying to hold himself back. Your eyes gleamed with pride at it. Your boyfriend, renowned for his studiousness and level-headedness, was staring you down like he was a famished wolf. 

He makes sure you’re comfortable on your pillows. Then, he places your legs on top of his thick thighs. He’s thankful that he managed to get lube and condoms delivered to your place between lunch and dinner — skillfully hiding it away to not fluster you. You watched as he brought the condom packet to his teeth, tearing it in one move that made you clench around nothing. He smiled and took your hand.

“Put it on me, sweetheart.”

You gawk, but then do as you’re told. He watches you, tenderly stroking the curve of your ear as you hold his dick.

“You’re huge…” You murmur. Kento dares to blush at your statement. 

“We don’t have to go all the way. Tell me if it hurts.” You lay back down, your hands already missing the weight of him. All of that was going on inside of you; your stomach fluttered excitedly. 

“Shouldn’t it hurt anyway when it's your first time?” 

Kento huffed, shaking his head as he smeared some lube on your boypussy. 

“No, it shouldn’t. At least, not much. Preferably, not at all.”

He positions himself, and you suck in a breath when you feel him rub his tip on your dick. “Easy, darling,” he says, giving you a small smile. “Don’t tense up, I’ll go slow.”

You feel him rub his entire length up your boycunt. Little moans escape you, the urge to grind along with him growing as restless as your neediness, the longer he goes. Then, he finally presses his tip to your entrance. 

Pressure was building, more and more. You try to breathe as he instructs, and when he finally slips the tip in, you gasp. Kento groans, the sound long and breathless, as he relishes your insides squeezing him. He braces himself on his knuckles, still watching you closely as you toss an arm over your eyes. 

He slowly pushes more of himself inside, and your thighs begin to twitch. Your mouth hangs open, and you grip onto the bedsheets, but you don’t stop him. You open up for him, shakily trying to keep your legs spread as you reach a hand down to feel him. He damn near cums from the action. 

Your hands feel what parts of him were still outside, and you whine as you spread yourself for him. 

“Sweetheart —”

“More…please, more.”

Kento’s not one to deny you. This was dangerous. He was never going to stay away from you now. Nor would he want to be outside of you. He complies with your whimpers and pushes more of himself in. And you take him in like a champ, taking deep breaths and choking out moans and keening noises. 

He’s halfway in when he notices tears streaming down your face. He panics almost instantly, but you cinch your legs around his waist, and he’s pinned. 

“Are you hurt?” 

You shake your head and bring your arms down. You feel him twitch inside of you, somehow getting harder as he sees your shaky grin. 

“More, Kento.”

He’s balls deep in you now. Successfully filling you up and making every part of you feel like it's on fire. Kento is curved over you, panting next to your ear as he clutches onto your hip and the pillow you’re on.  

You mewl as he grinds into you, barely pulling out. Giving you slow, deep thrusts. His firm stomach rubs against your dick with every move. You plead for a kiss, and he doesn’t say no. He’s less coordinated this time, but it’s still breathtaking. 

Kento feels your hands up his back, squeezing him as he begins to get a steady rhythm. You’re barely able to kiss him as he starts thrusting in and out of you, his cock hitting home every time he thrusts in. Your toes curl as he kisses your neck again, reaching to hold you steady so you don’t shift further up the bed with every thrust. 

You could see the veins on his arm as he clutches your pillow. Sweat was beginning to drip down his body, and his eyes were beginning to get heavy-lidded. He looked so unrestrained and primal. You clench down on him, and Kento bares his teeth briefly as he swears. 

He thrusts in harder, and you’re not even aware how loud you’re being. Kento pants, bracing himself on his elbows and pressing his weight onto you as he grips your ass. He’s going deep again, and you feel another orgasm barrelling towards you. You warn him, and he encourages it.

“C’mon, handsome, cum for me. Let me feel you, show me how good you feel.”

You moan out his name, nails digging into his skin as you cum around his cock. Kento shudders, pressing his forehead over yours as he thrusts as deep as he can. As if he wanted to make sure you took every last drop of his cum. 

It’s an odd sensation, feeling the condom filling up inside of you, but you decide you like it enough. A part of you wonders how it would have felt if he came inside without one, but you tucked that fantasy away as he kissed your temples and cheek. Chaste, but sweet. 

“You did so well, baby. You made me feel so good.” You felt butterflies shakily flap around in your stomach, the hazy orgasm making you feel as though you were still in the clouds. 

“You’re so good, you’re so perfect, sweetheart. My beautiful boy.” 

Kento wasn’t so chatty, but he truly meant every word he said. He smiled down at you as you chased after his palm, pressing your nose there as you whispered his name again and again. 

He did not think someone like you existed in this universe. It still boggles his mind, thinking of you often made him pinch his face as though he had something sour in his mandibles.

If he allowed himself to sink into the memory, the sound of air vents hissing and the steady beeping of machines. The sterile air, void of life and warmth, as beams of light flickered and pulsed, pulling him in and out of darkness. He hadn’t meant to land so close to this facility, he had hoped to work his way through the dense rainforests. A venomous viper here, an anaconda nearly double the length of his body there, and just when he was beginning to track down the paw prints of a mighty striped beast he pauses.

There was a building jutting unceremoniously from the sides of a cliff, sprawling fences and military grade vehicles at the base of the mighty structure.

What could be worthier prey than other warriors?

He hadn’t expected to break in, being forced to after narrowly escaping a spray of bullets. The humans were not pleased by this, evident with the yells through the speakers in the walls, and how they were beginning to flood through the tight narrow hallways; even if it meant facing him in a futile battle.

The ones in the white coats aimed their weapons at him when he faced them. Their entire bodies trembling as they squeezed their eyes shut, missing him entirely as their bodies flew back from the recoil. He tilted his head at the mark they left on the wall behind them, clicking in amusement just as he unsheathes his blade.

He doesn’t notice it at first. Too engrossed in getting a trophy. But when he lifts his head, he swore his entire body freezes. There was an illustration of it, the serpent, the beast, the creature with oil-slick black skin and chrome teeth. He assesses the lab he was in, an uneasy feeling settling within him. Though, there was a sudden thrill that went through him as well, he hadn’t expected to face one so quickly in his hunts.

He squints at the words they’ve written alongside their photographs. The films of x-rays causes confusion to wash over him. He plucks it from the light box, a rumbling growl building in his throat as he strokes over the outline of the creature.

This was not a xenomorph. This was a human. Though, not completely.

He should have killed you. You were an abomination. An affront to nature.

If he were more dramatic, he would even say you might as well as be the sign of the end times.

The humans did not know what they had done. What they had created, the weight of their sinful curiosity had made him utter a prayer, something he hadn’t done in a long time.

You were curled up in the centre of the iron room. That monstrous tail flicking as your white eyes floated around the room, wondering with mild interest at the red lights that bathed over you in listless pulses. But he wasn’t stupid. He knows you’re anything but bored, because as soon as he gets close to the glass, your eyes flick to him.

They were white, your pupil greyed over like a bloated corpse, but he sees the way it shrinks as you lift from your side into a crouched position. Another shiver rushes through him. That telltale pose. Your numbed tail brush over the scratched up floor, creating a sound akin to Death’s blade, and poised itself behind you.

The humans did not give you any clothing. He imagines that it wasn’t because they wanted to humiliate you, rather it being for their own safety. He sees the discoloration around your wrists, ankles, neck. Skin rubbed raw from struggling against restraints. There’s a definition to your ribs, your skin laid so taut over your hips that with every shift of your torso he can see the nubs poking obscenely.

They didn’t know what to do with you. Too scared to let you thrive that they deprived you of food, entertainment, and everything else because if brute force wasn’t enough to make you comply to their whims then the next option would be ruthless torture.

He’s struck with a sense of pity. He shouldn’t be, especially not for a creature like you. As pitiful as you are, he should kill you. It’d make perfect sense too. Put you out of your misery.

So why, when the humans had fled away and all that was left was the both of you standing in the clearing of the rainforest, didn’t he take the chance?

You were weak but he still couldn’t kill you in the facility. Too slippery, too fast, too smart. Your tail and claws were dripped with blood; your maw and neck were coated in crimson as well. You panted harshly, cloudy eyes squeezed shut and his body moved for him. Years and years of training, of hunting, coursing through him as he lifted his arm. Your silhouette was fuzzy, a mix of red and yellow and blue as your heat signature wobbled and fizzled from his mask.

