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Steady hands adjust your stance. The target is the farthest it’s ever been, but yet you’ve not hit it a single time before. If you can’t hit it from 10 feet? You’re not sure how Tsyeyk expects you to hit it from 30.

“Tsyeyk, I can’t do this!”

“Since when do you call me that?” He makes a disgruntled face at your words.

“You mean your name?” You raise a brow as his chest gets closer to yours. A finger comes up to reposition your face, “Eyes forward.”

“I thought it’s only appropriate now that I’m learning Navi— Well I don’t like it. Call me ‘Jake’ when it’s just the two of us. I like it,” he says it so casually. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire from his words, and he seems as cool as a fucking cucumber…you could strangle him right now.

“Okay then, Jake, I still can’t do this! What makes you think I’m going to hit the target that far away?” There’s an annoyance growing inside of you.

“Yes, you can. Your form is always perfect after minor tweaking— it’s your heart that’s failing you.” His hand comes to rest on your chest, “It’s strong, but you do not fully trust in it. Stop holding back.”

You swallow the lump in your throat as you take in his words. “Stop getting so tense like you know you’re going to fail before you even try— But I am going to fail— See! This is exactly what I mean!You have to have faith in yourself. Faith that your arrow will follow the path of where your heart desires.”

He keeps his hand on your chest, “Breathe in.” So you follow his instructions, a slow deep breath in as your eyes focus on the target. “Now relax. Feel the dirt between your toes and how Eywa beats underneath it. Feel the wind as it blows through your hair, becoming one with the breaths you take. And breathe out,” your fingers release the arrow before you realize what you’re doing.

It soars through the air, and for the first time since you’ve started these lessons— it lands. It isn’t perfectly in the middle, but that doesn’t matter. You jump up and down as a cheer tears out of you, “I did it, Jake! Holy shit I actually did it!”

He’s just watching you with a smile, “I told you that you could do it.”

“So, since I’ve totally mastered this, when will you teach me to shoot from my Ikran?” You’re only joking, but the genuine look of concern on the man’s face has you hitting his chest. “I was kidding asshole!”

He just lightly shoves you before pulling you back into another shooting position. “Jokes are supposed to be funny…not terrifying.”

“Your face is terrifying,” you stick your tongue out at him. He just rolls his eyes with a shake of his head. You are truly the hardest recruit he’s ever trained….but also the cutest.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“Neytiri?” Your shy call of her name catches her attention.

She turns to meet you, a soft smile on her lips. “Hello, y/n. How’d your archery lesson go with oeyä tsmukan?” (my brother)

She’d been the first to welcome you with open arms after their mother had declared for you to learn the Omatikaya’s ways. And while you originally would’ve preferred her being your guide…you can’t deny the fondness you’ve grown for her older brother.

A slight blush creeps up your neck, “It went well, I actually hit the target today.”

She laughs at that, waving you over to sit with her while she weaves. “You will need to learn this next, but my brother has the hands of an impatient toddler when it comes to crafting.”

It’s your turn to laugh now, images of Tsyeyk with flattened ears and tiny huffs of irritation coming from his mouth. “That’s actually why I’ve come to see you. I-I want to make a bracelet.”

Neytiri side eyes you for a second, a sneaky little grin fighting its way to take over his lips. “Mmm,” she hums as her hands work flawlessly. “A bracelet for yourself?”

“No, uhm…a bracelet for your b-brother— just as a thank you! You know, for teaching me archery and all the other stuff and yeah…” You trail off after you realize that you’re rambling, cheeks on fire as you avoid eye contact.

She just keeps smiling, eyes racking over you as she takes in your embarrassment. At first her words send a sinking feeling through your gut, “Many beautiful Navi women have tried to steal my brother’s heart over the years, but none of them have succeeded.”

How stupid are you to think that the Olo’eyktan-in-waiting would feel the same? He’s learned to tolerate you. Nothing more and nothing less. That’s what you think Neytiri is trying to say. That of all the beautiful women in their clan— why would he pick a dream walker with demon blood? A woman he hated at first and was forced to mentor?

“But then I brought you back to meet with our clan. And oh Eywa he was so mad I brought you here— and even angrier when sa’nok made him teach you our ways. You challenge him in ways no other woman ever has. Make him confront the parts of himself he buries. As you humans say, you ‘push his buttons’,” You both laugh at her use of the phrase. (mother)

“He watches you even when he doesn’t have to. It’s like he can’t help but to find you in every crowd. My brother is a lot of things, y/n. He is stubborn and hard headed…but he’s also in love with you.”

You swear your soul leaves your body for a second. There is no way she is really feeding into your delusions right now. This has to be some twisted joke, “Neytiri stop it! That isn’t funny,”

One of her hands comes to rest on your shoulder, “It is not funny because I did not tell a joke— Tsyeyk doesn’t even like me, let alone love me!” You barely let her get the words out. Your mind is running a mile a minute as she continues.

“Oh my Eywa! He looks at you the way Tsu’tey looks at me! Men are not all that different. You can learn to read them easily…another skill I can teach you,” her eyes find yours still filled with hesitation.

“Why do you think all of the other warriors have stopped coming to talk to you?”

You don’t have an answer for that. Your mouth hangs open as you try and think of a real reason as to why the group of men have stopped following you around like lost puppies during the evening meal.

“Why do you think he walks over every single night to give his extra nikt’chey to you? He doesn’t even let me have it when I ask anymore!”

Your brows furrow at that. As much as they tease each other, Tsyeyk would bend over backwards for his little sister. Why would he give you extra food over her?

“And do not think you two are being sneaky when you ride your ikrans before sunrise. We all know.”

“That’s just flying lessons!” You try and reason. You’ve blushed so much at this point you think it might become a permanent tint to your skin.

“Then why do you try to sneak off like teenagers? And why do both always come back with perfectly braided hair? Seems pretty romantic to me,” she shrugs along with her last words. Her hands go to put down the basket she’s working on.

“Now, what colors were you thinking for this bracelet?” She’s smiling at you like she didn’t just blow up the foundation of your whole world.

“Uhm, I-I brought some rocks I found in the river!” You pull the small sack from your waist and pour them out onto the small wooden table in front of you. Mixes of oranges, blues, and greens liter the surface.

“I wasn’t sure how many to get. I just thought these colors would look pretty on him,” the last sentence comes out before you can stop it. “I mean— together! They look pretty together! You know the color scheme and everything!”

Neytiri can’t help but double over in laughter. You’re dying of embarrassment and she’s about to die of oxygen deprivation if she doesn’t remember to breathe. You truly wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole right about now. But when she finally pulls herself together she’s quick to apologize.

“I’m sorry! I did not mean to laugh at you…I just don’t think I’ve ever heard the word pretty used to describe my brother,” she coughs to cover up another giggle that breaks through. “Should we get started?”

“Jesus Christ, please.” You murmur as you briefly fan your face.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

After about two hours of careful crafting, you’ve finally finished the piece of jewelry. It’s not the best, but it’s definitely not the worst. Neytiri seems very proud for it to be your first ever attempt, “This is better than anything Tsyeyk’s made up until recently, and he’s had a ton more time more than you to learn!”

She sees the nervous look on your face as you trace it over in your hands. All you see are the imperfections. How it’s not all crisp and doesn’t look like the ones she makes. Her hands come to cover yours, “He will love it regardless because it comes from you. It could fall apart after 10 seconds and he’d still find a way to wear it…just to have a piece of you with him wherever he goes.”

You give her a genuine smile, moving to place the bracelet back in the sack you’d carried the rocks in. “Thank you, Neytiri. I will definitely be back for more lessons! Well, only if you’ll have me of course.”

“Is that even a question? I would love to steal Tsyeyk’s star pupil! We barely get to see each other anymore since he keeps stealing you away,” she pulls you up to walk with her.

“But it’s time for the evening meal and you know what that means,” she’s looking at you mischievously as she leads you towards the communal fire pit. “Can’t it wait till after we’ve all ate, Tiri?”

“Absolutely not! I didn’t just spend 2 hours teaching you just to wait any longer,” she’s literally dragging you through the village. If this had been Earth and you were crushing on one of your friends brother’s? It would’ve been a cat fight. Here? Neytiri is practically trying to shove you into his arms.

You see the clans people gathered around the fire, family and friends relaxing at the end of a long day. There are children running around playing, still full of energy they’re trying to get out before bed.

And then there’s the warriors. A group of the strongest and most skilled protectors of the clan. That’s what Jake had called them. He doesn’t like the title ‘fighter’. They don’t fight for the sake of violence— they fight to protect their families and honor their home.

His eyes find yours almost immediately. He’s laughing at something one of his friends said, the orange glow of the fire casting a beautiful haze over him. He looks breathtaking in this low light. Oh yeah…you’re down BAD.

Your eyes don’t part the whole walk over. It’s like you’re in trance, feet somehow still moving. You’re sure without Neytiri guiding you it’d be a wreck…probably already would’ve fallen over or walked straight into the flames. She pushes you to the front as you finally make it to his group, her mate sitting on the other side of him.

“I see you must be extra hungry tonight if you are walking all the way over here for my nikt’chey,” Jake teases you.

“She did not come for the food, tsmukan.” Neytiri corrects from behind you. “Did you, y/n?”

You open your mouth but no words come out. This is a lot harder than you thought it would be with all of these eyes on you. The group of big, buff warriors are crowded around like a lunchroom of teenage girls getting gossip. Neytiri’s tail whips the back of your leg to snap you out of it.

“OW!” You turn to her slightly, but she’s just pointing with her eyes. You follow her gaze and see it’s resting on the sack tied to your loincloth. “OH! Right,” you fumble to untie it as fast as you can.

“I-I, uhm, wanted to thank you for the lessons! Especially this last one, so I asked Neytiri to help me make this for you!” Your hands are shaking slightly as you untie the small bag, hands reaching inside as you pause for a moment. “I know it’s not good, b-but it’s just my first try! So, just— be nice, okay?”

You pull out the bracelet and place it gently into his palm. He brings it up to closer to his eyes, hands moving slowly over every little detail as he analyzes it. The colors are like no other jewelry he has. It’s a one of a kind piece that everyone will know came from you. And that is something that lights a fire inside of him. “I love it,” his eyes are quick to find yours again. “Can you put it on me?”

“O-Oh, of course!” Your cheeks heat up once again today as you step in to move closer. Tsyeyk holds his arm up for you, a sense of pride filling his chest as you secure the bracelet into his wrist. In his mind you’ve just staked your claim on him— in front of his whole clan. A clear sign of courting that he gladly accepts. He catches sight of his little sister giggling behind you and his eyes squint.

“Has my sister told you what our mating customs entail?” Jake has a grin on his face as he studies your perplexed expression. “No?”

The warriors all start to snicker as you look around at them. “Why is everyone laughing?”

“Because, paskalin…” Jake pulls you to sit in his lap as you let out a squeal, “you’ve just chosen me to be your mate.” (sweet berry)

Your jaw drops at that, head snapping to jerk between him and his sister, who is wearing an evilly happy grin by the way. “Do not worry,” Jake brings his nikt’chey to your lips. You instinctually bite down on it as the realization dawns on you that…he’s. feeding you.

“I accept,” again he says it so casually. Like he’s reading the fucking weather report. “I did not agree to this!” You try and counter, but it’s weak…especially when you snuggle back further into his chest as you open your mouth for another bite of his food.

Neytiri joins Tsu’tey as the evening continues. You share food, stories, and laughter around the group. And as the night winds down and everyone’s leaving for their own beds, you and Jake remain tangled in each other’s embrace. Neytiri had to practically come back and drag you to your hammock. So you reluctantly say goodnight, your fingers not leaving each other’s until they have absolutely have to.

And right before the sun came up the next day, a familiar hand is shaking you from sleep and leading you out of the village. Under the guise of the darkness you sneak through the trees with your soon-to-be mate, playful tugs of the tail and quick kisses exchanged as you race to your ikrans.

⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔

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you nod and climb out. you’re wearing nothing but a thin white crop top stretched tight over your swollen tits and tiny denim shorts that barely cover your ass, standard uniform for new stock on sukuna’s hybrid ranch. thighs ripping from the seat after the long drive. your tits are killing you—swollen, aching, a wet patch already blooming. the little brass bell on your leather collar jingles when you move.

sukuna’s eyes drop to it, then lower, lingering on the way your nipples poke through thin cotton. “what's your name again, pretty girl?”

you give him your name softly, and he grins.

“mm, cute. i’m ryomen sukuna. i own this shithole. but it’s my shithole.”

he jerks his chin toward the biggest barn, black paint, a couple windows. “the bull’s in there. name’s toji fushiguro. he’s a mean, spoiled son of a bitch and he’s run off every cow i’ve brought home this year. six of ‘em. one lasted four hours before she was crying for her mama. you walk in there, he don’t like you, i put you back on the road with gas money and a sorry. he does like you…” sukuna grins, slow and sharp. “then you’re mine till you pop out a calf or three. you still want the tour?”

your tail flicks nervously, milk beads at your nipples, threatening to drip. “i already quit my job and sold my furniture.”

“good girl.” he claps once, loud. “let’s go see your bull, yeah?”

he walks you across the yard, boots crunching on the gravel. the closer you get to the barn the thicker the air gets—hay, sweat, something darker. a man’s musk so strong your knees wobble. sukuna slides the heavy door open just enough to slip through and pulls you in after him.

inside it’s dim and warm, lit by a couple hanging bulbs. hay bales tower like walls, chains dangle from the rafters.

choso—his ranch hand—is inside, pitchfork in hand, flannel sleeves rolled high. his dark eyes flick up, lock on your chest, then snap away like he’s been burned.

sukuna smirks. “kamo, meet the new girl. ain't she pretty?”

choso swallows hard, gives a tiny nod, tipping his cowboy hat to you. “yes, boss.”

you smile at him, then look around some more. it's then that you see him, in the center ringed by soft straw, sprawled out like a king, tail flicking lazy, black ears angled back. he’s bigger than you pictured. he's got shoulders broad enough to block the light, black horns polished to a shine. scars crisscross on his chest and abs like someone tried to carve him up and gave up. he’s wearing nothing but low-slung jeans and a scowl, arms folded, eyes closed.

sukuna gently shoves you forward. “ma'am, this…is toji fushiguro. my best friend, my prized bull with the worst attitude. 'ji, say hello to the pretty little cow that’s finally gonna shut you up.”

toji doesn’t even lift his head. “smells like the last five. i'll pass.”

your stomach drops, wondering what the fuck his problem is. sukuna groans, rolling his eyes.