One shot to your nape. He knew you were exhausted — from him trying to kill you and from you killing the humans to escape — and he knew it would be more than honourable to bring your skull and spine back home.

But you look at him. Your unkept hair soaked in blood and gore, spilling down your over your odd shoulders. They slip across your sweaty forehead, covering the viscera and leaving him with your pale eye; unblinking and cold.

Until a soft crooning sound escapes you. It’s rough, your voice unused from anything other than screeching and screaming. But it catches him off-guard. The appeasement in your pose, the almost pleading purring. He tells himself he isn’t softhearted, but he cannot find any honour in killing you like this. Not when you’ve dropped onto your hands and knees, entire body trembling as adrenaline fades away. Even with those malformed nubs on your spine, that horrendous tail curling up weakly, the sharp spikes on your elbows and shoulders…

He should kill you.

He can’t find it in himself to do so.

He would not be welcomed back home. If he landed with you in his shape, he knew what would be of your fate and his own. The elders would force him onto his knees, hold him by his shoulders and rip his mask from his face to see through his eyes while they’d spear through you again and again. Or perhaps they’d use you in the arena, roaring victoriously when you’re finally ripped apart.

They’d find his mercy appalling when they went through the footage his mask had captured. They make sure he’d have the same fate as you; he’d be dishonourable and he would bring shame to his father and mother.

He levelled his gun to the back of your neck.

His hand trembles.

Space is so vast, so endless. You couldn’t help but peer out the reinforced windows of his ship any chance you got. There were no morning, or nights here; that didn’t bother you as the ship had an automated system that alerts both of you when to raise and dim the lights when it’s time to rest. It was good to have a schedule when you’re travelling through the infinite. Lest the days blur together, sapping your brain of any proper rhythm and order it craves.

You press your palm against the cold glass, breathing harshly against it and watching as liquid vapour forms. Your claw clinks gently onto the surface, but you angle your hand to press your finger pad firmly.

Two dots, one big curve underneath them.

:)

You blink hard once, then flutter your eyelids, and lift your cheeks up as your reflection mimics you.

The two lines from the corner of your lips lift, splitting open your skin as you bare your silver fangs to yourself. You tilt your head from side-to-side, maintaining the too-wide grin as a curious trill escapes your throat.

You knew you were half-human, maybe even more or less, but you never held any fondness for them. They hadn’t spared you any of theirs, but you suppose being a social creature — from both parts of you — it was expected of you to want to belong somewhere. To be able to communicate with others, to find your place among a community. You’d seen them do this before, smiling to one another as they exchanged notes or when the soldiers would chat about their families. You wonder what that would be like, to have a family…

A rumble pulls you away from your little experiment. Your tail flicks, sweeping across the floor repeatedly as he enters your room. This ship wasn’t big by his standard, but you weren’t as stocky as he was. You turn to face him, lips sealing away those deadly fangs as you approach him slowly. His mask was off, something that causes your barely detectable pupils to blow out, and you press your side to his chest in an endearingly unrefined manner. His mandibles click in a softer greeting as he smooths a hand over your skull, patting over your short hair.

It was easier to maintain this way. He’d tried to make sense of the length and texture, using a bit of the oils he had on his ship to attempt to soothe your matted ends and frizziness. But the stench of gore and blood had seeped in through the matting that he had chopped away the unkept mess. You seemed less wild this way, not less dangerous by any means, just less severe.

Your tail end flicks as he walks further into your den. It was once a miscellaneous storage room, a sort of pantry if you will. You’d taken claim of it when you woke up in the ship, wracking havoc in your panic and him trying very hard not to shoot holes through his ship.

He speaks, his gruff voice causing you to tilt your head again. He settles his weight onto a bench, regarding your fading away smiley face with a scrunch of his brows before shaking his head.

You settle next to him, crouched and eager.

You have done well on this planet. Hunted food for yourself, kept away from the locals despite your more feral urges clawing at the surface. He brought the plate between you and him, the steam of the red meat causing you to swallow thickly. He folds one leg, using it as a table as he balances his own plate there.

You both eat in relative silence. Your fingers are clumsy, more than once, you bite down on your own digits. Something he scolds you about, shoving your hands away from your mouth and growling at. You would lick your lips, huffing your nose at him as you continued to feast. You weren’t his pet, he doubted you were even able to be anywhere close to domesticated and even thinking of that was an insult to you. You were his…companion in his space travels.

The only person he has besides himself and the ship.

You were his partner.

You watched his back when he hunted, killed for him and got hurt for him.

You were his community, just as he was yours.

Eating this meal together was a peaceful moment, the agonizingly loud silence of space mellowed by the grumbles you both share. Language came slowly to you, body language being more of your forte including the shift of pheromones in the air. But you mutter a ‘good’ as you lick your fingers clean and he inclines his head in thanks.

He watches as you stand up, taking his empty plate from his lap and making your way to the kitchen area. He follows behind, narrowing his eyes in bemusement as you struggled not to go on all fours with your heavy tail behind you.

The humans had brought you a lot of unnecessary pain. The malformed spikes of your spine had left you hunched, stumping your growth and causing you pain whenever you tried to sleep. The shape of your ribs had changed too, one side being less curved thanks to sleeping on your sides for years. It’d been a point of trust for you to allow him to fix that for you. To allow him to let you sleep, to allow him to split you open as the human doctors had.

The healing process had been soft. He did not want to leave you, and you did not want him to leave. Too sore, too in pain to even lift your tail as you fluttered your eyes open. He smoothed down your freshly cut hair, stroking the pointed ends of your ear and watching as you — the abomination — whimpered in pain and thanks.

You walked better now, straighter. He thinks it’s much more dignified. Something that befits you. You place the plates in their places, moving to clean your hands off properly next. He steps behind you, his chest brushing the scar along your naked back, and you purr. You lean back as he braces his hands on either side of you.

One clawed hand reaches up to his mandibles. It twitches out of your way, causing you to pause, but after a beat you reach again. He shudders at the feeling of it, of you stroking the underside of the sensitive limb, curved claw teasing him.

You trill, twisting so you face him properly.

Your eyes warmed, squinting at him as you pressed your palms on his face. Feeling the patterns of his skin, reaching up to his forehead and feeling the scars he’d given himself. Dots for every kill, a crown of worthy prey. You’d seen it, the display of skulls near the weapons room.

A purr rumbled in your throat, and you pressed your nose to the space between his mouth and eyes. His mandibles felt your face, pinching the soft flesh of your cheek and jaw and pulling you in. You open your mouth, licking at his sharp teeth while he growls. It’s hard to deny you, especially when you were so shameless. He feels up your sides, pride rippling through him at the flesh that spills between his hold and your tail lifts up eagerly.

You press your soft lips to his teeth, moaning softly, eagerly, as he explores your body once again. There was a world of difference between the both of you, biologically you don’t even make sense and he’s never had much experience with sex with his own species much less others. But there was a sense of relief in knowing that despite that, neither of you were easy to break. His thick skin wears your claw marks with pride, his shoulders marred with the shape of your bite just as your chest is decorated with marks of your kills. Something he does with care, dipping the edge of his knife into your skin and letting it scar over.

Even now, as he feels over your chest, he pulls your face further in. Rubbing the top of his brow bone over yours, his facial spikes shuddering as you reciprocate his lust by letting his forked tongue tangle with yours.

There’s a softness to your chest, something you’d grumble at him about a few times now. He promised to help you remove them next, and you were patient as he collected the things he needed. Buying things from merchants on far away planets, trading it with others, and upgrading the medical bay in his ship.

You gasp into his kiss, arms wrapped around his neck as your exposed cunt rubs at his crotch. You pull away, chin slicked with his affections and looking so proud of yourself as your tail curls between his legs. He lifts you, settling you onto the surface on the food preparation counter. You press the strong muscle to his cock, causing him to groan low in his throat as he presses his face to your neck. You don’t bare it easily, stiffening up out of instinct. He does not take offence to this. Your lips curl, a harsh hiss slipping past your teeth and he returns it with a low roar.

He lets you feel his teeth. You make him feel the sharp-edge of your tail to his thighs.