“stand up and sniff her properly, you lazy fuck.”

toji sighs, pushes to his feet. six foot something of pure muscle and bad attitude. he towers over you, green eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. he circles once—slow—tail brushing your hip. he stops behind you and leans in. one deep breath against the nape of your neck and his whole body goes rigid.

his head snaps up, his nostrils flare, pupils blowing wide until the green is just a thin ring. his tail stops moving.

“this one,” he says, voice so deep it scrapes. “smells like mine.”

your bell jingles hard when you shiver.

sukuna whistles. “well, i'll be damned. eight months and thirty grand later, the prissy little prince finally picks a bride.”

toji shoots him a glare but his attention immediately flicks back to you, his hand settles on your hip—huge, calloused, possessive. “get her clothes off. i wanna see what i’m working with.”

sukuna rolls his eyes but steps forward, fingers hooking the straps of your tank top. “you could try please, asshole.”

“please,” toji mocks, but his eyes never leave you like he's silently asking you for permission.

you nod and lift your arms as toji slides your top up and over your head, your jean shorts are quickly unbuttoned and slide down your body, pooling at your feet. you’re bare underneath except for pale blue panties already soaked through. milk beads at both nipples, fat drops rolling slow down the curve of your tits. toji’s growl deepens. he reaches out, cups one breast gentle—like he’s testing ripeness—then squeezes. milk sprays in a thin arc and you moan a little, knees buckling.

“fuck,” sukuna mutters, adjusting himself. “told you her lines were good.”

toji ignores him. he leans down, drags his tongue over your nipple, lapping up every drop. the rough texture of his tongue feels so good, a hand immediately flying to his hair. his other hand slides between your thighs, cupping your pussy through the fabric.

“pussy’s drenched,” he rasps against your skin. “been thinking about getting some cock the whole drive, huh?”

you shamefully nod before you can stop yourself.

sukuna laughs softly. “alright, princess. guess you’re staying. let’s get her settled before you rut her into the ground on night one.”

toji grunts but steps back—just barely. sukuna takes your hand and tugs you toward a corner of the barn that’s been turned into a little space just for you. a thick mattress piled high with blankets, soft lights strung overhead, a mini fridge humming in the corner. there’s even a tv mounted on the wall, a little dresser for all your things.

“you’ll live here,” sukuna says. “toji don’t like the house. he sleeps in the barn like a feral bastard. but if you need anything, text me. bathroom’s through that door. food’s in the fridge, mostly junk, his majesty’s diet. but don't worry, i’ll bring you real groceries tomorrow.” he winks.

toji’s already shedding his jeans behind you, zero shame. his cock heavy and half-hard, swinging between his thighs. the head’s flushed dark, a thick vein running the underside. you stare too long, imaging bouncing on it, riding him like a cowgirl till he cums deep inside you and he smirks at the redness on your cheeks.

“like what you see, sweetheart?”

your tail swishes, ears twitching, milk drips from your tits a little, pattering onto the blankets.

sukuna sighs like a tired babysitter. “i’m gonna go a grab beer and pretend i’m not watching my best friend ruin a perfectly good heifer on day one. play nice—both of you. kamo! let's head out. give these two lovebirds some privacy.”

choso quickly gathers himself at the sound of his name, as if he wasn't staring at your gorgeous body the entire time. he adjusts himself in his jeans as he walks and slips out alongside sukuna, sliding the barn door shut behind him. the click of the latch echoes. the silence stretches, the air thick and electric.

toji stalks forward until your back hits the mattress pile. he looms over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing down your belly to hook in your panties.

“been waiting a long fucking time for someone that feels right,” he says, voice low. “every one they brought me just…didn’t feel right. you—” he inhales deep along your throat, “—look like you’re it for me.”

he rips your panties off like tissue paper, the cool air hits your soaked folds and you whine.

“gonna take my time tonight,” he murmurs, pushing you down into the blankets. “gonna open you up slow. make sure this pretty pussy remembers who it belongs to.”

his mouth finds your tit again, sucking hard, drawing milk in steady pulls that make your back arch. the other hand slides between your legs, two thick fingers pushing in easy, curling, stroking that spot that has you seeing stars. you’re babbling already—'please, toji, more, need it'—and he just chuckles against your skin.

“you're needy little thing. don’t worry, baby. by morning you’ll be so full of me you’ll feel empty without my cock inside you.”

he works you open for what feels like hours—fingers, tongue, the blunt head of his cock rubbing through your creamy folds till you’re crying and begging for him to fuck you properly. only when you’re limp and trembling does he finally line up and sink in—one slow, relentless push until he’s buried to the hilt and you’re stretched impossibly full.

he stays still, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours. “breathe, baby. that’s it, easy.”

then he starts to move, slow at first, deep rolling thrusts that drag over every nerve. your bell jingles with every snap of his hips. the pace builds steady—harder, faster, the wet slap of his balls against your ass echoing in the barn.

“gonna breed you,” he growls against your ear. “gonna pump you full every fucking day till your belly’s round.”

“g-gonna cum, toji! pl-please, 'm so close.” you whine, gripping his forearms, digging crescents into his skin with your nails.

he groans, a hand slipping between you both to rub tight circles on your aching bud of nerves. “yeah? go on then, baby. make a mess 'round my cock f'me.”

you cum with a broken cry, pussy clamping down around his thick shaft, milking him. he lets out a low groan, thrusting deep, his tip bumping your sweet spot repeatedly and he floods you, cum painting your walls white. he grinds slow, making sure every drop stays inside.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn't want to. he just rolls you both onto your sides, still buried deep, a beefy arm locked around your waist.

“go to sleep,” he mumbles into your hair. “i ain't goin' anywhere.”

you’re already drifting, sore and full and stupidly content, milk leaking slow out from your soft breasts. outside, sukuna and choso's boots crunch on gravel as they walk back to the house, talking about how their little plan worked. the plan being to get toji a girl, not just a mate, but someone to hold. to love. dull out his rough edges.

sukuna's lips grin around a fresh cigarette.

“he finally picked one. how about it, kamo?”

you wake up to the sun slicing through gaps in the barn boards, gold dust floating lazy in the air, and toji’s cock still half-hard inside you from the night before. he’s got one massive arm slung over your waist, nose buried in your hair, breathing deep like he’s been dreaming about your scent. your tits throb—swollen twice as bad overnight, milk drenching the sheets where it leaked while you slept.

every time he shifted and nudged your cervix. the bell on your collar gives a tiny jingle when you try to stretch and realize you’re pinned.

toji grumbles, hips rolling slow, grinding deeper. “quit squirming, baby. 'm tryna sleep.”

“can’t,” you whimper. “it hurts, ne-need milking bad.”

he cracks one green eye open, takes in the way your nipples are pert, red and dripping steady. a smirk tugs his mouth.

“my poor girl. guess i didn't help you out much last night.” his hand slides up, cups one heavy tit, gives a lazy squeeze. milk arcs out, splattering his forearm. he licks it off without shame. “that's alright. i’ll handle it.”

he starts to sit up, but the barn door creaks open and choso steps in, boots quiet on the straw, carrying a shiny steel milking pail and a clean towel slung over his shoulder. his hair’s down today, black strands messy from sleep, flannel unbuttoned enough to show his muscular chest. he freezes when he sees you tangled naked with toji, cheeks going pink.

“uh—boss said to come milk her first thing,” he mumbles, eyes glued to your chest. “didn’t know you two were—sorry.”

toji’s entire body goes stiff. a low sound starts in his chest, vibrating through you where you’re still connected. “the fuck you doing in here, kamo?”

choso swallows, but doesn’t back down. “sukuna’s orders. sh-she look ready to burst. she’ll get mastitis if somebody don’t drain ‘em proper.” then he looks at you with a soft smile, “i can…i can do it. i'll be gentle. promise i won’t hurt you.”

“ye-yeah that's fine, you can—” you start but toji sits up fast, sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes you both groan. his thick cum immediately starts leaking down your thighs. he stands butt-ass naked, tail lashing hard enough to whistle, fists clenched. “i said i’d handle my own.”

“she ain’t just yours,” choso says, voice soft but steady. “she’s on the payroll and boss pays me to keep all the stock healthy.”

toji takes one step forward and the air crackles. “touch her tits and i break your fucking hands.”

choso sets the pail down slow, straightens up. he’s a bit smaller than toji but built solid, shoulders squared now. “try it.”

they crash together before you can even fully blink. toji's horns clacking, fists flying. choso ducks under a wild swing, drives his shoulder into toji’s gut, sends him stumbling back into a hay bale. toji gets back up quickly, grabs choso by the throat, but choso knees him in the ribs, blood drips from toji’s lip and he grins feral around it.

you scramble up on shaky legs, milk streaming down your belly, voice cracking. “stop—please—”

the barn door bangs open again and sukuna storms in, plastic grocery bags swinging from both fists. he takes one look at the fight—toji holding choso against a post, cock and balls out with no shame—sukuna drops everything—eggs smash, beer cans roll, a six-pack bursts and foams across the floor—and wades in like a hurricane.

“enough!” his voice booms, deeper than either of them. he grabs toji by the horn with one hand, choso by the back of the neck with the other, yanks them apart like they weigh nothing. both snarl but freeze under his grip.

“you two idiots gonna kill each other over a pair of tits?” sukuna snaps. “i swear to fuck i leave for twenty minutes—”

“he touched what’s mine,” toji spits, blood on his teeth.

“i didn’t touch shit yet,” choso mutters, wiping his mouth.

sukuna looks at you—standing there naked, shaking, milk running in rivers down your legs mixing with toji’s cum still oozing out. his red eyes darken, tongue dragging slow over his bottom lip.

“both of you shut up.” he lets them go, shoves toji back a step. “new rule. nobody fights in my barn. nobody bleeds on my hay. and nobody—nobody—lets a good woman suffer ‘cause of ego.” he points at your chest. “look at her, fucking look. she’s in pain.”

toji’s ears flatten, guilt flashing quick. choso’s shoulders drop,normally soft eyes even softer—sad almost.

sukuna exhales through his nose, runs a hand over his pink hair. “here’s how this goes. choso’s gonna milk her—by hand, gentle, like he’s paid to. toji, you’re gonna sit your territorial ass right there and watch, ‘cause you’re the reason she’s clogged up in the first place. and if either of you throw another punch, i chain you both outside till winter. we clear?”

toji glares murder, but nods once. choso nods too, not wanting to argue with the man that pays him.

sukuna kicks a busted bag aside, steps over spilled beer, and crooks a finger at you. “c’mere, sweetheart.”

you pad over on wobbly legs. he guides you to sit on the edge of the mattress pile, back against his chest, legs spread wide so both toji and choso have a clear view. his big hands slide under your tits from behind, lifting the weight, thumbs brushing your nipples gently, milk beads instantly.

“see? easy,” he murmurs against your ear. “kamo, get over here.”

choso kneels in front of you, hands trembling just a little when he takes over. his palms are warm, calloused from work but careful. he starts slow—long, steady pulls that ease the ache immediately. milk streams into the pail in thick white ropes, the sound obscene and soothing at the same time. you moan, head falling back on sukuna’s shoulder.

toji watches from five feet away, jaw clenched so tight you hear it pop. his cock’s hard again, heavy against his thigh, but he doesn’t move. just stares like he’s memorizing every face you make.

“good boy,” sukuna mocks him softly. “learning to share already.”

toji flips him off but stays put. choso switches tits, leaning in too close for toji's comfort. his mouth brushes your skin accidentally-on-purpose. his tongue flicks out, catches a stray drop sliding down your ribs. you shiver hard.

sukuna chuckles dark. “looks like someone's got a milk kink bigger than yours, 'ji.”

choso’s ears burn red but he doesn’t stop—keeps milking steady, eyes half-lidded now, breathing rough. when the pail’s half full and the pressure finally eases, he sits back on his heels, licks his lips shiny with you.

“all done,” he says, voice hoarse.

sukuna lifts you easily, sets you on your feet, gently brushing of hay from the plush of your ass, he looks between the three of you, smirks.

“now that everybody’s calm,” he says, “breakfast. then we talk about how this arrangement’s really gonna work. ‘cause i didn’t spend the rest of my savings for you assholes to tear each other apart before she even catches.”

toji stands slowly, wiping blood from his lip, eyes locked on you. “she’s catching today,” he says, low promise.

sukuna snorts. “yeeah, yeah. we’ll see about that, big guy. clean up this mess first.”

he heads out, leaving the three of you in the quiet barn that suddenly feels way too small.

toji steps closer, cupping your jaw gentle despite the fresh bruise blooming on his cheek. “you okay?”

you nod, leaning into his palm. choso stays kneeling, pail between his boots, looking up at you like he’s waiting for permission.

toji gives him a stern look and choso sighs, standing up with the pail in hand now. he slips out quietly, milk sloshing around in the metal tin at his side, cheeks still flushed dark. the barn door thuds shut behind him and it’s just you and toji in the sudden hush. milk crusts on your skin, cum sticky between your thighs, straw stuck to your back. you feel raw and soft and weirdly safe.

toji rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but you. “go shower, sweetheart. i’ll—” he gestures at the wrecked space, the spilled groceries, the hay everywhere. “i’ll clean this shit up.”

you blink. you half expected him to follow you into the big tiled stall, pin you to the wall, wash you himself with those rough hands. burying his face nose deep in your ass. instead he’s already kicking broken eggs into a pile, tail flicking restless.

“are you sure?” you ask softly.

he grunts, doesn’t look up. “go.”

so you go. the bathroom’s almost bigger than your old apartment—walk-in shower with warm stone floor, bottles of expensive shampoo lined up, courtesy of toji's pickiness. you peel off the ruined collar, let the hot water pound over your shoulders. last night's mess swimming down the drain. you stay under the spray until your fingers prune and your tits finally stop throbbing.

when you step out, towel wrapped loose, there’s a neat stack on the counter: fresh panties , white cotton with a pink bow, a soft green sundress that looks brand new and little brown cowgirl boots still in the box, and a choker sits on top—black with a shiny gold cowbell, heavier than the old one, engraved on the inside with a tiny R.A. sukuna’s mark. there’s a sticky note in his messy scrawl, 'wear this so everyone knows who you belong to now, princess'.

you smile despite yourself, buckle the choker snug. the bell gives a bright jingle when you turn. the dress hugs your tits perfectly, hem brushing mid-thigh, and the boots make your tail swish happy. you look in the foggy mirror—ears perked, cheeks pink, eyes bright. you look like you belong here.

you pad back into the barn barefoot first, boots dangling from two fingers. toji’s on his knees scrubbing beer off the floorboards, shirtless, jeans riding low, muscles shifting under scarred skin. the bed is already remade—fresh sheets, pillows fluffed, your ruined panties gone like they never existed. he’s even swept the straw into neat piles.

he hears the bell and looks up at you and freezes.

you do a little spin, dress flaring. “gonna show me around the farm?” your voice comes out shy but teasing, tail flicking behind you.

toji stares too long. his ears twitch forward, then back. he drops the rag, stands slow, wiping his hands on his thighs. something raw flickers across his face—surprise, hunger, something softer he clearly doesn’t know what to do with.

“yeah,” he mutters, voice rougher than usual. “let me wash up first then we'll head out, baby.”

he freshens up and gets changed, stepping back out smelling like your absolute darkest fantasies. he smirks as he passes you to grab a shirt and tug it over his horns, the fabric immediately constraining against his rigid chest, then offers his hand—huge but fitting yours perfectly. you take it. his fingers curl around yours automatically, possessive, but gentle. he leads you out into the morning sun.

the farm’s bigger than it looked yesterday afternoon. rolling hills of green, white fence lines half falling down, a couple horses watching lazy from the corral, an old red tractor parked by the silo, chickens pecking at the dirt, and way off in the distance—a glint of pond. the air smells like warm grass and sweet clover and him, the man that's supposed to be your mate.

toji walks slow so your shorter legs can keep up. he points shit out gruffly— “that’s the hay barn, don’t go in alone, roof’s kinda sketchy. the pasture goes all the way to the tree line, good grazing for the actual cows. and pond’s got bass if you fish. oh, stay outta the east field, that electric fence is live 24/7.” every time he talks his thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand like he can’t stop touching.

you pass the chicken coop and he suddenly scoops you up, sets you on the rail of the fence so you’re eye level. his hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing bare skin where the dress rides up.

“you look real fucking pretty, you know that.” he says low, almost pissed about it. “that dress—sukuna pick it?”

you nod, bell jingling. “mhm. he left it with the boots.”

toji’s jaw works. “should be me buying you shit.” he leans in, nose brushing your throat, inhaling deep. “still smell like me under all that soap. that's good.”

heat pools low in your core again. you hook your ankles behind his thighs, tug him closer. “you cleaned the whole barn for me.”

he huffs, ears flicking embarrassed. “yeah…well, it was a mess.”

“you made me a little love nest.”

“you needed one, you're here to be a breeding cow and—”

“toji.”

he finally meets your eyes—green and stormy and a little lost in you. “what?”

you cup his cheek. “thank you.”

he leans into your palm like a big cat, eyes half closing. “don’t say thank you. just—fuck. just stay, alright? don’t let me scare you off.”

your heart does something funny. “i’m ain't going anywhere.” you say, repeating his words from last night.

he kisses you then, and it's slow, deep, nothing like last night’s claim. this one tastes like promise and nerves and the faint sweetness of syrup still on his tongue from breakfast. when he pulls back his forehead rests against yours.

“yeah…okay. thta's good,” he breathes. “…real good. cause i’m keeping you.”

in the distance sukuna’s truck rumbles up the driveway, choso riding shotgun with an elbow half out the window. toji doesn’t let go of your hips.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lifting you down easy. “still gotta show you the back pasture. best spot on the whole damn place. grass so thick you sink to your knees.”

he laces your fingers again and pulls you along, tail swishing slow and content behind him, your bell jingling with every happy step.

the warm country sun’s bleeding orange across the sky when you finally wander back to the barn, sweaty and grass-stained, toji’s arm slung heavy around your shoulders like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go. the whole day’s been soft—him pushing you on an old tire swing, stealing kisses behind the hay barn, feeding you strawberries straight from the patch while you sat in his lap. your thighs still ache from riding him slow in the back pasture at noon, fucking up into you while dragonflies buzzed overhead and he growled 'mine mine mine' against your throat.

you’re both laughing about something stupid—choso tripping over a feed bucket earlier, the chickens attacking him on the ground—when the barn door slides open and sukuna steps in, choso right behind him. sukuna’s got a beer in one hand, other tucked in his pocket, red eyes sharp. choso’s carrying a fresh jug of sweet tea, cheeks pink from the heat.

your conversation dies instantly.

you’re straddling toji’s lap on the bed, dress rucked up to your waist, panties long gone somewhere in the grass of the back pasture. his cock’s buried balls-deep, one thick arm banded around your back, the other hand squeezing your tits. your hips rock lazy, chasing the last sparks of your second orgasm of the day. toji’s head is thrown back, throat working on a groan when they walk in.

sukuna raises an eyebrow. “well fuck me, didn’t even make it to supper.”

choso’s eyes blow wide, tea jug nearly slipping from his fingers.

toji doesn’t stop moving—just slows, grinding up into you, possessive. “knock next time,” he growls, but there’s no real heat in it.

you try to hide your face in his neck, mortified, but sukuna’s already crossing the floor, boots loud.

“don’t stop on our account, princess,” he drawls, tongue loose from the alcohol. “been wondering how long till he had you bent again.”

toji bares teeth. “can't you see she’s busy?”

sukuna snorts, sets his beer on a crate. “oh come on, 'ji. i brought her in, least you can do is share, asshole. farm rules.”

the air shifts, choso and sukuna look at each other, a look that's thick and hungry. you can feel it in your spine. toji’s grip tightens, but his cock jerks inside you, betraying him.

choso edges closer, voice soft. “i-i just…wanted to check if she needed anything. brought some sweet tea too.”

you whimper—half from toji rolling his hips, half from the way both their eyes lock on your leaking tits. milk’s dripping steady now, soaking toji’s abs.

sukuna reaches out, thumbs a fat drop off your nipple, brings it to his mouth. “so goddamn sweet,” he says, smirking at toji. “money makin' milkers right here.”

toji shoots him a look but doesn’t argue when sukuna leans down and licks a hot stripe up your other breast. choso makes a broken sound like he wants a taste for himself too and drops to his knees beside the mattress.

toji finally pulls out slow—your pussy clenches around nothing, cum already leaking.

he makes his way down your body and spreads your thighs wide, dives in face-first. his tongue is hot, dragging over your clit with every lick. he slurps loud—sucking his cum straight from your hole, spitting it back out just to tongue-fuck it deeper. it's filthy and absolutely obscene but you sob, oversensitive, hips jerking. he pins you down with one hand on your belly, the other shoving three fingers alongside his tongue, curling hard, making you cum once more.

he leaves a soft kiss on your clit and gently flips you onto your back, spreads your thighs wide, and shoves back in with one thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“i've got rules, alright,” he tells them, voice gravel. “she's mine to breed. you get the rest. got it?”

they both nod, already pussy drunk before they even get to touch you. they stare as he starts fucking you in earnest—deep, punishing strokes that make the bell on your choker jingle like crazy. your velvety walls fluttering around his thick shaft. sukuna chuckles, unzips, fists his heavy length slow, it's pierced right at the tip, leaking pre. choso follows suit, his cock equally as big, his big brown eyes glued to where toji disappears into you over and over.

sukuna climbs onto the mattress, kneels by your head. “open that pretty mouth for me, baby.”

obeying, you loll your tongue out, drooling already. he feeds you inch by thick inch till your throat bulges. choso whines, straddling your chest and sukuna grabs your tits, pushes them together so choso can slide his cock between them. he gathers as much spit as he can, letting it drip from his mouth straight down into the valley of your breasts, as his cock rubs between the wet warmth of your chest, making the drag filthy-wet. he groans when the head of his cock pokes out the top and bumps your chin.

toji growls in approval at the sound of your gluck gluck glucks! on sukuna's thick cock, hips snapping harder against your soppy cunt. “that’s it, baby—fuck. be louder f'us, shit.”

you are loud—gagging around sukuna, moaning into every thrust between your breasts, pussy fluttering each time toji bottoms out. they pass you back and forth like a toy, choso’s gentle thrusts between your tits while sukuna fucks your throat raw, then they'll switch all the while toji rearranges your guts.

toji pulls out, flips you again—ass up, face shoved into the pillows. he doesn't slide back in, no, instead, he takes a step back, letting his bestfriend have a try.

sukuna smirks, fisting his spit-slicked cock before takes your pussy from behind, rubbing the thick head between your honeyed folds before shoving deep inside, making you scream into the mattress. toji kneels in front, cock slick with your juices and shoves into your mouth instead, face-fucking you.

“better not cum inside,” toji warns, voice deadly as he holds your head, thrusting into your tight throat. “tha-that’s mine.”

sukuna slaps your ass, spreading your cheeks wide and drills into you relentlessly. choso leans back on a palm off to the side, stroking himself with a free hand. sukuna laughs breathlessly but pulls out when he’s close, painting your back and ass in thick ropes. choso scrambles up to take his turn next, lining up behind you and sinking into you with a whimper. it takes him a second to gather himself, fighting every urge in his body to not immediately bust inside you. he starts with slow, deep strokes, then finds that rhythm, pounding your pussy but far more sweeter, careful. he still wrecks you, plush ass bouncing back and hitting his thick thighs, making you gush on his cock until toji shoves him off, deciding that's enough and slams home again.

he takes you hard—his knees spreading yours wider, chest pressed to your back, one hand fisted in your hair yanking your head back so sukuna can watch your face.

“gonna fill you up, baby,” toji rasps against your ear. “breed this pretty pussy right in front of them so they never forget who you belong to, sweetheart.”

you sob—overstimulated, overwhelmed, cumming again from the feeling of his heavy balls slapping against your sticky clit. toji groans, shoving his cock deep inside and unloads hot, thick, endless pulses of cum that flood your womb and spill out around his base. he grinds through it, making sure every drop stays.

he finally pulls out and you collapse, trembling. but eagerly, choso immediately but gently flips you onto your back again not giving you a moment to think as he slides his cock back between your soaked tits, fucking them frantically. sukuna kneels over your chest, jerking himself rough.

“let me see that tongue, pretty girl. want you to swallow it all for me,” sukuna orders.

you open your mouth, tongue out like a whore, eyes glassy. they both cum at once—choso painting your tits and neck, sukuna adding heavy ropes across your cheeks and tongue, some filling up your mouth. you swallow it all down, the taste bitter but sweet.

toji watches the whole thing, chest heaving, then leans down slow then licks a long stripe up your tear-streaked cheek, tasting salt, sukuna's cum and you.

toji smirks, reaches down and tugs your bell once—sharp jingle.

“welcome to the farm, babygirl.”

new pretty prized heifer at ryomen acres wins best milk in the whole county!

sukuna slaps the county paper on the kitchen table hard enough to rattle the coffee mugs, grin wide and evil. the headline’s in bold black letters under a giant photo of you in the show ring—smiling proud, belly round and heavy with toji’s twins, gold bell gleaming against your throat. blue ribbon pinned right over your heart.

toji doesn’t even look up from where his face is buried in your neck, breathing you in like always. he’s got you sat his lap at the breakfast table, one massive hand splayed over the tight curve of your belly, the other locked around your hip like someone might try to steal you.

he mumbles to himself against your skin, voice rough from sleep. “touchin’ her tits for a sample. should broken that old fart's fingers.”

you laugh soft, ears flicking, and stroke the scar on his lip. “well…you did glare too hard at that one guy. he dropped the collection jar, you're the reason he had to collect some more.”

toji huffs into your neck, squeezing you tighter. choso sets a stack of pancakes in front of you, extra syrup because that's all you've been craving, sweet. his eyes linger on your belly, soft and fond. “you want more eggs, pretty mama?”

“mhm, please,” you hum, leaning into toji’s chest.

sukuna drops into the chair across from you, kicks his boots up on the table. “paper says your yield’s up thirty percent. twins and still pumping like a goddamn machine. we’re rich, assholes.”

toji finally lifts his head, green eyes narrow. “we were already rich. dick. now we’re just louder about it.”

you raise an eyebrow, wondering why sukuna needed a heifer if they already had mo—

then toji leans down, pressing a kiss to your neck. you shiver, it distracts you, tilting your head to the side with a soft moan, your thighs press together. he continues his unusually gentle barrage of kisses on your neck.

you smile, warm and stupidly happy, hand settling over toji’s on your belly. the babies kick hard—right against his palm and toji’s whole face goes soft for half a second, letting out a low sigh, wrapping his arms impossibly tighter around you.

outside the kitchen window, the morning sun hits the new sign choso put by the gate—ryomen acres in fresh black paint.

best milk in county! — it reads.

toji's hands slide up from your belly and gives a good squeeze to your plump tits, groaning a little, burying his face in your neck once more to hide the red on his cheeks. his ears twitch, cock hardening underneath you.

“best in the fuckin’ world,” he mutters.