There’s a moment of heaviness, of anticipation. Your hearts raced as you licked your teeth, finally leaning the other way and giving him more room.

Your neck is a mess. A marred expanse of scars, all thanks to him.

You widen your thighs, tail grabbing around one tree-stump sized thigh and tugging him in harshly. He laughs, the light chattering clicks and huffs of air making you smile. He drags your cunt to his crotch, working you up as he presses his hand to the small of your back. Giving you no room to escape as he bumps your cocks together. You’re hot, heat sweltering over your skin and in your weeping sex.

You make these breathy noises. As if scared to get caught, being quiet because you were vulnerable and exposed and he reprimands you with a harsh bite. You snarl, tail slamming onto the ground as he nurses the bleeding mark.

You should not be scared. He was a worthy mate, a strong hunter. Even if his home world would not see him as such. They’d call him dishonourable for being with you, for choosing to let you live and mating with you. He would fight them all off.

He’d kill them for you.

There’s a weight pressing to your cunt. The ridges on the underside rubbing up and down, bumping into your cocklet with the sole intent of making your entire body ready for him. There wasn’t much either of you could do about the claws on your hands, or the general roughness. But you enjoyed it.

The pain, the stretch, the burn. How full he could make you feel when he’s half-way in, stroking over your hips as he waits for your clenching insides to relax.

Just remembering it makes you impatiently reach down, stroking his throbbing dick. He hisses at your warmth, and when you rub your cheek to his — brushing against his shorter spikes — you feel him shuddering underneath your touch. Your sweet Yautja, your strong Yautja; he crumbles under your touch and he hasn’t even felt how wanton your insides are. You sweep aside his loincloth, licking your lips as you press his thick cockhead to your pussy.

His claws dig into your waist when you guide your hips forward. You toss your head back, another smile gracing your lips as his tip pops inside of you. You brace your hands on his shoulders, panting shallowly and hissing while your tail swishes around the floor. He pulls away, watching you sweat as pushes more of himself inside of you.

You choke on a gasp, squeezing tightly. As though you couldn’t decide if you wanted to let more of him inside, or push him out. He doesn’t give you a choice. He’s determined, calculating, and he wanted nothing more than to bury himself deep inside of you. You unravel so beautifully for him, eyes fluttering closed as you grind your hips to meet him. Impatient little beast. He holds onto your hips next, his grip bruising as he pushes more of himself inside. Your claws break through his skin and he snarls, so you appease him by kissing his mandibles.

You tell him, in his language, that you want more. He has no desire to deny you of your wants.

The contents of the cupboards above you shudder from the sheer force of his hips. His cock all but bullying you into submission as he takes you. It’s dizzying, it’s breathtaking, it’s too much and not enough —- you yowl as he lifts you up. It isn’t an easy task, your bones were heavier than that of a regular human but he relished in showing you his strength. Your back is pressed into another wider surface, your tail sweeping the cooking utensils off along with a few jars of spices. He snaps his teeth at you, and you clench your teeth around him.

The ridges of his cock make you mewl. Your insides are soft and inviting, every thrust making you feel every inch and every bump. You wrap your legs around his thick waist and he presses in further. You head thumps onto the table, back arching as he finally, finally, sinks in.

“Hnn…ah…nghah…” your cloudy eyes are heavily lidded. The scent of your sweat and sex filling the room like honey, thick and cloying. He can hear your heart pounding in your rib cage and he grabs at your chest. You squeak, twisting a bit at the sensation of his claw teasing the pebbling of around your nipple. So sensitive for such a dangerous creature. His darling mate, his beautiful mate.

He thrusts into you again. Barely moving out before he hits home again. You’re spread out underneath him, singing so sweetly for more as you tease through his tresses, making him shudder again and again. Until he finally grabs at your wrist and brings the pulsing veins to his mouth. His forked tongue feels your pulse jumping against his deadly maw just as his cock feels you clench.

Your hunter grabs at your thighs and pulls you into his thrusts. It’s a vicious pace, nearly rattling your hips as he grunts and growls above you. You take it, you take everything he gives you because he makes you feel as infinite as the dark matter around you. It’s like every single nerve in your unnatural body is being touched by his deadly hands, feeling unbearably hot and chilling cold at the same time. You moan his name, eyes going wide as your back arches again. The blood on your neck drips onto the table, just as the blood on his shoulder drips onto your body.

He’s so beautifully loud when he’s close. His thrusts lose their steady rhythm. It’s harder to thrust out, your body warning him that you’re about to come undone with him. He leans down, folding one leg to your chest and your moan echoes through his ship.

You cum around his cock, shuddering as your tail curls on itself. Your claws shredding into his back as he keeps going. You squeeze your eyes shut, hair sticking to your face as he pounds into you relentlessly; chasing after his own orgasm. The table shakes underneath you and with one final thrust, he fills your insides with warmth. You whimper, and he feels your cunt milking him. The scent of your satisfaction causes his chest to rumble, breaking into a low purr as he rubs his face to yours. You catch your breath, kissing him sweetly as he licks at your open wound.

There’s a serenity in these moments. Even if nothing had changed around him. Space was still endless and cold, his ship sang a dull song it always had with the orchestra of noises. He didn’t mind it as much now. Not when you were laid besides him, chest moving up and down with each breath while you slept. The round at the kitchen had not been the last, you wouldn’t allow it. Determined to keep going until you were dripping with his seed. Your hunger causes him to shake his head, stroking over the bandaged bite marks on your neck. You turn to his touch, lips twisting for a moment before curving into a soft smile.

He was damned, but he’d have it no other way. He wanted to — needed to — be selfish and have you. Even if it made him dishonourable, even if he could never return to his planet.

You lifted your chest off the tree branch, curling your toes as you posed into a crouch and silently dropped onto the soft dirt. You freeze just as your prey does. Her ears go forward, flicking back and forth as her lips twitch. You wait for her to lower her head again before you stalk towards the herd. You exhale through your mouth, reaching backwards for your bow and nocking your arrow. You inhale sharply through your nose, your stomach sucked in from tension, and every muscle taut as you level the arrow her way.

Her herd flees as she shrieks. The youngsters followed the panicked calls of their elders, rushing away into the forests, and you exhale again. Slinging your bow across your chest, you rush to her side. She was beautiful, her skin tough, and her patterns striking. She stared up at you, groaning weakly as she tried to breathe, chest heaving. You place your hands over her operculum, feeling her life ebbing away. You unsheathe your dagger, kneeling over her as you give her a painless mercy.

“Oel ngati kameie, ma tsmukÚ, ulte ngaru seiyi irayo. Ngari hu Eywa salew tirea, tokx 'ì'awn slu Na'viyä hapxì.” 

His voice floods through you. That warm baritone, his firm chest brushing against your shoulder blade as he tells you what those words — this prayer — meant. You whisper it to her, and she sighs just as her body goes limp. The forest does not go silent at this; the river continues to bubble over the rocks, and the insects flutter their wings into the air just as the plants creak and sway in the wind. 

You hear a sound. Not a creak, or a flutter of wings. You lift your head, ears twitching as your eyes scan the horizon. The easier target was beneath you, having taken her last breath mere seconds ago. You’d be harder to kill, but not impossible. You narrow your eyes into the treelines, colours fading slightly as your nose tries to pick up on any distinct smells. Maybe the desperate lone nantang had stumbled in at the right time, or perhaps a pack of Tslikxyu tsawlak?

You hear the rough pads of skin over bark, and you lift your head, twirling your blade over your knuckles as your tail sways unsurely behind you. 

A palulukan?

Your pupils shrink as you attempt to sift your hunter through the branches. You hastily sheath your dagger, reaching for your bow again when silence befalls your twitching ears. That is, until you hear those familiar footfalls. Instantly, your figure relaxes. You don’t drop your bow, but you lower it as you try to stifle a grin. 

What was that one saying humans used? Speak of the Devil, and he will appear?

So’lek wasn’t a devil, not to those he deemed as comrades and friends, but he was surely as sneaky as one. 

You cautiously kneel again, pretending to be on alert as you deftly take what you need from your downed prey. Her fatty meat, her exquisite teeth, her patterned skin. It takes some time, but you know your way around these woods. You had made sure no RDA facilities around here were still functioning, your arrow spearing through their puny bodies as you destroyed their oil pumping machines that polluted the area. The reason this herd of yerik’s had been grazing here again was because the rivers were no longer poisoned, and their food was no longer spoiled. 