KAMOSWRLD 2025 ©

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𓆩♱𓆪 j.ai user: boovampiie.

⛧ you are daki's "gift" to gyutaro. ⛧ douma's figured you out, little slayer. ⛧ muzan shows you exactly where your place is. [HEAVY NONCON WARNING IN INTRO.] ⛧ douma's made you into the perfect, ethereal being.

WARNING!!: before interacting with these bots, i must warn you that they were made with dead dove/dark content in mind. that being said, if dark content (noncon/abuse/violence/yandere/character death/misogyny/etc.) bothers you, please, respectfully, do not interact with these bots. thank you and ily. ♡

“what…” you say flatly, “...the hell is going on?”

tengen just tips his hat. “happy halloween, sugar.”

you step aside slowly, still stunned, clutching your popcorn like it might protect you from the sheer absurdity standing on your doorstep. tengen saunters in first, boots clicking on your floor like he owns the place, while kokushibo follows behind with measured steps—quiet, composed, but not without the amused twitch of his brow.

“i’m not even gonna ask where you two got those costumes,” you mutter, shutting the door behind them.

“three-for-one bundle, baby,” tengen pipes up cheerfully, already tossing his toy revolver on the couch. “limited edition. they called it the wild wild lust pack. tell me that ain’t destiny.”

you set the popcorn down and pinch the bridge of your nose. “you’re disgusting.”

“but so charming,” he adds, leaning in with a wink. “admit it.”

you don’t answer him. instead, you turn to kokushibo, who hasn’t said a word, just watching you with that stillness that always makes your chest tighten. he lifts a hand to touch your waist, fingers cool and gentle against the fabric of your sweatshirt. you smile, leaning up to press a slow kiss to his lips.

and when you pull away, you glance over to tengen—who is absolutely pretending not to be jealous—and grab him by the bandana around his neck.

he grins as you tug him in for a kiss too. this one is warm and sweet, sugar spun over mischief, and he hums happily against your mouth, hands slipping to your hips like they belong there.

“god, i missed you,” he breathes against your lips. “i was gonna wait, y’know, be all polite and stuff. but then you came to the door in those little socks, and—well.”

“what are you even doing here?” you ask, stepping back between them, voice suspicious. “and don’t lie. i know you plotted something.”

tengen’s grin widens like a man caught red-handed but deeply unbothered. “we’ve got a party to go to, sugar.”

kokushibo’s eyes slide toward him with a tired look. “you never mentioned the part where she had to be surprised.”

“i said it would be more fun that way,” tengen shrugs. “you can’t spell spontaneity without… okay, well, yes… you can—but the point stands!”

you just groan and point to the couch. “explain. all of this.”

and like that, they settle in, absurdly shirtless and smug, ready to talk your ear off. but your heart’s already racing. they’re up to something. and you’ve got the sneaking suspicion that halloween night isn’t going to end with you finishing that horror movie.

“so here’s the thing,” tengen begins dramatically, flopping back onto your couch with one arm slung across the cushions and the other gesturing grandly. “this party? it’s exclusive. invitation-only. i pulled so many strings. and they require a dress code. thematic. coordinated. sexy.”

kokushibo stands near the doorway still, arms crossed, but his gaze is steady on you. “he insisted on matching,” he says, like it’s a sexy war crime. can war crime be sexy? whatever.

“matching is cute,” tengen defends. “it says we’re a unit. a trio of hotness. like a throuple but make it fashion.”

you’re already sighing when tengen produces a small plastic bag from behind a pillow like a magician revealing his next trick. it crinkles as he hands it to you with way too much excitement.

“here,” he says, eyes twinkling. “your destiny.”

you peer into the bag. it’s a pink cowgirl costume. very short skirt, white fringe, a halter top that’s definitely not made for anyone over a b-cup, and glittery star pasties just in case. your brows shoot up.

“you’re joking.”

“i never joke about aesthetics.”

you narrow your eyes. “this is tiny.”

“well, yeah,” he says, completely unashamed. “i sized it down one. trust me, it’ll hug you in all the right places.”

“so you can ogle me in public?”

“so i can worship you before we even get there,” he counters with a wink.

you glance at kokushibo, hoping for backup—but instead, his crimson eyes meet yours, slow and unflinching.

“you would look beautiful in it,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “elegant. alluring.”

he’s not saying it to charm you. he means it…. snap out of it! he’s trying to ogle you too. he wants to fuck you!!

“fine,” you mumble, grabbing the bag. “but if it doesn’t fit, i’m wearing my sweats and you will deal with it.”

you disappear to your room and pull the thing on—and you immediately know tengen did this on purpose.

the skirt is scandalously short, the top rides up every time you breathe, and it clings to your hips like it was painted on. you glare at yourself in the mirror for a full minute before storming back out.

“tengen.”

his head whips around—then promptly falls back against the couch with a groan. “oh my god. i am a genius.”

kokushibo’s reaction is quieter, but his eyes trail down your body in slow, devilish sweeps, jaw tightening slightly like he’s biting something back.

you put your hands on your hips. “it’s too tight.”

“it’s perfect,” tengen beams, already standing. “you’re perfect. don’t change. i’ll kill you if you change. damn, pretty girl.”

you roll your eyes—but your cheeks are warm. and their stares are making it hard to pretend like you’re not already melting.

tengen’s hands are on you before you can even blink. one snakes around your waist, the other skimming up your arm with a lightness that makes your skin tingle. he crowds close, towering and shirtless and smug, cowboy hat dipping forward as he leans in like he’s about to tell a secret.

“damn, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and sweet with syrup. “you wear this like it was sewn onto you. look at these curves.”

his hand slides down to your hip, palm spreading over the tight pink fabric, fingers flexing just a little—just enough to make you shift under his touch.

you lift a brow, trying to act unaffected. “tengen,” you deadpan, “are you ovulating?”

he barks out a laugh, head tipping back. kokushibo sighs somewhere behind you, muttering something in that irritated, quiet way of his. “disgraceful.” 

tengen grins like it fuels him, “for you? pretty thing like you walkin’ around like that?” he leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “absolutely. i am spiritually, emotionally, and hormonally ovulating.”

“that’s not even—”

“shh,” he says, touching your cheek, “don’t ruin this moment. my body’s making you a theoretical baby right now.”

you snort, trying to squirm away from his grip, but his hands are already sliding around your waist again, pulling you flush to him. his breath is warm, and he smells like expensive cologne and trouble.

“don’t act like you don’t love it,” he teases, eyes dropping to your lips. “you put this on for us. and i think we should thank you properly, don’t you?”

behind you, kokushibo shifts closer. 

and just like that, your knees feel a little less reliable.

“w-wait, wait—hold on,” you gasp, hands pushing at tengen’s chest, though it’s like trying to stop a brick wall with a feather. “what are we even doing right now?”

you’re breathless, pressed between their heat and attention, your costume already starting to ride up from how close they’re crowding in. kokushibo’s fingers brush the bare skin just above your thigh while tengen’s thumb is rubbing slow little circles into your lower back like it’s second nature.

tengen gives you that grin—that devastating grin, full of teeth and mischief and promise. his head tilts and he strokes your cheek with the back of his knuckles like he’s talking to someone fragile.

“what do you mean, sweetheart?” he says, too innocently. “we’re celebrating. you look too damn good not to be properly appreciated.”

you narrow your eyes. “appreciated how?”

his grin widens, pupils blown just a bit. “well,” he hums, like he’s reading a list, “we could start with the classics. ride him, blow me? but—” he lifts your chin with two fingers, eyes sparkling—“you do look like a lover girl in this little cowgirl number, so maybe…spitroast?” he’s kinda muttering to himself at this point. 

you sputter. “tengen.”

“no? alright, we could always try something new—maybe dp?” he continues, like he’s genuinely considering the menu. “ooh! eiffel tower? nostalgic. crowd favorite.”

kokushibo exhales slowly, and you feel it behind you, warm against the nape of your neck.

“she’s overwhelmed,” he says flatly, but his hands have found your hips and they’re holding you like you’re already claimed.tengen just chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “nah. she lives for it.” your breath catches the moment kokushibo’s mouth finds the curve of your neck, lips brushing soft before they press, warm and steady, just below your ear.

his hands, those long and elegant fingers, slip beneath the fringe of your costume with ease—one splayed wide across your stomach, anchoring you, the other curling upward with maddening slowness until he cups the swell of your tits through the too-tight fabric.

you gasp, and that just makes tengen laugh, his hand still resting heavy on your waist as he watches you squirm between them.

“uh-oh,” he sings, eyes bright with wicked joy, “looks like kokushibo picked a side. unfair advantage, don’t you think?”

your lips part, but nothing comes out. kokushibo hums low against your skin, his lips trailing down to your shoulder now, his teeth just grazing as his thumb drags over your nipple in slow, purposeful circles.

“we haven’t even started the vote,” tengen teases, leaning in, until you’re caged by two overwhelming forces. “so, lover girl—what’s it gonna be tonight?”

you try to speak, try to say anything, but kokushibo pinches just enough to pull a breathy moan from your throat, and tengen eats the sound from your lips with a groan of his own.

“mhm,” he smirks, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “see? she’s ovulating now.”

your voice is barely a whisper when it comes out. soft. reluctant. sweet with embarrassment.

“…eiffel tower.”

the words slip from your lips like a confession and the second they’re in the air, you feel kokushibo’s hand pause on your chest, the grip on your waist tighten, and tengen—tengen—goes completely still.

then he coos.

“ohhhh, you sexy woman,” he says, sounding positively delighted. “you do love us matching, huh?”

your face burns hot. you try to look away, but tengen’s already cupping your chin between his fingers, tilting your head back to him like you’re fragile and precious and already undone.

“say it again,” he teases, voice low and lilting. “say it all sweet like that, just for me.”

you pout. “don’t tease.”

he kisses the corner of your mouth, smiling into it. “i live to tease. but i also live to please.”

kokushibo’s lips return to your neck, firmer now, his breath steady as he whispers, “then let her feel it.” and tengen, still grinning, murmurs, “let’s give her a night worth blushing over, yeah?”

you gasp, hands finding tengen’s chest as kokushibo’s teeth graze the dip of your shoulder. “w-wait! the party—tengen, you said there’s a party!”

his brows shoot up like you just accused him of murder, even though his fingers are still grazing the inside of your thigh.

“technically,” he says, all fake offense and gleaming teeth, “i said there was a party. past tense. dead. canceled. obliterated.” you blink up at him, breathless. “you never even intended to go, did you?”

“of course i intended to go!” he protests, flicking your chin gently with a grin. “but then you came out lookin’ like that, pretty thing, and kokushibo started gettin’ handsy, and now look at us. this? this is fate.”

“we could’ve made it,” you pout, only half-hearted now as kokushibo’s fingers start tugging your costume’s zipper down, slow and careful.

“we still can,” tengen says, voice light, eyes dark. “just after we take care of some… pressing matters.”

“thirty minutes,” kokushibo murmurs behind you, his lips brushing your ear, the depth of his voice so calm it feels criminal. “you’ll forget the party ever existed.”

tengen hums in agreement. “besides, they wouldn’t survive us showing up anyway. not with the way you’re about to look.”

you groan, but you’re already melting, already tugged deeper into their rhythm, into the heat and harmony they move with like a well-rehearsed act.

they start talking logistics like it’s the most normal thing in the world, voices lazy, confident—like they’ve negotiated this a hundred times before, every move practiced, every glance loaded with anticipation.

kokushibo’s hands trail down your sides, grip solid, and his voice is all rumble, steady and sure. “i’ll take her first,” he murmurs, dark eyes on tengen’s, “let her warm up on my cock. you take her mouth, get her all pretty and messy for us.”

tengen flashes a wolfish grin, already crowding closer, his hand sliding up your throat just enough to tilt your chin up. “sounds perfect to me, partner. don’t worry, sweetheart—we’re gonna make you forget your own name.”

you try to answer, but kokushibo’s already turning you around, tugging your skirt up, his palm warm and large as he bends you over the edge of the couch. your breath hitches as you feel him behind you, the blunt head of his cock dragging up your folds, teasing you with slow, deliberate circles.

“so wet for us already,” he growls, pushing in inch by inch, filling you up steady, making you stretch and gasp. “always so good for me..” he rubs reverent circles on your asscheek before he places a hard—

— slap!

you whimper, vision swimming as tengen kneels in front of you, brushing hair from your face. “open up, gorgeous,” he purrs, tapping your cheek with his cock, already thick and leaking. pre-cum dragging a line from your cheek to lips,  “there we go—good girl. take all of me, c’mon. you can do it.”

the stretch is dizzying, both ends of you claimed and adored. kokushibo’s hips rock slow at first, grinding deep, his hand tangled in your hair, holding you steady for tengen.

“look at her,” tengen groans, thrusting shallow into your mouth, his other hand stroking your jaw. “fuck, she’s a vision. eyes rolling back, drooling all over me—so fuckin’ beautiful.”

“she can take more,” kokushibo rumbles, and he proves it with a sudden, sharp thrust, making you choke around tengen’s cock, moaning loud and wild.

“such a good girl,” tengen coos, voice pure filth, hips snapping faster. “look at you—gettin’ fucked dumb like a cute little slut. you love it, huh? love being used like this?”

you’re lost in it—tears slipping down your cheeks from the stretch, from the praise, from the way they pass you back and forth like you’re their favorite prize. kokushibo thrusts deep, hitting your spot over and over, his voice a gravelly growl. “taking me so well. perfect little thing, you’re milking me already. gonna let us fill you up, yeah?”

tengen’s cock twitches in your mouth and he pulls out just enough for you to gasp for air, his thumb catching your spit. “that’s it, sweetheart. breathe for us. let us see those pretty eyes.”

your mind’s white-noise static, every nerve alight, body trembling as they move together—kokushibo pounding into you with that unyielding, perfect rhythm, tengen fucking your throat just as eagerly, trading filthy praise back and forth, watching you fall apart for them.

“can you take more?” kokushibo murmurs, stroking your lower back, hips snapping hard. “or are you too dumb for words now?” tengen chuckles, squeezing your chin, pulling your gaze up to meet his. “nah, she’s just blissed out. our pretty little girl. look at you—mouth full, pussy stuffed, shaking like you need it.”

and you do—you need it all, every filthy word, every bruising grip, every second of their practiced, overwhelming, beautiful chaos. they move like they’re playing a game only they know the rules to—thrusting back and forth, letting you feel the difference in their pace, the way they both build you up, tear you down, then rebuild you again, moaning praises as your body clenches and shudders under their hands.

you come apart for them, helpless, and they don’t stop—each thrust, each praise, each teasing word just fueling the fire that’s got your eyes rolling back and your voice breaking, high and desperate, as you give them everything they want.

you don’t know how long it’s been—time’s gone blurry, reduced to slick, desperate friction and their voices all tangled up with yours. your body’s already wrecked, thighs trembling, whole body shaking with aftershocks that just keep coming, every new thrust from tengen setting you off again while kokushibo’s hand works your clit in slow, lazy circles.

“that’s it, baby,” tengen coos, sweat beading at his brow  “look at you, still takin’ us, still begging for more. fuck, you’re beautiful like this.”

“you are perfect,” kokushibo’s voice is rough and low in your ear, his thrusts losing rhythm, growing frantic, every movement hitting just right. “so strong. so good for us. take it. take every drop.”

you can’t even answer, not really—just babbling, crying out, shivering, greedy for every last bit of them. your walls clamp around kokushibo so tight you can barely breathe, mouth gone slack as tengen fucks into you with little, ragged stutters.

your hands scrabble for something—anything—to ground you, but all you find is the couch, their skin sticky against yours.

“fuck, ‘m close—she’s squeezin’ me so tight—” tengen grits out, voice breaking into a desperate moan.

“let go,” kokushibo growls, his voice all command, all need. “let us fill you up. let us have you.”

you shudder, body clenching around both of them as you sob out a yes, pleading and helpless, and that’s all it takes—kokushibo surges in deep, hips pressed flush to your ass as you feel his release flood inside you, thick and hot. at the same time, tengen’s hand fists in your hair, his whole body tensing as he follows, hips jerking once, twice, spilling inside you with a low, guttural groan.

the sensation—both of them filling you, stretching you full, heat blooming between your legs—sends you spiraling again, shaking and crying and loving it, loving them, letting yourself be undone in their hands.

they hold you together, both of them pressing in from either side, bodies shaking, panting and cursing and whispering praise until there’s nothing left but sweat, heat, and the messy, dizzy afterglow.  your skin flushes and tingles as you collapse in the space between them. they drag you to your bed, all tangled up—your ridiculous cowgirl costume bunched and wrinkled, hat tipped sideways on the pillow. you lay on your back, utterly spent, one arm draped across tengen’s broad chest and the other tangled in kokushibo’s long, silken hair.

tengen’s hand strokes lazy circles over your thigh, his other hand pillowing his head. he groans, feigning tragedy, “all that effort and we didn’t even make it to the party. i had lines planned! i was gonna win us a prize!”

you snort, nudging his side. “you already won, idiot.”

kokushibo’s voice is smooth and dry, a little smug. “a prize? i find the reward… sufficient.”

tengen scoffs, rolling his eyes but smiling anyway. “easy for you to say. you barely put any glitter on. i had to do your makeup myself, remember?”

kokushibo turns to look at you, feigning innocence. “he insisted on putting glitter on my chest. i objected. he did it anyway.”

you giggle, fingers tracing gentle patterns along kokushibo’s jaw before carding through tengen’s hair, letting your nails graze his scalp. both of them melt under your touch, content and satisfied, the air humming with post-chaos comfort.

“maybe next year, we’ll actually leave the house,” you sigh, smiling up at the ceiling.

tengen grins, tipping his hat over his eyes. “or maybe we just keep ordering costume bundles and see how many we never use.”

kokushibo hums his agreement, his arm coming to rest possessively over your waist. “as long as it is only the three of us, i do not mind.”

and there you are, tucked between them, cowgirl hat slipping over your brow, your laughter soft and bright as the night finally quiets—a little wild, a little ridiculous, and completely perfect.

.

.

.

(record stops)

but wait—there’s more! 

the room is thick with warmth and leftover laughter, all three of you tangled on the bed, breathing each other in. tengen lifts his head first, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes. he gives kokushibo a look—a silent nod, practiced and familiar yet again—and kokushibo rises without a word, quietly disappearing down the hall.

you barely have time to ask before tengen’s big hands find your hips, sliding over your wrinkled cowgirl costume. “can’t let you sleep sticky, pretty thing,” he rumbles, voice honey-slow and fond. “shower time. up you go.”

he peels you from the bed with ridiculous gentleness, lifting you like you weigh nothing at all. your cheeks flush as he pulls your costume off, piece by piece—soft, patient, kissing every new bit of skin as it’s revealed. his hands brush over your stomach, your thighs, lingering at your hips, warm and careful.

he grins, lips pressed to your temple. “you’re a mess, sweetheart. we did a number on you.”

just then, kokushibo calls out quietly, “it’s ready.”

tengen scoops you up bridal style—because of course he does, it’s flashy—and carries you toward the steamy glow of the bathroom. kokushibo is already waiting, steam curling around his frame, eyes soft but burning as he watches you cross the threshold.

tengen sets you down in the tiled shower, the water perfectly hot, and steps in behind you, crowding close as kokushibo moves in on your other side. four hands begin to wash over your skin, slow and decadent. kokushibo massages shampoo through your hair, long fingers working your scalp with that patient, silent focus, while tengen lathers your back, broad palms soothing every ache he left behind.

“we should ruin you more often,” tengen teases, mouth brushing your shoulder. “never seen you look so pretty.”

kokushibo’s voice is lower, a hush of devotion as he rinses suds from your hair. “she is always beautiful. but tonight, she was a masterpiece.”

the water pours down, heat loosening every muscle. between their careful hands and sweet words, you let yourself melt—cleaned, cherished, sandwiched between the two men who know exactly how to handle you. you sigh, eyes fluttering closed as tengen’s hands wander lower, slipping from your waist to your hips, cupping your ass with a playful squeeze. he noses at your ear, voice a low, rough rumble.

“can’t help it, pretty thing,” he murmurs, the grin audible in every word. “seein’ you like this… got me thinking we need a round two.”

his words spark a shiver through you, even as kokushibo presses closer, his chest flush to yours, arms sliding around your middle. his lips skim your temple, breath blowing over your cheek as his hands start to wander—one gliding up your ribs, the other drifting down between your thighs, slow and careful and full of promise.

“she can take it,” kokushibo says, voice even softer now. “she always does.”

tengen snorts, his mouth trailing along your shoulder. “you hear that? even stoic over here wants another taste.”

kokushibo’s fingers find your most sensitive spot, gentle at first but insistent, while tengen’s hands slide up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you’re arching between them, breath coming quicker.

“let us worship you, sweetheart,” tengen hums, his mouth pressed to your neck, “all over again.”

tengen’s hands are firm and commanding as he turns you gently in the spray, your back pressed against his chest, his lips dragging slow over your shoulder. “let’s show her how good it feels to be spoiled,” he whispers, voice wicked but soft.

kokushibo’s eyes are half-lidded and hungry as he slides his arms beneath your thighs, lifting you with effortless strength. you gasp, water cascading over both of you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, your body already pulsing with anticipation.

tengen lines himself up behind you, his cock nudging at your entrance, thick and hot, teasing you until you squirm in kokushibo’s arms. “relax for me, pretty,” tengen coaxes, and then he pushes in slow, every inch filling you, stretching you until you moan, your head tipping forward onto kokushibo’s shoulder.

kokushibo captures your lips, swallowing your gasp in a kiss that’s all tongue and slow-burn hunger. his hands flex beneath you, supporting every tremble, every arch of your back.

he takes your hand, guiding it down between your bodies until you’re gripping him, hard and slick with water. “show me how you want it,” he murmurs against your mouth, guiding your strokes, his eyes never leaving your face as you jerk him off, matching the rhythm of tengen’s deep thrusts.

tengen’s grip on your hips is steady, his pace greedy but not hurried, rolling you back onto him while kokushibo devours every sound you make. their praises mingle in the steam, filthy and delightful—

“so tight for us, baby—taking it so well—” tengen groans, hips snapping forward.

“....perfect,” kokushibo breathes, his lips dragging along your jaw as you work him with trembling fingers, making him curse low and soft.

it’s a tangle of hands and mouths, steam and heat, all your senses overloaded by the way they handle you—kokushibo’s lips bruising yours, tengen’s cock filling you from behind, both of them working you toward another dizzy, perfect ruin.

your head falls back onto tengen’s broad shoulder, breathless, mouth open in a gasp as he thrusts into you—steady, deep, every roll of his hips sending sparks straight through your core. kokushibo’s hand is still guiding yours along his length, his eyes locked on your face, watching every expression like it’s precious.

tengen groans, nipping at your ear, his voice dropping to a rumble that thrums against your skin. “she’s ready for you, partner. can’t you see it? look at how she’s falling apart.”

kokushibo’s grip tightens beneath your thighs, water sluicing over both of you as he lines himself up, his cock brushing slick and insistent against your entrance, right alongside tengen’s.

“relax, darling,” kokushibo murmurs, kissing your temple as tengen holds you open.

you brace yourself, body quivering with anticipation—and then kokushibo presses in, slow but relentless, filling you alongside tengen, the stretch so much your vision swims. your walls clench, pulse skittering wild as you’re opened up for both of them at once.

the sound you make is caught between a cry and a moan, your hips rolling down greedily as you adjust to the thick, overwhelming fullness. kokushibo kisses you, swallowing every shaky whimper, while tengen’s hands dig into your hips, steadying you for the delicious, unbearable pressure.

“fuck, she’s so tight—look at her, taking us both,” tengen groans, pride in his tone.

kokushibo’s breath shudders in your ear as he begins to move, finding a rhythm with tengen that has them thrusting in tandem—sometimes together, sometimes one after the other, working you open, coaxing moans from your throat with every slow, perfect stroke.

you’re lost in it—full, stretched, worshipped—body trembling, jaw slack, every part of you taken and loved, water washing away the mess but not the heat. you cling to kokushibo’s neck, fingers tightening, legs locked around him as you arch and whimper, the pleasure building higher and higher.

they move together, a practiced duo, voices soft and filthy in your ear, praises and promises tangled up with every thrust—until you’re shaking, undone, begging for more, loving every second of the overwhelming, impossible bliss.

the steam fogs the glass and muffles every sound except your bodies, slick skin against skin, the thud of your heartbeat in your ears. tengen holds you tight, his mouth at your shoulder, letting himself go—his moans tumbling out raw and shameless, high and broken, as he pounds into you with reckless pleasure. he doesn’t bother hiding how much he loves it, how good you feel, every sound he makes echoing between the three of you.

“fuck—oh, fuck—god, you’re so good—” he babbles, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll feel it tomorrow, his cock sliding in and out alongside kokushibo’s, everything messy and delicious and overwhelming.

kokushibo’s pace is measured, relentless. he’s mostly silent, lips pressed together, face taut with focus—only letting out the occasional low grunt or curse, the muscles in his jaw and neck flexing as he holds you steady, lifts you just so, driving deep inside you. every thrust is controlled, every movement made to make you shake and gasp, and his eyes are heavy-lidded, utterly fixated on you.

your body rocked between their chests, your mind gone hazy and bright. tengen’s moans and kokushibo’s soft grunts blend with the slap of wet skin, the whine of the water, your own helpless cries. you arch against kokushibo, head tipping back onto tengen’s shoulder, water streaming down your body. you feel both their cocks moving inside you, stretching you to your limit, and you can barely breathe from how much you love it.

tengen’s voice breaks as he shudders, hips stuttering. “can’t—gonna—fuck, you’re perfect—”

kokushibo’s grip tightens, his breath hot against your ear as he thrusts harder, deeper, filling you so full you swear you’re splitting open on pleasure alone.

their hands anchor you, their bodies surround you, their pleasure just as wild and desperate as yours. you can’t speak. you don’t need to. everything is heat, and fullness, and the relentless rhythm of being taken apart and put back together in their arms.

your voice is raw, shaky, trembling with need as you gasp, “wanna feel you—on my face. both of you.”

they freeze for a second, the rhythm stalling, tengen’s groan sharp and desperate, kokushibo’s eyes flashing with something darker. reluctantly, they slip out—kokushibo easing you down, tengen steadying your trembling legs, the two of them guiding you gently to your knees on the warm, slick tile.

you look up at them, hair plastered wet to your cheeks, lips swollen and eyes glassy with pleasure. they stand over you, cocks thick and glistening, both of them breathing hard, muscles taut and flushed from holding back.

tengen is the first to break, voice half a moan, half a plea. “fuck, baby—look at you. you want it that bad, huh?”

you nod, licking your lips, and tengen grins, breathless, cock already in your hand. kokushibo steps forward too, his eyes never leaving yours, quiet but shaking as he lets you wrap your other hand around him.

you stroke them both, one in each fist, twisting your wrists the way you know drives them crazy—tengen moaning, almost sobbing, kokushibo letting out a guttural, broken grunt as his hips jerk forward.

“look at her, god—she’s perfect,” tengen mumbles, his head falling back, abs flexing under your touch.

“she is,” kokushibo mutters, his voice tight, deep, just above a whisper.

you keep going, pumping them faster, squeezing tight, tongue out and ready, eyes pleading. “please,” you whimper. “want to taste it, please—”

that’s all it takes—tengen curses, hips twitching, and he spills first, painting your lips, your cheek, hot and messy as you keep stroking, licking the tip when you can. kokushibo isn’t far behind, his jaw clenched, thighs trembling as he releases with a moan, ropes of heat shooting at your face and down your neck, splattering across your chest and collarbones.

their breaths echo in the shower stall, heavy and shaky, the only sound for a moment the drip of water and your own soft, blissed-out laugh as you blink up at them, skin slick and shining with their release.

tengen grins, kneeling down to kiss you, not caring about the mess, while kokushibo strokes your hair, his thumb tracing your cheek, pride and pleasure mingling in his heavy-lidded stare.