You wouldn’t need to worry about the carnivorous creatures here either. You wouldn’t be hunted when he was keeping watch over you. 

You gather what you can from your kill. Her fatty meat was stored in the woven basket. You wiped your sweat off your brow while you worked on removing the parts you needed, focusing on her teeth and hooves, hoping to ask some favours from the nearby clans on new pieces you needed. You heard the forest creatures move around you, but they didn’t draw closer. Time ticks on, so you make haste. You didn’t want to hug around fresh meat through the forest after the eclipse — you’d be in too much trouble. 

You finished with a grunt, rolling your shoulders as you looked over your work. There’d be enough scraps for any desperate predators to fill up on if they needed. You washed your hands off at the river, ear flicking back as the wind carried an approving hum from the trees. You grinned at the rippling reflection of yourself, shaking your head slightly at his cheekiness. 

Resistance Headquarters was upstream, sitting comfortably hidden by the tall trees and between two waterfalls. An easier way to get there would be a quick call to your ikran, but there’d be no fun in that. You glance over your shoulder, lashes brushing over your cheeks as you contemplate your next move. 

So’lek stands as you do. From his perch, he can make an easy guess about where you intend to move next. One graceful leg stepping and the next following, the water still clinging to your arms trailing down the toned shape, your kuru braid hypnotizingly swaying with every movement. You look at him – well, not really, though nearly. He doesn’t freeze even when your gaze scans through the dense branches of the tree where he was hiding, tail gently swishing around in adoration as he takes in your focused expression. 

Can you see him? Do you notice his yellow eyes peeking through the shades, or do you pass it off as sunlight making patterns on the great barks? 

So’lek’s ear flicks when you blink slowly. Eyelids barely closing with the corners of your lips curling up, your fangs poking through, gently poking your lower lip. 

When you move, he follows. A trusty shadow, moving through the trees with ease. His years of being a nomad, training from various clans as he moved through the grief of his clan’s demise, and working through his plans of vengeance, though painful, taught him many lessons. So’lek flattens his palms onto the edge of a branch, balancing himself as he elegantly avoids the nests of yoten eggs. 

He drops down, barely making a sound as he follows the sight of you through the slits of the trees. The stripes on you were remarkable, the braid pattern you had your hair in, the craftsmanship of your outfit pieces, and So’lek’s heart squeezed as he caught sight of your bow. He’d made that for you, painstakingly looking for materials as he prepared to ask for your time for a hunt in his head. A date, as the Sky People had told him, a courting tradition they did, something he hoped you’d be more familiar with. 

He knew you still used it, but the sight of it on you still made warmth flood through his entire body. 

There’s a clearing a few steps ahead. It dips down, creating a short fall that provides cover if you ever find yourself in a firefight. You slip down, turning around and walking backwards. Further and further into the clearing, your vision bounces from one side to the other as you pluck your bow from your person and crouch to place it down along with your basket. 

You hold your breath as you hear the leaves rustling, trying to differentiate all the sounds the forest makes. It should be easy for you, but So’lek had been the one to teach you how to hunt. He’s had a teeny bit more experience, something talent can’t quite replace, but that wasn’t to say that you were an inadequate student. 

Perhaps a bit distracted, So’lek thought as he crept up behind you. His hand grabs at the base of your tail, and you yelp as you jump into the air. You bend your knees, teeth baring themselves in a laugh as your ears flatten against your head. So’lek chuffs in amusement, the pose was almost familiar to him. It was more human-like, but he couldn’t blame you for that. He instead crouches and hisses at you, his tail flicking in the air. 

It’s a marvel to you every time he displays the softer sides of himself to you. So’lek wasn’t someone who people would describe as easy-going. He wasn’t intense, not outwardly, but you could tell he was someone who’d been through a lot. To see him like this, playful and open, made you beam. 

“You let your guard down, ma yawnetu,” So’lek straightens up after a bit. His cheeks still lifted in a grin. “With us being so close to headquarters, that’s a bit careless,” he continues. 

“Oh, I let my guard down?” Your tone makes So’lek raise a brow. The expression wiped off his face when you lunged for his middle. He tries to dig in his heels, but it still kicks you off balance. So’lek wraps his arms around you as you both fall. You roll onto the grass, tumbling around like little kids as you try to use the momentum to get on top of him. He is not that easy to pin down, something he makes abundantly clear as he wrestles you to the ground. You squeal, bursting into laughter as he traces your sides with a cocky grin. You squirm around, locking your legs behind him as you twist again. 

You rush ahead of him, and So’lek rolls onto his stomach and sprints after you. 

It feels so light in these moments. Even with your heart pounding against your ribcage and your feet crashing onto the ground, you felt so free as you chased each other. So’lek is quick on his feet, nearly gathering you into his arms a couple of times. But you were used to rushing through the clearings, zig-zagging and evading his attempts. 

So’lek was reminded of a simpler time, back before the Sky People had come down from the stars, back when his mother would still scold him for returning home with scrapes on him from play fighting too much. You try to sink into the memory of a game of tag. It was different from his own; there was no mighty or infinite room to run in, but there was your sister and what was left of your clan members in a grey room with Alma watching over as she explained Earth games to all of you.  In a way, this game of tag, now with two overgrown adults, should look silly, but it was healing for both of you. 

So’lek finally wraps his arms around you, lifting you into the air as you are pinned to his chest. He presses his face to your nape, and you feel his rapid breathing against your skin. His palm presses flat against your chest, and he counts every beat of your heart. Syncing them together as he gives you a gentle squeeze, your back slotting against his chest like a missing puzzle piece. You toss your head back, peeking up at him with your cheeks warm. He had a few pieces of grass stuck in his hair, all thanks to you, and you chuckled at him. 

“You are trouble,” he grunts out. 

“Does that mean you don’t enjoy my presence?” 

At once, he frowns. You squeeze your eyes shut in delight, and he hisses softly at you. It was a chiding noise, something usually accompanied by various degrees of intensity. So’lek was warm with his; his lips barely curled as he gave you a final squeeze before untethering you from him. 

“You put words into my mouth,” So’lek brushes a hand over your head, plucking glades of grass from your hair. You lean forward, catching him off guard until your nose brushes over his own. You press your foreheads together, breathing him in as the tip of your nose brushes over his cheek. His tail curls in delight. So’lek presses against you, his eagerness simmering to the top as he cups your warm face in his hands. The callouses on his palm create the softest noise against your skin. 

“Forgive me, ma So’lek,” You preen out. He rumbles his approval, scenting you as he brushes his nose against your cheeks, chin bumping against yours, and finally landing his lips over yours. You reciprocate, pouting your lips and wrapping your arms around his neck. His thumb brushes against the Sarentu mark on your cheek, and So’lek pulls away just enough so he can gaze down at you. 

“What pains you?” You cup a hand over his, pinching your brows as he sighs. He shakes his head, prompting you to speak again, but he speaks first. “What always pains me.”

You knew what he meant. The loss of his clan, of your clan, and whatever else the RDA had ripped from countless others. You think of your mother and sister, of the life you could have had if you weren’t taken from your clan. So’lek wished that things had been different; he always did if he lay awake at night and his thoughts got too loud in the silence. Lately, he thinks of the grief you went through. It was odd carrying another person’s pain, especially someone he cared so deeply for. 

“If you linger on that thought for too long, you’ll get wrinkles.” Your voice brings him back to the present. Your lips are pursed as your thumbs brush over his cheeks, lightly pulling at his lips as your tail curls towards his own. 

“It’s difficult not to. It frightens me — it frightens me to think about our future. I have so much to protect, and if one day,” He glances down at your exposed stomach and slides his hands down your sides, tenderly brushing his hand over it. Your brows raise in shock.

“You want children?” 

So’lek’s ears flatten, his gaze kept downward as his tail curls in a flustered manner. 

“You hadn’t mentioned this before.” You pinch his chin between your thumb to level your gaze. “I…I never thought I would want them. With all this war, and the Sky People’s return. I was so fueled with the shadows of my vengeance before this, before you.”

“I’m sorry, we never had this discussion before,” So’lek shakes his head, and you blink rapidly as he withdraws his hands from you. 