“perfect girl,” tengen murmurs, breathless and utterly wrecked.

you are nice. you say please and thank you. you ask the doorman about his mother’s knee replacement and mean it. you tip anyone who looks like they’re having a rough day. you bring the interns coffee during long meetings because you remember what it felt like to be small in a room of voices. but also, you are bratty. not the stomping kind or the cruel kind, just the kind that hates being told what to do when it does not make sense. your father says stay inside for a week until this calms down and you tilt your head and ask why would i wanna do that. your publicist says post the notes app apology and you say i’m not apologizing for someone else’s fuck ass tiktok edit. you are not stuck up, but you are a little allergic to stupid rules. it makes your father crazy in that father way where love sounds like overreaction.

by noon, the escalade is glossy and waiting in the porte cochere. you stand at the window and look down at it. the house smells like cinnamon apple incense and the first rain of summer. someone has laid out three outfit options on the chaise. your phone is buzzing from a group chat that has already renamed itself paparazzocalypse.

the man who walks in behind the head of security is taller than the door frame should allow. reflective lenses. a white head wrap tied neat against his hair, the edge dotted with little gemstones. gold flashes at his wrists when he reaches to take off his sunglasses, bangles that chime low and soft. there is a fine chain at his throat. he looks like a magazine page that walked out of the catalogue. like expensive wood musk and trouble. you can hear the staff stop pretending not to look.

“sweetheart,” your father says brightly. doting and proud, like he hand-stitched this man out of velvet and muscle for you. “this is uzui. tengen uzui. he comes highly recommended. i mean it. highest. we are lucky he had an opening.”

tengen. you say it in your head first. tengen. sexy name. sexy man.. it suits him.

his mouth curves like he heard your thoughts and is delighted to carry it until you catch up. he sets his sunglasses in his pocket with an easy flick that makes the gold at his wrist jump again. “ma’am,” he says, voice low in a way that takes up space without crowding you. “it’s a pleasure.”

you look once, quick head to toe. white bandanna crown, gemstone glitter. broad chest in unforgiving black. gold everywhere like he got dressed inside a jewelry box and came out smiling. you drop your eyes back to your phone because it is fun to be contrary. “alrighty cool,” you say, thumbs still tapping. “hi.”

your father laughs in that good mood way he gets when he’s solved a problem. he steps forward, shakes hands like men do. says something about credentials. says something about perimeter mapping and a vehicle rotation schedule. tengen nods along. you open the group chat and type he looks hotter than charles leclerc and then close the app before anyone can respond because you do not actually want to share him with the peanut gallery.

“uzui will be primary,” your father continues, doting tone turned up, eyes cutting back to you every other sentence like he wants to make sure you understand this is about love, not control. “he will drive. he will accompany. i want eyes on you at all times. if you need anything, he will take care of it. the team answers to him when it comes to you.”

you finally tuck your phone into your pocket and give tengen a longer look because it would be rude not to and you are not rude, only annoying on purpose when the mood hits. up close he smells like tom ford noir extreme, and eos vanilla cashmere. his skin gleams like he moisturizes with thoughts and prayers— and la roche posay. the white head wrap catches a slice of window light and throws it back across the foyer in tiny diamonds, which seamlessly transitions into his actual white hair. he should be ridiculous but somehow he reads as competent first, glitter after. there is a quiet steadiness in his fuschia eyes that makes something in your chest go quiet for a second. he.is.so.fucking.fine. holy fuck. (is this you or the narrator? both is good)

“flashy,” you say, noncommittal, like the word is a little pill you might swallow if someone gives you water. “you always wear your jewelry to work.”

his eyes light up with the word flashy, “only when i want to be on my best behavior.”

“and this is your best behavior,” you say, deadpan.

“for you,” he says, easy. “yes.”

your father claps his hands once. “perfect. you two will get along great.” he is beaming. he loves this narrative. he loves a solution that shines. he loves seeing you looked after, cherished, guarded from the mean ways of the world. “first stop is a quiet lunch with dana at the golf club. press will not be there. uzui will take the back route.”

you look at the black car waiting through the window. you look back at the man in the foyer, all height and gold and self possession, ready to play guardian and spectacle at the same time. the day hums like a wire. you say, “okay then,” and slide your sunglasses up into your hair. “let’s go.”

tengen is already moving in that smooth way trained men have, a hand lifting to gesture toward the door without ever touching you, the bangles at his wrist giving a soft clink that follows you as you step into the heat and the lemon-bright light, the escalade crouched at the curb like it knows your name and is eager to prove it, the partition gleaming faintly inside like a secret you have not decided whether you want to keep yet

the escalade door glides wide like a curtain call, leather seats gleaming. tengen’s arm braces the frame, bangles catching the light, posture so neat it belongs in a museum. you step up and flash a too-bright grin, the kind you wear when you’re half daring the universe to trip over itself.

“thanks, hotness,” you say, flippant, tossing the words like spare change.

moment of silence. his brows tick, not a full jump, just the slightest glitch in the seamless bodyguard swagger. you slide inside, cross one leg over the other with extra nonchalance, and pretend you don’t hear him exhale. the door hushes shut behind you.

your phone is already buzzing. as the engine growls to life you crack open the group chat. chaos greets you: screenshots of the scandal clip,emojis, an argument about who is hotter charles leclerc or max verstappen. text keeps raining in, begging for proof of the “gemstone daddy” your dad apparently hired. you thumb out a quick: nobodies hotter leclerc (maybe my bodyguard), sorry. just to fuel the fire. then: no pics. this one’s mine. a joke, obviously, but it earns an explosion of screaming gifs that make you grin wide enough to bruise your cheeks.

tengen watches through the mirror, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose at two o’clock like he could steer the world with a wrist flick. “something funny?” he asks, voice smooth but edged with curiosity.

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from cackling. “group chat nonsense,” you reply, tapping your phone dark. “you know how it is.”

“i actually don’t,” he says, faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he scans traffic. “but glad to hear you’re amused.”

his eyes meet yours in the glass for half a second, a spark slipping through the reflective tint before he looks back to the road. your pulse skips. the escalade slides into city flow, sun splitting between high-rise windows, and you settle into the seat, still tasting laughter against your tongue while bangles chime soft in the front row, keeping rhythm with the beat your heart keeps trying to hide.

lunch unfolds on a shaded veranda draped in transparent curtains, fans stirring the warm air like lazy paper wings. your father and dana sit across from you, heads bowed together over a leather folio full of numbers and signatures you will never care to memorize. dana is… forty-something, maybe fifty, slim blazer, peach lipstick, the kind of pleasant you forget as soon as you blink. she laughs too eagerly at your father’s anecdotes, touches his sleeve in that over-familiar way that makes you suck your teeth behind your water glass.

tengen settles in the chair to your right, one big shoulder a gleaming wall between you and the rest of their corporate courting. his gem catches stray sunbeams, scattering little rainbow shards across the linen tablecloth. every time you glance over, he is already watching the perimeter, scanning waitstaff, checking reflections in the silver pitchers, professional to the cuticle. the only hint he is aware of you at all is the soften-up at the corner of his mouth when your elbow accidentally brushes his bangles.

you tilt your phone against the lip of your iced tea, thumb flicking through tiktok. edits of your forever celebrity crush flood the screen—quick cuts of jawlines and— damn, hold on he’s shirtless. 

comments scroll: he is so perfect?? i would simply pass away. you smirk, save the video, send it to the group chat

bestie you are at lunch behave details on gemstone zaddy please  does he smell good tell us if he smells good omg you type one-handed:

he smells stupid good. he smells like a MAN. like rihannas song. no i’m not taking a pic stop asking

a small huff of breath escapes you—half laugh, half exasperation. tengen’s gaze flicks sideways, curious. “something amusing?” he murmurs, voice pitched low enough that your father’s monologue about brand realignment never wavers.

“just friends being nosy,” you reply, not looking up.

“i hope they are satisfied with the security arrangement,” he says, straight-faced, but you catch a tiny shimmer of humor in his eyes.

“they are mostly concerned with how you smell.”

he coughs, covers it with a polite sip of water. “and?”

“i told them you smell acceptable,” you tease, still texting. your phone vibrates again: do u hate us?? girl he’s probably five figures of cologne

his shoulder bumps yours—barely a nudge, more like a placeholder for a joke he will not speak aloud in front of your dad—and the bangles sing a soft metallic note. you glance at dana, still cooing at some market forecast, then back to your screen. the algorithm serves another edit, this time your crush in a tv show.  you grin, elbow propped on the armrest, totally checked out of the lunch agenda.

tengen leans closer, low enough that only you can hear. “you know,” he says, “if you keep making faces like that, your father will think dana’s presentation is thrilling.”

you snort, thumbs pausing. “if he marries her i want a shopping trip.”

“duly noted.” his eyes return to the patio entrance, focus sliding back into that diamond-cut sharpness, but the corner of his mouth stays curved, like he’s storing the sound of your laugh. the leaves rustle, a waiter tops off your glass with cucumber water, and the conversation across the table drifts to investment horizons while your group chat blows up again asking for a scratch-and-sniff update. the sun warms the white tablecloth between you and tengen, and your knee knocks his under the table in a silent staccato that neither of you bothers to apologize for as the afternoon stretches on, lazy and gold and humming with things unsaid.

once the contracts are signed you step off the flagstone, sneakers crunching over crushed-shell paths that ring the golf course. tengen falls in beside you, long stride loose. he keeps scanning the hedges for paparazzi, but the only thing stalking you is the slow honey heat of early afternoon.

“dad said we needed fresh air,” you mutter, twirling a tee between your fingers. “so let’s breathe or something.”

tengen’s mouth quirks. “mission accomplished.”

you wander behind an empty driving cage and find a dusty basket of range balls abandoned under the bench. your eyes go cartoon-round. his go wary.

“absolutely not,” he starts, but you already have a club, wobbling under its weight. he sighs, takes it from your hands like you’re offering him a stray cat. “this is a nine iron. it is not a toy.”

“hit one.” you grin up at him. “pretty please, flashbang.”

the nickname works. a low chuckle ripples out of his chest. he plants his feet, flexing shoulders that threaten the seams of his shirt. you try very hard not to stare while he lines up, elbows neat, wrists stacked. the swing is all smooth coil, then power; the ball screams into the sky, a tiny comet disappearing far beyond the distant sand traps. somewhere an unsuspecting gardener is about to have a new dent in his cart.

you burst out laughing. “sir, you are supposed to put it in the hole.”

he keeps the follow-through pose, club resting on his shoulder, profile smug. “trust me,” he says, voice dropping like velvet,  “i’m great at that.”

your brain wheels spin out, jump the track, burst into flames. intrusive thoughts flash and rude before you can slam the mental door. “wait— what?” you squeak, cheeks scalding. “what did you just—?”

tengen blinks, caught mid-smirk. “what?”

“what?”

“nothing? intrusive thoughts?”

wind rattles the flag on the nearest green, both of you standing there with identical oh no faces. you clutch the basket to your chest to keep from laughing out loud. he rakes a hand over the white head wrap, bracelets chiming like they’re gossiping about the whole mess.

“anyway,” he mutters, clearing his throat, “perhaps we practice your swing instead.”

“maybe later,” you say, voice still pitched too high, “when you’re not being filthy.”

his answering grin is shameless, all teeth and trouble. he picks up another ball, rolls it along his knuckles, pretending to examine the dimples. you know he’s picturing the same crash-and-burn innuendo, and the knowledge makes warmth uncurl low in your stomach. you shove him with your shoulder to hide it, nearly sprain a muscle on the wall of his arm. he fakes a stagger, dramatic, bracelets clattering.

“careful,” he warns, eyes dancing, “you might knock me right into the rough.”

“sounds like a you problem,” you shoot back, already retreating toward the cart path, pulse drumming quick. behind you the club whistles again, another ball launched into orbit, tengen laughing under his breath like the sound is a secret. the afternoon haze wraps around the two of you, jasmine on the breeze, horizon humming bright, and somewhere beyond the tree line a gardener cries as another rogue golf ball lands where it shouldn’t.

the house is all incense and oil and late light when you get back, cicadas stitching lazy noise through the open windows. the escalade sighs, settles, and tengen is already circling to your side. he opens the door like he is unveiling a stage.

you peel yourself out of the seat, the day finally sloughing off your shoulders, and the first thing you do is kick off your shoes with a soft thunk onto the marble.

“pick it up,” you say, sweet as sugar, pointing with your toe at the abandoned shoes.

his mouth goes crooked. “i am not your servant.”

you laugh, a quick pretty spark, then skip ahead across the foyer like you own the place. “could have fooled me,” you toss over your shoulder, already padding down the hall, cardigan slipping off one shoulder. he grumbles something that you couldn’t discern and follows, steps careful, bracelets chiming every few strides like they are keeping time with your hips.

upstairs the air is cooler, dim with that blue of late afternoon, and you push your bedroom door open with your hip. he pauses at the threshold, scans out of habit, takes in windows, blind spots, then leans a shoulder to the frame.

“can i ask you something,” he says, voice low like the carpet might overhear.

you flop onto the edge of your bed, phone already in your hand like it teleported there. “you can try.”

“why are you always so quiet,” he asks, head tipped,  “always glued to your phone.”

you shrug, thumb already flicking the home screen. “doom scrolling is free. tiktok is funny. i don’t have much of an input on many things.” you chew the inside of your cheek, as you start your for you page.

he hums. “ah. but when it comes to me,” he says, too mild, “in your group chat, you yap.”

you jerk, heat licking your cheeks. “how did you even find out.”

he deadpans, unblinking. “i was sitting next to you.”

you clutch a pillow to your stomach and make a mortified noise into the cotton. “oh.”