“I can’t comfort you, So’lek.” You said, keeping your tone soft as you catch the way the fading sunlight against his skin, making his yellow glow brighter than any star or flower you’d ever seen. When the light hits them, it’s like it catches it, turning it into pools of pure gold. “We both know how chaotic life can get, I mean, out of everyone else.”

It elicits a dry laugh from So’lek. You step away from him, your touch lingering over his heart as you gesture to your basket and bow, walking towards it while he follows. 

“But we’ve made it this far. I’ve seen so much pain, so much hatred. But, you’ve also shown me what it feels like to hunt, to provide, to craft, to heal, to love. You made me fall in love with Pandora, you didn’t make me feel like I’m castaway from Eywa. Without you, So’lek, I…”

You grip onto the bow, feeling over the ridges and carvings he’d put into it. It wasn’t anything overly flashy; it was just like him. Practical, deadly, and it feels like home in your hands. You turn to him, and for a second, he has to remind himself to take a breath. 

“You made me realise that I’m more than what the RDA had told me I am. If it weren’t for your teachings, for your guidance, I would be lost.”

“You would not,” he cut in firmly. Sweeping his hand in front of him, as though cutting through air while his brows furrowed, “Eywa would have shown you who you are. With or without me.” 

“Then I’m glad that it was with you. Even through war, even through pain, it’s you that my heart desires. I See you, So’lek.” His eyes widen at your confession. He says your name like a prayer, wanting and adoring.

“Having a family with you would be a great joy.” You place a hand over your stomach, and So’lek reaches forward, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. 

There were a few spots of privacy the forest provided if one knew their way around. Somewhere to keep away from watchful eyes, or an unsuspecting resistance member trying to take flora samples. So’lek and you ducked into the opening of a hidden cave, fingers threaded together as you both exchanged bashful grins at each other over his shoulder. 

The plants within the cave glowed in hues of greens and purples, almost as though greeting both of you. Solek’s bioluminescent dots greeted them in return, as did yours. It went deep, having a body of water underneath a particularly vein-covered ledge, with an opening at the top that trickled down rainwater from the tips of stalactites. You drop your basket near the chillier corners, knowing it will keep the food fresh enough. If not,  you could make a fire in here and roast the meat. 

It wasn’t as though this was the first time that this had happened.

Could either of you be blamed? It was tough to be alone at headquarters, and when you weren’t there, it would most likely be because you’d been pulled to do missions or help nearby clans.

“It will rain soon,” he squints up at the skylight, shuddering slightly as a chill goes through him. You nod, placing your brow in the same corner. “I’ll make a fire then.”

“Let me,” he motions for you to stay put on the woven carpet. 

The fire sparks just as the heavy clouds release the rain. You lean forward, elbows perched onto your knees, and watch as the heavy raindrops splatter on the ground. You feel the warmth of the fire, the crackling of the wood, and finally So’lek’s finger brushing over the curve of your ear. 

He kisses over the mark of the Sarentu on your cheek, his eyes half-lidded as he brushes his thumb over your jaw. You turn to him, your hand dropping down as he locks lips with you. So’lek is careful, moving his lips in tandem with yours in a passionate dance. You gasp softly as he nibbles on your lower lip, but don’t stop him. 

His hand brushes past your nape, and you shudder as he briefly nudges at your kuru. So’lek does not apologise for this; he keeps his grip on you and guides you until you’re laid on your back. The dog tags of the RDA soldiers he’d killed clinked together above you. 

“I’m beginning to think you’re a sore loser,” You murmur. He kisses your chin, then your neck, and he’s careful as he slips his hands up your top. The bullet grazes, the shrapnel pieces, the scars you’d gotten from fighting — he strokes over them like they were precious, like he was thankful that despite everything, you came back with only scars. What was important was that you came back. 

“Why is that?” You widen your legs, and he settles between them as he continues to worship your body. You suck in a breath as he brushes over your chest, but eventually relax under his touch. 

“You so desperately wish to pin me down. Even after we finished playing tag.” So’lek laughs at this, his face instantly lighting up at his toothy grin. He looked so much younger in these moments, so free. The shadows cast on the cave walls sharpen and soften the edges of So’lek’s face, and when he leans down, it causes that phenomenon again. The sun in his eyes, flames burning brightly in that gaze. 

So’lek scents you earnestly. You slip your eyes closed, letting him do as he pleases. It was an intimate act that mates often did in private, nosing affectionately over one’s cheek or brushing your chin over your head. The humans of the resistance likened it to their Earth cats, something that made So’lek scrunch his nose at. But you could see the resemblance at times, especially after seeing a video of those cat creatures. 

“Ma yawnetu,” his voice drips with need. 

“Ma So’lek,” you reply with the same reverence. 

“May I?” His fingers danced on the outer edge of your thighs. You nod up at him, watching him watching you as he teased at the slit of your private parts. You inhaled sharply, feeling his fingers teasing your entrance, coaxing your body to reveal itself. The Na’Vi had evolved to protect itself from certain dangers, admittedly, that meant your privates couldn’t be exposed. 

The Na’Vi had sheaths. A slit between the legs that, once stimulated enough, reveals itself. So’lek says your name, groaning softly as he feels your cunt’s wetness. You gasp as he brushes against your swollen dick, his thumb moving in circles and speeding up the process to make you bloom for him. 

“So’lek,” you whimper. The tip of your tail swishes around as you feel him, then slips a finger inside of you. The thunder rumbles ahead, life moving all around you, and yet all So’lek can focus on is you. 

He licks the sweat away from your neck, once again taking the opportunity to press your foreheads together. He pushes his finger further in, and your back arches. You reach to grip his bicep, mewling as he begins to thrust in and out. 

“Does that feel good, muntxatan?” That deep baritone, you shuddered underneath him. So’lek smiles in that cocky way that makes your stomach flutter. You huff, trying to respond to him, but the second your mouth opens, he slips another finger inside. Your mouth hangs open, a choked-out gasp barely escaping you. 

“Don’t tease,” You bite out. His eyes soften, and his apology is in the form of a deep kiss. 

You peek between his legs and curl your leg. Your knee bumps into his crotch, and So’lek groans. His cockhead had peeked through his slit, leaking and warm as you pressed your knee further. 

“Stop that,” he bites out, though no real venom is laced within his tone. 

You move to sit, and he follows your lead. His fingers slipping out of you. He kneels in front of you, watching you watching him as you undo his waist cloth. You cup his dick, thumbing at his head. He squeezes his eyes shut, more and more of his shaft revealing itself. You continue to coax it out, pressing kisses to his face as you whisper praises to him. 

It fills out your palm, twitching needily as he pants. It’s thick, speckled in little glowing dots. You straddle So’lek, so he holds your waist. You line yourself up and lower yourself onto him. Both of you moan, tails curling and ears flattening as you sink further down. He steadies you when you hiss, telling you to be patient as he strokes over your hips. 

“Take your time, ma yawntu,” he grunts out. 

You try to listen to him, but with the pleasure coursing through you, it proves to be a difficult task. You move your hips, whimpering, and his cock fills more of you. It was like you were meant to take him, of that you were sure.

The rain sheltered the noises you made from prying ears. The cave sang with you, your moans echoing through as So’lek eventually thrusted up into you. Your skin glowed with sweat, both from the fire and the extraneous activity you were doing. You held onto his shoulders, working your thighs out as you bounced on his cock. So’lek hisses through his teeth, eyes going heavy with pleasure. 

He put you on your hands and knees, kissing up your spine as he teased the base of your tail. It whipped around, smacking him on his face. So’lek chuckles, watching as you melt onto your elbows, presenting your eager cunt to him. 

“You should know better than to tempt me,” So’lek warns. You simply curl your tail under his chin. 

So’lek pushes into you. His hips were strong and unrelenting as he pounded into you. His cock spearing you open, again and again, as he knocked the air out of you. Despite this, he maintains his gentle nature in the form of his fingers threading through yours. The way he kisses your neck, praising your handsomeness, your strength for taking him so well.

Sweetly calling out for you, gasping as though begging mercy from you when you clench down onto him. You warn him as your climax draws close, and So’lek holds you close. He slams his face to the junction of your neck and shoulder, the sound of skin smacking skin reverberating through until he gives one last thrust. 

You groan as you cum around his dick, mewling when his cum fills your insides. You feel your thighs twitching, threatening to crumble into a pile on the carpet. So’lek breathes against you, rubbing patterns onto your hips as he tries to collect himself. 