“mhmm.” he takes one step into the room, the cologne of him curling under your ribs. “acceptable, was it.”

“i said ten out of ten, actually,” you mutter, which is unfortunately true, and his mouth does a slow dangerous curve that makes you want to throw your phone into the sun.

“noted.” he lets the word linger, eyes sweeping your room a second time, security-brain clicking through its quiet math. “for the record,” he adds, glancing at the hallway where your shoes are still lounging, “i did pick them up.”

you blink. “i thought you were not my servant.”

“i am not,” he says, calm as a lake, “i am your bodyguard. sometimes those overlap when marble meets feet.”

you stare at him for half a breath, then fail not to smile. “thank you, hotness.”

the smallest hitch at his mouth. “careful,” he murmurs, eyes bright, “intrusive thoughts.”

“whose,” you ask, all innocence you do not feel.

he looks at your phone, then the soft line of your bare knee, then back to your face like he is reminding himself what his position is. “both,” he says, then clears his throat. “dinner in an hour. i will be downstairs.”

he turns, and you watch him go, thumb hovering over the screen as the group chat lights up again with relentless curiosity, your reflection small in the black glass, the house breathing slow and steady around you while the sky slides toward evening and the scent glows warmer against the wood banister on his way back down.

he does a slow sweep of the grounds, all long shadow and quiet footfall, the little chime of his bangles lost under the hum of the pool pump. you watch him cross the camera feed for a second on the tablet by your vanity, then ditch the surveillance like a bored heiress in a spy movie and pad into the shower.

steam curls around you, jasmine shampoo and warm tile, and you take your time because suddenly there is a hot bodyguard in your life and if the universe wants to hand you a wattpad plot you are going to commit to the bit. moisturizer, gloss, the good perfume with the floral top and soft vanilla dry down. a tiny highlighter tap at the bow of your lip. wardrobe chaos that resolves into something pretty and smug, a dress that feels like a wink, hoops that catch the light when you turn your head.

your phone buzzes and your best friend’s name blooms across the screen. you answer on facetime, prop her against a candle jar while you tug at your hem.

“okay spill,” she says without hello, camera way too close to her eyebrow. “what is this i hear about a gemstone bodyguard who smells like tom ford and bank accounts.”

you are already squealing. “he is so fine,” you say, hands flapping, then you press your mouth into your shoulder to muffle it. “like actually ridiculous. white head wrap with little crystals. gold bangles. and he is huge.”

she gasps like this is a religion. “move over leclerc. i have a new race to watch. i am coming over tomorrow. i will be there at dawn.”

“no you will not,” you laugh, adjusting your hoop. “you will text me like a normal person and i will maybe send you a blurry photo of him.”

“coward. does he have a girlfriend. he looks like the type to date a pilates instructor who drinks chlorophyll water.”

“i asked,” you lie cheerfully. “he said he is married to his job.”

you are still bickering about who gets to claim what when there is a knock at your door. three polite taps that still manage to carry weight. your heart does that stupid swoop and you call, “come in.”

the door opens and there he is, clean shirt, head wrap fresh and bright, one small gem winking in your bedroom light. he steps inside just enough, gaze on safe territory, then looks to you and not the phone.

“they’re ready downstairs,” he says, velvet over glass, and your friend loses her entire mind.

“oh he even sounds fine. oh my god,” blasts through the speaker, so loud a bird outside the window startles. you make a strangled noise. “ignore her,” you tell him, cheeks hot. “she is experiencing a medical event.”

he glances at the phone out of courtesy, gives the tiniest nod, and that is when fate does you dirty. the camera finds him clean. jawline, lashes, the glint of gold.

your friend hoots and hollers like she just won courtside seats. “he is sexy as hell. i am so jealous,” she yells, and you want to crawl under the bed and live there. you lunge for the volume. he is very professional about it which only makes it worse. he shifts his attention back to you like the rest of the world is background noise, something gentle at the corner of his mouth.

“you look different,” he says, not exactly a compliment, more like he is cataloging a new factor in his perimeter. eyes track the hoops, the shimmer at your lip, the way the dress sits sweet on your hips. “almost flashy.”

you lift your chin, bratty and pleased. “i can be flashy if i want.”

“i have no doubt,” he answers, a quiet laugh caught in his throat.

“tell her to go away,” your friend hisses from the candle jar, irredeemable. “tell him to turn his head so i can see the jawline again.”

“goodnight,” you say to your phone with weaponized sweetness, and hang up before she can argue. you tuck it into your hands, fingers clumsy because he is still in the doorway smelling like sexiness and a pay raise.

he glances to the hall, then back, eyes flicking once at the curve of your hip. “may i,” he asks, and when you nod he steps close to fix the scrunch on your dress with careful fingers. the brush of his knuckle is warm. the bangles give a small music.

“thank you,” you murmur, a little breathless, then ruin the moment on purpose because that is your hobby. “do you pick up shoes and fix dresses for everyone or is this the deluxe package.”

“for you it is standard,” he says, deadpan, and steps back so you can pass, the corridor tasting brighter when you do, lemon oil and the faintest hint of rain coming, the house settling as you head for the stairs with his footsteps behind you and your phone buzzing again where your friend is undoubtedly typing a list of follow up questions you are not prepared to answer.

dinner is quick in that way it always is, courses marching out like soldiers while the chef narrates every ingredient with a dreamy fixation on microgreens and finishing salts. your father hums and nods along, trading notes about suppliers like they are baseball cards. the chandelier throws warm light across porcelain, silver makes quiet sounds, the room smells like sage  and roasted thyme.

tengen sits next to you with a plate he did not ask for, posture relaxed but eyes doing their steady sweep. he eats like a man who has trained himself to do it calmly no matter what, left hand lifting the fork, right hand free on instinct. the gemstone catches candlelight every time he turns his head. the bangles make a soft clink when he reaches for water. you poke the edge of your food like a robot, mind blank, answering when questions hit you. yes that meeting was fine, no you do not need the driver tomorrow, yes you saw the email, no you do not know who dana is, yes you are being polite.

the chef floats in and out with tales of vinegar reductions. your father asks for seconds of the asparagus. you chew. stare. swallow. chew again. the rhythm is a lullaby for thoughts you are not having.

near the end your father dabs his mouth and switches to logistics, which is his favorite dessert. he gestures with his napkin while he speaks, beaming, full of love disguised as rules. “uzui, we will set you up in the guest room across the hall from my daughter,” he says, pleased with himself. “right across. better sight lines. quicker response. you will be able to better service her.”

you choke.

it is not cute. it is a full cough into your water glass, eyes blurring, the worst timing of your life. tengen’s hand appears at your back, warm through the fabric, steadying with a gentle pressure. “small sips,” he murmurs, low so it does not carry. when he pulls his hand away, your face is incandescent.

your father blinks, confused for a heartbeat, then continues because he is too far gone in plan mode to catch the joke your blood just translated. “guest room has been refreshed,” he adds, nodding to himself. “new keypad on your door, sweetheart. uzui will coordinate with the night team, rotate the patrol rounds, test the window sensors.”

“perfect,” you croak, voice shredded, staring at your plate like it might open and swallow you whole.

tengen keeps his eyes on the table but you can feel the gravity of his mouth trying not to curve. “i will have the go bag by the door,” he says evenly. “six a.m. walk of the perimeter. eight a.m. departure if she has plans.”

“she does not enjoy mornings,” your father says fondly. he looks at you the way only a parent can, overflowing. “but she will, for safety.”

you manage a little tilt of your head that means maybe, then you cut a tiny bite of meat and pretend this is the calmest you have ever been. your phone buzzes once in your lap like it knows how red your ears are. you do not look. across from you the chef returns with a lemon sorbet palate cleanser and explains at length the merits of zest. you hear only the word service echoing through your skull like a dropped marble rolling down a hall.

tengen leans the smallest fraction toward you, enough that his cologne slides under your nose, “do you need air,” he asks, quiet.

“i need a new vocabulary,” you whisper back, then you recover with something smart because that is your armor. “and a legal team to prosecute my father for saying that sentence out loud.”

he chokes this time, just a breath, the tiniest hitch that he smothers in his napkin. when he looks at you his eyes are bright like he is trapped between laughter and pain. you feel your mouth pull into a smile you did not authorize.

your father approves a final flourish from the chef, nods to the staff, and dinner releases its hold. chairs scrape in a polite chorus. you stand, napkin folded on the plate, the room tilting back toward the lived-in hush of evening. in the hallway the sconces glow amber. upstairs the dark gathers in corners like cats.

you slip out first, bare feet silent on the runner, and you can hear tengen set his water down and fall into place two steps behind. the house exhales around you as you climb. on the landing your phone finally wins and you glance at the screen. your friend has sent eighteen screaming messages and one cropped screenshot of his jawline from the facetime, which you will deny in court. you type help in lowercase and she sends back a row of coffin emojis.

in the bedroom wing a housekeeper passes with fresh linens and a goodnight. your room waits open. across the hall the guest suite that has never mattered to you suddenly matters a lot. tengen keys the code to check the lock, easy and practiced, then nudges the door with his knuckles. inside, a duffel thumps to the floor. a second later he is back in the hall, turning once to put his palm to the frame of your door in a move that is pure habit, counting breaths, eyes soft because it is you standing there finding your own throat again.

“i will be right here,” he says, simple as that.

you want to make a joke about service again. you want to never speak the word again. you settle for a shrug that tries to be casual and fails. “okay,” you say, and your voice comes out warmer than you mean it to.

a few days later

the house is mostly asleep. a few hall lights left on for ghosts, the refrigerator humming low like it’s thinking to itself. you pad in barefoot, phone flashlight guiding you, and open the fridge door just to stare. it spills a square of light onto your knees. there’s nothing you actually want — some fancy yogurt, last night’s leftovers, too many bottles of sparkling water — but standing here pretending you’re making a decision feels easier than facing the kind of thoughts that crawl out when the house is quiet.

you’re halfway through debating whether chips count as dinner when a shadow lengthens in the hallway. tengen, of course. shirt loose, hair down, mussed, bracelets quiet this time. he moves with that deliberate grace you’ve started associating with him, like he’s built from control.

but your thoughts short-circuit the moment your eyes reach his hair again.

wait.

it was white?

you blink. it’s white?

you’d only ever seen flashes of it under his head wrap, always tucked away like some secret beneath the fabric. you thought maybe—silver, ash blonde, maybe even pale blue under certain lights—but no. it’s white. moonlight-white. silk-poured-into-water white. and long, too, sliding down his back in soft, tousled waves like something out of a fairytale. or a shampoo commercial. or your fanfic rec list.

“you good?” he asks, cocking his head slightly, voice still thick with sleep.

you snap your mouth shut. had it been open?

“uh-huh,” you manage, nodding a little too fast.

“couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice a whisper that still fills the kitchen.

you shrug, feeling the chips, “just hungry. or bored. or both.”

he crosses to the kettle, puts water on without asking. the air shifts, smells like metal and mint. “mint or jasmine?”

“both,” you decide. “surprise me.”

he chuckles low, something almost fond in it, and for a few minutes you both move around the counter like you’ve done this a hundred times — him stirring, you stealing crackers, the refrigerator sighing shut. he asks about your classes; you groan about economics, and he listens. you tell him about a dumb tiktok trend and show it, and he actually laughs, head tipping back.

you didn’t know he could laugh like that. you find yourself smiling into your tea, which is exactly the kind of thing your friends would make fun of you for.

when the mint fogs up your glass, he takes off one bracelet, lets it clink softly onto the counter. “too loud,” he mutters.

“i like the sound,” you admit, eyes still on your mug. “you’re like… background music. fancy wind chimes.”

he grins, teeth flashing in the low light. “that’s one way to call me noisy.”

“compliment, actually.”

he tilts his head, studying you a moment too long before going back to his tea. it’s quiet after that — comfortable, warm. you realize you could stay like this for hours, orbiting the silence, drinking mint and jasmine, pretending the world stops at the kitchen counter.

when he finally says goodnight, the word is a low hum that stays long after the light clicks off.

you’re the one who suggests it, half joking, because the day is too quiet and the house feels like it’s holding its breath. you lean into the passenger window of the idling escalade and ask if you can drive it. tengen looks at you over the rim of his sunglasses, slow and skeptical.

“you want to drive the armored truck,” he says, voice dipped in disbelief.

you nod. “it’s a beautiful day for bad decisions.”

he sighs but gets out anyway, swapping sides. “fine. but you’re not saying anything if you hit anything.”

you slide behind the wheel, the seat swallowing you, his cologne living in the fabric. he leans over to adjust the steering column and the seat belt, one arm braced along the back of your seat, the other close enough that the air feels heavy between you. his voice drops low as he explains pedals and mirrors. when you turn your head, his sleeve has ridden up; the light pours over a forearm carved like it belongs to a statue, veins a soft map under gold skin.

you forget what he’s saying for a second. just look.

he catches it, of course. his mouth tilts. “like what you see?”

you don’t bother lying. “yeah.”

he laughs under his breath, quiet but warm, the kind of sound that slides down your spine. “keep your eyes on the road, not the arms,” he says, and his fingers find the back of your hand, guiding it to the wheel.

“hard to do both,” you mumble, but you listen, foot easing the gas. the escalade creeps forward, tires whispering over gravel. the sun catches on the bangles at his wrist, turning the cab gold. he watches the road, still smiling, while you try to breathe like a normal person.

after a minute you glance over again. his sleeves stretch when he moves, muscle pulling under the thin cotton, veins catching the light. he feels you looking. his eyes flick sideways without turning his head.

“you’re doing great,” he says. “but maybe, just maybe, focus on the tree instead of the arms.”

you manage a laugh, a little shaky. “you’re distracting.”