You make a noise of confusion as he grinds in again. 

“May I…may we, continue?” he asks, bashful but wanting.

The fire had nothing but embers the next morning. Crackling faintly as the wood falls into itself. So’lek paid it no mind as he gazed down at you. It’d done its job at keeping you warm, and right before the sun rose, it cooked through the meat perfectly. So’lek glanced up at the skylight, making note of the perfect weather today would bring after a night of heavy rain. 

You stirred beside him, and he carefully brushed a few locks of hair away from your face. When your eyes flutter open, So’lek could not contain himself. He presses another kiss to your face, as though last night were not enough. 

“Kaltxi, ma yawntu.”

“Kaltxi, ma So’lek.”

Glossary

Yerik = hexapede, a land herbivore that resides in various biomes of Pandora.

“Oel ngati kameie, ma tsmukÚ, ulte ngaru seiyi irayo. Ngari hu Eywa salew tirea, tokx 'ì'awn slu Na'viyä hapxì.” =” I see you, sister, and thank you. May Eywa be with you, I return your spirit”

Nantang = viperwolf, is a hyena/wolf-like carnivore.

Tslikxyu tsawlak = scarab crawler, a small but stocky creature, its body is protected by a thick, reptilian skin, and a prominent shell. Large, but lightweight, this sturdy shell covers most of the body. 

Palulukan = thanator, is a carnivorous hexapedal animal native to the forests of Pandora.

Ikran = banshee, are large dragon-like aerial predators that are native to Pandora. They can be found roosting on the various cliff sides of the Hallelujah Mountains.

Kuru = queue, is an appendage that is part of many species' anatomy on Pandora, including the Na'vi. Most Pandoran life forms possess one or two queues. When a creature connects these tendrils with those of another being, it enables mental communication between the two entities and the sharing of information, including memories, emotions, and sensory input.

Yoten eggs = The yoten is a colourful reptilian creature that lives in the Kinglor Forest. Able to climb trees much like a chameleon, it curls up into a ball when threatened and rolls rapidly away using its closely arranged back scales for friction.

ma yawnetu/ma yawntu = my love

ma (name) = my (name) (example: ma so’lek = my so’lek)

Sarentu = The Sarentu clan were a nomadic clan of Na'vi. A highly respected clan, famous for its outstanding storytellers, singers and stories. They were known for being diplomats who could resolve conflicts and bring peace, both within and between clans.

Muntxatan = male spouse/husband.

Choso’s younger brothers were the people in his life that he could never be swayed away from. He’d told this to you during your third date together, sitting side-by-side on a playground swing after school was over. He adored them, you had told Uraume. Sighing about how noble it was, and how protective he was of them.

The threatening letters weren’t that hard to conjure. Uraume didn’t have to think hard about how much they despised Choso and his family. They could admit that perhaps a few words may have been a tad over the top – disembowel, decapitate – but it got through Choso. The boy held onto you until Uraume eventually dropped off photos of his younger brothers walking back from their middle school, complete with their eyes crossed out in red pen.

Oh, you cried into Uraume’s shoulder and whimpered like a sweet pet that’d been hit, but Uraume was just happy that you were now walking back with them to and from school again. Like how it always had been and should be, just you two together.

They were both your shepherd and your livestock dog. In Uraume’s eyes, you were a lamb that always wandered off, taking leaps and bounds on the valleys that they’d fiercely protect—naively thinking that these pests were worthy of your time.

No. Absolutely not. None of them deserved to gaze upon you, much less hold you.

So this sight before them now was an affront to everything they’d tried so hard to protect you from. Sukuna’s tattooed hand was resting on your hips whilst you leaned into him. Entirely too casual. Uraume likened Sukuna to a centipede. Too many legs, practically slithering about your body with the way he’s gripped onto you. They pull their shoulders back and stifle a sigh, half-listening to the conversation going on around the group. Seeing as you had a mid-term break, you wanted to spend it with your loved ones.

Which somehow included Sukuna.

Standing in line for a Ferris wheel ride had never been as irritating as it had been now. You reached for their hand, and the dark look shadowing their face instantly dissipates.

“Hey, you feeling okay?” A grin spreads on your face. “Uraume, don’t tell me you’ve suddenly developed a fear of heights?”

They scoff, rolling their eyes fondly as they loosen their crossed arms. Uraume takes a step closer to you, ignoring the conversation of your university friends and Sukuna, as they flick your forehead playfully. It would’ve been a casual display if you weren’t stuck between Sukuna and Uraume. They were both too close, even with the line being congested with eager carnival goers – the concept of personal space was lost in the ether for the three of you.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten that I don’t get scared easily,” they muse.

You laugh, undeterred, but back up further into that centipede’s grabby hands, and Sukuna doesn’t even hide his smug little face.

‘Wrong play,’ Uraume imagines Sukuna is saying to them, ‘A bit overbearing, aren’t you, childhood best friend?’

Sukuna continued to hold you close. In the Ferris wheel cab, due to the group of friends you’d invited, Sukuna decided to offer his lap for you to sit on. Your friends teased, giggled, and recorded some dumbass videos for their Instagram Story that you waved off with laughter. Uraume wanted to throttle that pink-haired bastard as they sat across from each other. Sukuna pressed his nose to your neck, then trailed his hand to your thighs. You clench them together, turning to scold him for his indecency, then look around to make sure no one saw.

You see Uraume’s jaws clenched together, their fingers curled into fists. Yet, the second their pupils meet yours, all that animosity vanishes as if it’d never been there at all. It makes you blink, wondering if your eyes were playing tricks on you.

“Babe, the fireworks are starting,” Sukuna’s voice pulls you away from the odd moment.

With school taking up most of your personal time, hanging out with friends has to be slightly productive. Grocery shopping with Uraume was a bonding activity. But you were on break, so today it was Sukuna pushing the shopping cart beside you. He was on a lunch break, though his nicotine had satiated him enough, and you were nearby on an errand. So why not, he decided.

The fact that you mentioned how grocery shopping was usually an Uraume and you “thing,” did make this a bit more worthwhile, but that’s neither here nor there. Sukuna wanted to rub it in their face. Fuck them for glaring at him and making comments about his job. As if that pretty little ice princess — and he says this to mock their neat cuticles and their habit of lifting their pinkie when they pick up their cup, not to be a dick about what’s between their legs — could shit out gold every time they popped a squat.

“What are you thinking of getting, baby?” You tilt your head at his question, lips pursed while you look between two different brands of shampoo. “See something you like?” Sukuna idles closer, perching his chin comically on your shoulder and you don’t hold back the grin on your face.

“No…yeah, but I’m just thinking it over,” You barely stifle a sigh. “Usually Uraume helps me choose.”

Sukuna frowns at their name. Even when they weren’t physically here, somehow their name always seemed to appear. As if they were haunting your everyday lives together — Sukuna sucked his teeth then plucked the two bottles from your hand. He held it up, squinting at them.

”What does this one do more successfully compared to the other one?”

It warmed your heart to know that he cared enough to know, and so you open your mouth to explain.

But then your phone buzzes—Thrice in a row.

You pull it out from your pockets and Sukuna sees the text Uraume sends you. The first notification banner was an alert from your bank, informing you that Uraume had sent you some money. The second was the online receipt they’d forwarded to you, and the third and most irritating was their message that said;

‘You mentioned not knowing which shampoo brand you wanted, get both and tell me which one you prefer.’

Sukuna’s jaw dropped at their audacity.

Going to cosmetology school was a wild ride at times. How else could you explain to other people that as your final exam, you had to give a mannequin a haircut? It was fulfilling to you though, and though you had moments where you wondered if this was the right path in life, you ultimately enjoyed it. Still, it was school and grades mattered.

Sukuna had said his pink hair was something his nephew and friends had done to him by accident. It was one of the things that stood out to you the night you saw him. A well-built, leather-jacket-clad man with hand tattoos, sporting salmon-pink hair, drew you in instantly. The only good thing to come out of the mishap, Sukuna would grumble to you affectionately. So now, he sat in your chair as you diligently tried to bleach his roots.

It was an exam. As funny as it sounded. Sukuna glanced at the other students and their volunteers, then at the mirror in front of him. Your brows were furrowed as you mixed some sort of funny-smelling solution into a bowl. You were trying to hide it, but he could tell you were anxious. Something about making sure that his roots blended into the rest of his hair without looking a different shade of pink.

“Hey, you okay? The chemicals getting to you?” Sukuna teased. You give him a huff of laughter, shaking your head as you walk closer to him.

“I just don’t wanna fuck up my grade.”

”Aaand my hair, right?”

”And your hair,” you reassured with a fond eyeroll.

“I’m sure you’ll do great, babe. You’ve practised this before, a ton. If it ends up wonky, we can just buy some cheap box dye.”

You frown as you look at his reflection in the mirror.

“You think that’s reassuring?” Sukuna smirks, turning to glance up at you. “I’m just fucking with you. You’ll do great.”

You did great. But Sukuna’s jests made you much more anxious than you should be, so in your next exam, Uraume sat in front of you. They were blunt but never cruel — not that Sukuna was cruel, but you had a better understanding of their tone compared to his — and their calm presence often kept your anxiety in check

“Is your scalp doing okay?” Your face hovered next to theirs and Uraume nodded, pretending not to feel their heart drumming in their ears. “I’m used to the tingles. Nothing is burning or itching. Did the colour lift okay?”

You beamed and said Now was the moment of truth. The way your eyes sparkled at the bleached hair made Uraume’s shoulders droop in relief. This was a big deal for you, and they were glad that everything was going your way. You said you needed to tone their hair, and toddled off to grab your things. They glanced at the moodboard you had propped on the table.

Platinum, almost silver, white base with a dash of red across the back; like a modern art piece of an artistically swiped red paint. The haircut was a neat bob with blunt bangs and Uraume’s insides fluttered at the thought of wearing something you had created for months and months and months.

To have people admire their hair, to boast that it was you who’d done it. That your fingers threaded through their hair, and massaged their scalp and nape; that you had looked over them diligently and how every brush of your gloved hand against their skin made shivers run down their spine. Uraume knew they shouldn’t cross their legs — you mentioned how haircuts ended up lopsided every time someone didn’t sit with both their thighs stuck to the chair — but they made sure that their haircut bib gracefully covered them.

“I’ve practised this a hundred times,” You whispered as you stirred around the red pigment. They could see your brows pinched so tightly that your skin creased between them. “I hope I won’t fuck this up, promise you won’t be mad if I do though?”

Uraume frowned, then turned their head to face you. Their side profile was intimidating but their tone was comforting despite the severe expression.

“I know you won’t fuck it up. You never have. You’re the only hairstylist I trust for a reason.” Your cheeks warmed, so you ducked your head and continued to stir. “You know I don’t even have my credentials yet, officially I mean.”

”A law student doing something shady, wouldn’t be the first time.” You chuckled at their dry tone and they turned to face the mirror and your moodboard again. They call out your name softly and you finally direct your focus away from the bowl of red goop. Uraume’s expression was stern, but gentle.

”I trust you, and I know the result will be amazing. Just like you’ve envisioned. You trust me, right?”

You nod after a moment, after a breath, and smile at Uraume. Of course, you trusted them. They were your friend, best friend even, practically your soulmate.

“You know, you’re so beautiful,” Uraume raised a brow at your sudden compliment but you continued. “You have a perfect fade to be into modelling, Uraume. I mean, I couldn’t imagine just anyone could rock this kind of hairdo as successfully as you do. Have you ever thought about modelling?”

”No, I don’t really care much about that. I’m not as stylish as most, and like I said you’re the only hairstylist I have. I don’t need anyone else, just you.”

If their words caused your heart to skip a beat, you didn’t let it show. The sounds of a hair dryer drowned out the beat of silence between you and Uraume simply watched your reflection as you worked.

You naturally passed your exam with flying colours and Uraume gladly accepted you rushing into their arms in glee, squeezing you tightly. Your smile was infectious and Uraume felt as though their heart was going to combust from how giddy you were.

Uraume was pissed. Beyond pissed. They were damn near irate.

[ I can’t wait for you to get here! ]

Your text said, and Uraume was relieved that you two could finally just have a night out together. Nice music, mediocre bar food, but good drinks and good conversation. It’d be like before that annoying centipede came into your life and impeded your schedules — your university friends were annoying enough but that man was something else entirely.

So, Uruame had dressed their best and ensured that their hair — your masterpiece — was prim and tidy only to come upon this sight. You, Sukuna, and a mutual friend of Sukuna’s greeted them as they walked in.

The centipede has his hands on you, as usual, and you eagerly introduce Uraume to the man next to you. Uraume didn’t bother to register their name, because the grinding of their teeth overshadowed everything else around them.

”He’s single,” You sang to them, motioning between Uraume and the man with your eyes excitedly.

Sukuna smirked over the rim of his glass. Not even the good draft beer tasted as delicious as the sight of Uraume’s simmering anger. It was a good wake-up call. The little freak had 3-months to get the message that you were no longer single. But no, they stubbornly held on and consistently tried to one-up him at every turn like some desperate ex-partner — except they were too much of a pussy to actually do anything first, so they couldn’t even qualify as an ex.

This should get it through their thick skulls. That prick thought they were the only ones who could play these games? Sukuna would beg to differ. What’s his is his, and he doesn’t take kindly to anyone who tries to take his things away.

”Come on, you can get to know each other better over some beer.”

Here they were, dripping in all of their adoration for you. Practically stewing in it for years now and you had done it. You had finally tipped them into a state of disbelief and bewilderment and anger at the fact that you were not only blind but chronically so. They scoffed, licking the back of their teeth and shook their heads.

”We need to talk,” Uraume clasped their hand over your wrist and jerked their chin to the back of the bar. You blink in confusion but stutter out okay, placing your glass down for a moment then turning. But Sukuna placed a heavy hand on your shoulder and you jerked backwards slightly. His single friend watched the scene with their brows raised, their lips clumsily trying to reach for their swirly straw in their glass.

“Where the hell are you taking him?” Sukuna is smiling but it’s entirely too sharp for your liking. Uraume levels their gaze head-on, undeterred or uncaring of his glare. “I need to talk to him, preferably alone.”

”I’d prefer for you to talk to him right here, in front of me. In front of everyone, you fucking creep.”

”Sukuna!” You exclaim, twisting to face him as you furrow your brows. “What the hell, dude? It’s just a talk, we’re just friends.”

Both of their jaws clench.

“Yeah?” Sukuna chuckles darkly, his tongue poking the insides of his cheek as he reaches for Uraume’s shoulder. They square their shoulders, their stare short of murderous as they pull away from his reach. The bartenders begin to eye both of them, already sensing the telltale signs of a fight. You sigh, grabbing Sukuna’s leather jacket to pull him back but he simply tugs away from you. His mouth was set into a snarl-like grin and the energy in the air felt heavy all of a sudden.

“Jesus Christ — both of you, quit it!” You shove them both away, snapping at Sukuna to take a seat at the bar while you tug Uraume to the front of the bar. Still in Sukuna’s line of sight to ease whatever dumbass worries he has, while Uraume can speak to you without any nosy ears.

“What’s going on —“ Uraume cuts you off. ”What do you see in him?”

The question causes you to freeze, blinking rapidly as your face scrunches.

“What are you talking about?”

“That dumbass in the bar with pink hair. The man who's barely scraping by fixing junk cars for fun, the one who had run in with the law before. What the fuck do you see in that asshole?”

”Uraume, you looked up his records?”

They look at you with an incredulous face. As if confused at your confusion. Because of course they did, they’ve always done so. You just never asked, so they never told.

“They’re public.”

”Uraume!” You groan, swiping a hand down your face.

“You always do this. I’m not a fucking kid, I don’t need you to be my mom and hover over me.”

A group of women pass by, giggling and ooh-ing as they flood through the front door. Uraume takes the opportunity of cover to grab you by the collar and drag you to the alleyway. You fumble over your feet, arms swinging around to keep your balance and yelp out in alarm but get pulled along anyway.

They tug you forward and your back hits the wall. Uraume stands there, arms crossed over their chest as they assess you from head to toe.

“Uraume —“

”I don’t want to be your mom. Same way as I don’t want to be your older sibling figure, or just your childhood best friend that you feel like you need to set up with someone.”

”Okay, so Jogo wasn’t the best choice —“

”Shut up!” Uraume’s hands go to their sides. Fists clenched in frustration as they take rapid steps towards you. Their hand slams next to your head, causing you to press your back flat against the wall as their face hovers above yours.

You hold your breath, eyes wide like saucer plates as their gaze bores into your soul. They breathe heavily, their anger still coursing through them like a river of fire, and you’re stunned at how beautiful they are up close. Most people end up a bit distorted, but Uraume was unfairly handsome. Even in shit lighting.

“Just…shut up already.”

Uraume’s lips are soft, but the way they kiss you isn’t. It’s demanding, pressing so hard into you that you can practically feel their teeth and you smack the heel of your hand into their shoulder. It only causes them to pin you to the wall, their eyes glaring as they move their jaw. Desperate to make you accept this — accept them.

You try to purse your lips away, but Uraume chases after them with their teeth and you gasp as they bite down. They take the chance to slip their tongue inside, and they damn near moan at the taste that meets their tongue. The alcohol, mixed in with something so uniquely you — Uraume breathed through their nose as they pressed harder into you.

Their lungs tell them it was time to breathe, burning slightly the longer it goes on, but eventually they pull away. You gasp, coughing as you cover your mouth and swipe a finger on your bleeding lip. Your breath trembles and your pupils shakily climb up Uraume’s body only to pause as you catch them mid-lick. They had your blood on their teeth, lips, on the pad of their thumb with a fat drop of blood trailing its way down their lip and down their chin. They swipe it away and suck on it, a muffled groan escaping them as they savour you.

“Why the fuck would you do this now?” You grit out through your teeth, hanging your head down as you try to calm your racing heart.

“When I’m in a relationship. Why would you do this now?”

Uraume lets your words settle over them for a moment. Did you know that they loved you more than a friend should? Have you known all this time?

“Are you kidding me —“

You smash your lips into theirs. Arms wrapped around their neck as your chest tries to meld with theirs even through the clothes. Oh, this was so wrong on so many levels. Maybe you could blame the alcohol you’d taken, or the adrenaline rushing through you, but truthfully it was this little flame in you that Uraume stoked and fed all your life.

Starved for their attention, spoiled by their attentiveness.

But too chicken-shit to take a step inside and let themselves be consumed by you. Waiting for you to call, and beckon, and flutter your lashes coyly to initiate. As if you didn’t relish in their quiet anger, and jealousy. As if you don’t preen when they successfully chase away your little boyfriends, taking comfort in their arms and hushed encouragement.

But starved for the real thing. For Uraume to just say that they wanted to own you, to keep you and brand you and make you.

But why now when you haven’t broken up with Sukuna? When you’d be seen as the bad person instead of the opposite?

You whine into the kiss, hands desperately reaching through their hair and shivering as they retaliate your neediness with their own. Clawing at your hips, desperate to get rid of that centipede’s presence as they tug your shirt up.

”Fuck, wait, it’s cold.”

”Good,” Uraume snaps out. “Deal with it.”

”Uraume~” You whimper out, glancing over their shoulder worriedly until their lips wrap around your nipple. You squeak, trying your hardest not to tug on their hair as they greedily lap at your chest. You stumble over your legs, but they stubbornly keep you up with the hand around your waist and once again press you against the wall.

“Shit, c’mon, this isn’t — this isn’t fair. You already bit my lip, can’t you be nicer to me — ah!”

”You fucking brat, you think I’m going to be patient?”

Uraume unzips your pants, then places their forehead over yours as they press a kiss to your lips.

“I’m gonna finger you here, and I’m going to make you cum so hard you’ll be begging for me to fuck you.”

Their hand slips down your underwear, their fingers cold and instantly causing you to suck in your stomach. Your dick twitches at their touch, filling up in their palm as they slip their digits lower. You grip onto their shoulder, gasping airily as they tease at your hole.

“You’re fucking dripping for me.”

”Please.”

”Do you imagine it happening like this?” Uraume scowls as they breach you. You clench around their fingers, thighs twitching as they slip another inside. You whimper, grounding your hips to the heel of their hand.

“You slutty brat.”

”Uraume.”

The way you said their name — desperate, breathless — made them growl as they mottled your neck with their mouth.

Their digits pump into you with one purpose; to make you shatter. You mewl into their mouth, fingers digging into their back as they angle their hands to give you better friction. The difference in temperature makes you keen, your warm cunt and their cold hands making your hips jerk. It’s perfect, they were perfect. Every other past boyfriend didn’t compare to this, you can’t even think of any experience that made you this hot and bothered before.

You gasp, throat hitching as you feel your orgasm coil in your stomach. Uraume’s pupils shrink and instantly, they double their efforts. Their hands hurt, almost cramping from keeping their wrist at this angle, but they watch your face completely mesmerised by it. Your mouth hangs open, sounds of pleasure escaping you as your eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck, fuck!”

They stop.

You inhale sharply, then exhale as though you’d been struck. You call out for them, forehead over theirs as you press kisses to their cheek.

“Uraume, no, don’t stop.”

”Does he touch you like this?” Uraume’s voice takes a low tone. Something so deliciously dangerous it makes your stomach do flips. “Have they defiled you?”

”It’s your fault,” you bite out. “You kept waiting, like an egotistical bastard. I could only imagine you in their place. That’s the only way,” your hips grind down again and Uraume’s brow twitched at your audacity. “That’s the only way I can cum.”

”Thinking of me? Should I be flattered?”

”Extremely.”

Uraume resumed their actions and you had to hide your face in their neck to keep yourself from moaning like a whore in the alleyway. You shudder as you come all over their fingers, squeezing them like a vice as they slow down. They slip out, and you litter kisses all over their neck and jaw as you sweetly comb through their hair.

“Fuck me next, like you promised. Please, please.”

Uraume imagined your first time together to be anything but this. They imagined a bedroom, theirs or yours, and a nice slow pace that builds up. But truth be told, knowing that their little lamb was as devious and manipulative as they were, this seemed fitting.

They undid their pants, and slipped their dick out. You press your back to the wall again, your pants pooled around one ankle while they lift your thigh up to wrap around their waist. Your cocks get acquainted, rubbing against the other while you both lip lock again. Jaws move up and down while you cradle their face in your palm and they feel your pulse against their soiled palm.

“Your dick is so hard,” Uraume murmurs. You smile against the kiss, and Uraume nearly scoffs at your smug face. “So big, and so twitchy. I wish I could’ve been able to see your bottom growth,” you moan their name again and angle your hips needily to tease them with your wet cunt.

”Sukuna.”

”I’ll break up with him. God, can you just fuck me already — Ah!”

Uraume’s dick felt almost never ending. Their cock stretched you out, leaving you breathless as their tip settles in and you cover your mouth as they push more of themselves in. Your skin ripples in goose flesh as they tug your hand away to kiss you. Your brain nearly short circuits the more they push but a louder part of it swoons in pure delight. Uraume curses, gripping onto the swell of your ass like a lifeline as they licked the sweat off your neck.

Fuck, you were perfect. Wrapped around them like a glove. So warm and so tight, as if made for them to bury themselves deep inside of you.

Because you were, right?

You must be if you’re moaning for them like this. Waiting for them for years, goading them, egging them on when you knew they adored you. Ah, Uraume had never been so proud of you. Your moans are being punched out of you from this angle. The position gives your dick to rub against them as they thrusted in and out of you. Their faces twisted in concentration, teeth grit together as you squeezed around them.

“You feel so good,” You mewled out. Uraume moved their grip to the back of your thighs and gripped it hard enough to bruise. You panted, going slacked jaw as they continued their pace.

“Cum with me,” they whispered while carefully brushing back your hair from your face. “Cum with me.”

”Yeah, yeah, I’m close,” Uraume grinned charmingly and you returned it but the expression quickly fell apart as they reached to rub at your cock.

“Nuh — not fairrrrr — Nghah!”

”Cumming, fuck, I’m cumming.”

You tossed your head back as it washes over you, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your entire body shudders in pleasure. Uraume is close behind, eyebrows resting on your collarbone as they thrust as deep as they could to cum inside of you. You mewl weakly, combing over their hair as you both catch your breath.

“Fuh — Fuuuck, it’s slipping down my thigh.”

”Good,” Uraume scoffed. Yet, their eyes were so warm and soft as they looked at you.