“i get that a lot,” he says, teasing, but his voice has softened, a little rough at the edges.

you make it halfway down the drive before nearly clipping a planter, his hand darting to the wheel, biceps flexing again as he steadies you both.

you groan. “see? told you you’re distracting.” he grins. “sure. blame me.”

and when you park at the end, hands still gripping the wheel, he leans back, eyes bright. “so,” he says, “you like the arms. what do you think of my teaching skills?”

you flash him a grin, cheeks hot. “still deciding.”

he laughs, deep and easy, and for a moment the car is filled with sun and the scent of cologne and the low hum of something you’re both pretending not to name.

the day’s lazy, the kind that melts hours together. you’re on the veranda with a book and a glass of lemonade sweating down your wrist. tengen’s somewhere behind you, pacing the perimeter with that relaxed precision of his. you’re just reaching the good part when he goes still — the kind of stillness that freezes the air.

you follow his gaze: a white van idling just beyond the gate, no markings, tinted windows.

before you can speak, he’s already moving. not the dramatic action-movie kind — quieter, sharper. it’s the sort of motion that doesn’t break air, like a knife sliding through silk. ninja, you think suddenly. there’s no sound, no weight to it. he disappears around the hedge, body blending into shadow, and your heart trips over itself.

you hold your breath until you see him again. he’s already at the van’s door, calm, efficient. a few exchanged words, a flash of paperwork, the van rolling off down the street. you’re still clutching your book upside down.

when he comes back, he’s the same man as before — same lazy stride, same gold bracelets catching the light. but there’s a thin edge under the calm now, a quiet hum of something dangerous that reminds you he’s not just pretty or polite or funny. he’s trained to disappear and take a threat with him.

“delivery guy,” he says finally, reading the question in your face. “wrong address.”

you nod, try to make it a joke. “should’ve used a smoke bomb to make it more dramatic.”

he almost smiles. “you’d have fainted.”

“no, i’d have recorded it for the group chat.” 

“same thing.”

you both laugh, but his eyes linger on the gate a moment longer. later, when you head inside, you find a bottle of water waiting on your nightstand and the faintest scent of his cologne left behind on the hallway air.

the atelier smells like starch and fresh fabric, a little too clean. mirrors everywhere, light spilling over satin in pale waves. your father’s in the corner with his phone, deep in a call about “gala logistics.” the tailor hums and circles you, pins flashing in her mouth.

tengen stands by the door, all 6’6 of restraint and polished composure. his sunglasses hang from his collar; his head wrap gleams white under the chandelier. every time he shifts, the bracelets sing quietly, a golden punctuation mark.

you’re half-listening to the tailor talk about the dress’s “architectural narrative” when a pin nicks your finger. a sharp sting, a bead of red. before you can even react, tengen’s at your side, fast but quiet. as your dad continues his tirade over the phone his eyes shift between the two of you.

“hold still,” he murmurs. his hand dwarfs yours, warm and steady. he pulls a bandaid from his pocket like it’s instinct. smooths it over the cut with careful pressure. his thumb lingers for a second too long before he steps back.

“thanks,” you say softly.

he clears his throat. “part of the job.” but his voice has gone low.

the tailor lifts the gown’s hem, pins more fabric, mutters about daring necklines. tengen glances at the mirror once, sees the dip of silk down your back, looks away immediately.

“you okay over there?” you tease, eyes catching his in the glass.

he exhales through his nose. “just calculating extra security for that neckline.”

you grin. “and what earrings should i wear for that calculation?”

he doesn’t move his gaze from the floor. “gold hoops. something that catches the light.”

you turn a little, watching him through the reflection. he’s facing away now, pretending to study the doorframe, but his ears have gone pink. you bite back a smile. 

quietly, you step off the fitting pedestal. the tailor is crouched at your hem, muttering something about stitching timelines, and your dad is on the phone in the corner, deep in conversation about seating charts. no one notices as you pad over to him, silk swishing like water at your ankles.

you stop right in front of him. he still doesn’t look at.

so you reach out, two fingers gentle beneath his chin, and guide him.

his eyes find yours like magnets.

for a moment, neither of you say anything. just watch. there, in the hush between breaths, you both see it happen—your blush climbing up your cheeks, his spreading across his nose and ears. soft. impossible to miss. made worse because you’re both watching it in real time.

his lips part like he wants to say something.

yours do too.

but the tailor suddenly calls out a measurement, and the moment collapses. you both blink. step back. like nothing happened.

tengen returns to his post, quiet, unshaken. but when you glance in the mirror one last time, he’s looking —just for a heartbeat— before his gaze slips away again, leaving behind a spark that hums beneath your skin long after you leave the room.

the bedroom is a soft riot of fabric and perfume. pale silk drapes across your chair like moonlight caught in cloth, lipstick tests bloom on tissue, and a single gold heel waits perched on the windowsill for no reason except it looked pretty there. you stand in the mirror’s glow, fingertips easing the final earring into place. gold hoops, fat with shine, just like he said. matching bangles sleeve your wrist, warm rings toying with the light every time you move.

the dress is a sigh of champagne silk, skimmed low at the back, fitted along your sides so perfectly it feels poured. you twist to reach the zipper—almost—almost, hurt your shoulder for the trouble. you mutter, grab your phone, thumb quick.

tengen helppp

two knocks answer. the door opens. tengen fills the frame, fresh suit charcoal-dark over all that sun-bright skin, white head wrap gleaming, gemstones catching fire. 6’6 of there is absolutely no emergency but he looks ready to pull one out of thin air if you need it.

“sorry,” you say, shrugging the apology into a grin. “help. zipper, can’t reach.”

“permission to assist,” he answers, half smile tugging at his mouth.

you turn back to the mirror, push your hair away. he steps in behind, heat radiating through the silk. his fingertips catch the zipper pull—steady, careful—not even brushing skin but close enough to buzz. you both watch in the glass. his eyes flick to meet yours, dark and bright.

“beautiful,” he says, soft like it might slip.

you inhale, let the word spark across your ribs. “thanks,” you answer breezy, though your pulse is anything but. a bangle slides loose, clinks off your wrist, rolls toward the floor. instinct pulls you after it. you bend, silk whispering, and the moment you do he mirrors you—long frame folding over, one big hand scooping the runaway gold. for a breath he’s over you, shadows and parfum close enough to taste. his bangles brush your shoulder as he straightens, passing the bracelet back, fingers grazing yours, both of you half laughing like the air suddenly feels too crowded.

you slip the bangle on, gold ringing against gold, adjust your hoops so they glint. his gaze lingers in the mirror, tracking every small movement, and when you glance up he is still looking, something unreadable humming behind his calm. the hallway light spills around him, bright at the edges, and downstairs the staff calls last-minute times to one another, the night waiting, glittering, about to open like a show.

the escalade noses up to the awning all chrome and hush, and the valet swings the door. camera bulbs flare before a single heel touches pavement. you step out into a swirl of velvet ropes and curated laughter, tengen half a breath behind, tall enough that every flash ricochets off his head wrap, gilding his silhouette.

the photographer queue clocks him fast: whispers ripple—who’s the bodyguard, look at the arms, that jawline could cut steel. lenses tilt your way, faces lit by screens as captions bloom in real-time. you feel it happen: tonight becomes an upload, a looped edit waiting for the right audio. tengen’s bangles chime softly when he offers an elbow; you take it like muscle memory.

inside, light pours from chandelier tiers, gold on gold, walls blooming with moneyed chatter. you sign the donor book, flash one practiced smile, and he stays just to your left, a steady gravity. anytime you turn, he’s there, eyes mapping exits, shoulders squared under that charcoal suit like marble poured into wool.

you’re floating through introductions when a voice cuts in—rounded vowels, soft authority. a young royal from some sun-bleached principality steps close, too close, palm landing warm against your waist. polite grip, diamond cuff links. he laughs your name, angles you away from tengen in a pivot dancers would envy.

your guard stops moving. in the corner of your eye you see the set of his jaw, a stillness that feels louder than music. the royal speaks of the charity’s “noble objectives,” of a private champagne tasting upstairs, his thumb tracing an absentminded circle just above silk. camera flash catches the moment, a white stutter of light across glossy marble, and you sense rather than see tengen adjust his stance, bracelets giving one clear note that cuts through the string quartet warming up in the mezzanine.

you slip back through the glittered crowd, skirt brushing ankles, heartbeat still tempo-fast from the royal’s sugar-laced compliments. tengen waits at the edge of the ballroom arch, shoulders square, eyes fixed on nothing and everything at once. the instant he sees you, the line of his mouth softens but only a touch, like thaw gliding over ice.

“he was charming,” you tease, bumping a hip against his arm. “practically asked if i wanted a private tour of the wine cellar.”

“i heard,” tengen says, voice smooth but clipped at the edges, “lovely invitation.”

you poke a finger at the rigid set of his elbow. “are you jealous?”

he tips his head, eyes sliding down to meet yours, something dark and unguarded flickering there for half a breath. “and what if i am?”

the words land hotter than the room. breath catches in your throat, hands suddenly unsure of themselves. you search for something clever, find nothing but the hum of the quartet and the static on your skin.

salvation arrives wrapped in sequins and shrieks—your friends burst through the crush like confetti cannons, clutching flutes of rosé, eyes pinning straight to tengen. “there he is,” one gasps, fanning her face. “bodyguard barbie dreamhouse in the flesh.” another drags him forward by the sleeve, squealing, “smile for the thirst trap,” already angling her phone.

tengen’s brows lift, somewhere between amusement and alarm. bracelets clink while they orbit him, throwing questions: do you bench press cars, can you bench press us, can we touch the bangles, what perfume is that. you watch the color heat up the tips of his ears and laugh, the knot in your chest loosening as he gives a polite half bow, answering each rapid-fire inquiry with soft patience and some flashiness.

someone shoves their phone toward you for a group selfie—tengen in the middle, your friends sandwiching him, you at his side. you anticipate the picture. the flash blooms bright. in the split second before it fades, you feel his hand settle at the small of your back—steady, and grounding. just enough to remind you he’s there for you even while he’s drowning in compliments.

your friends giggle over the picture, already plotting captions, and tengen turns his head, mouth brushing close to your ear, voice only for you. “jealousy seems inconvenient,” he murmurs, “but manageable.”

your pulse stumbles; you manage a smile that wobbles at the corners. the orchestra swells into a new song, crystal glasses clink like distant bells, and the night folds around the five of you, golden and humming, while camera flashes pop somewhere near the dais and the scent of jasmine floats in from the garden doors left ajar.

your friends break into scandalized gasps when tengen’s palm settles at the dip of your spine, heat pouring through silk. phones lift, snapping one last proof before he angles his body to shield you from the flash, grip gentle but sure as he steers you toward the terrace doors.

“oh my god, look at that hand placement,” one hisses behind her glass. “he wants her. i know he does, i just can’t prove it.”

you feel the words spark along your skin, setting every nerve alight. tengen’s laughter follows, low and velvet, rumbling against your shoulder as if he found the whole commentary entertaining. the sound trips your heartbeat; breath sticks somewhere behind your collarbone.

“ladies,” he says, half turning, voice warm with amusement, “i’ll bring her back in one piece.”

they squeal louder, a chorus of teasing oohs, and the string lights above ripple gold over his head wrap. his bracelets brush your waist as he guides you past foliage and down the first marble step, your pulse stuttering, the night air cool on flushed cheeks while cameras click faintly inside and the hush of distant traffic folds around the garden path.

you make the decision quietly—right there under the spill of chandelier light and the slow waltz of strangers’ voices—that if you’re going to be stuck at a fundraiser all night, you might as well stick with the only person who makes the air feel bearable.

so you trail tengen like a shadow, half hiding behind his arm as you make lazy circles through the crowd. he doesn’t seem to mind. every now and then he angles his body just enough to clear your path, the brush of a hand on your elbow steering you past clusters of donors and socialites. his scent—cologne and something warm—wraps around you, grounding you in a room full of money and champagne.

you tell him the gossip because you can’t help yourself. you point out who’s in the middle of a messy divorce, who’s secretly bankrupt but still clinging to the family yacht, who tried to poach your father’s accountant and failed spectacularly. tengen listens like you’re narrating a secret intelligence brief, head inclined, eyes shining with barely hidden amusement.

“the one in the emerald dress,” you whisper, tilting your glass, “she got kicked out of a spa last month for throwing her facialist’s tools into the pool.”

you grin, savoring the sound of his voice low and close. every few steps you sprinkle in another absurd tidbit—some new rumor, some bit of insider tea—and he plays along, a flash of teeth here, a small shake of the head there. it feels conspiratorial, like a private language you’re building in the middle of the crowd.

eventually, he asks, “why exactly are we here again? not that i have a choice in the matter.”

you sigh, looking out over the glitter and the glass. “because my dad’s the biggest contributor. his company’s the one funding the new medical wing this whole event’s about. so i show up, smile, act interested, pretend i don’t want to be home in pajamas watching netflix with takeout.”

“ah,” he says, half-smile tugging his mouth. “sounds.. thrilling.”

“oh, it’s the height of excitement,” you say, eyes rolling. “i live for endless small talk about stock portfolios and sustainable marble. riveting.”

his laugh slips out again, that low, rich sound that seems to make your heartbeat falter every time. “for what it’s worth,” he says, glancing down at you, “you’re making it bearable.”

you meet his gaze, and something in your chest goes bright and weightless.

“don’t tell my dad,” you whisper, leaning closer, “but i think you might be the only good thing about this entire night.”

he grins, eyes soft. “your secret’s safe with me.”

and so you stay there—side by side, trading quiet jokes and inside gossip while your father laughs with benefactors across the room—pretending that the gala, for once, is exactly where you want to be.

you’re standing near the dessert table now, picking at a tiny slice of something glazed and too sweet, your hand brushing against the cuff of his sleeve every time you reach for your glass. the night is humming down, strings soft, laughter thinning into background static. you watch your father shaking hands with someone important across the room, and you exhale like the air in your ribs finally decided to leave.

“hey,” you murmur, nudging him with your elbow, “when we get home… you wanna watch netflix with me?”

his head tilts, that lazy half-smile forming like he was waiting for you to ask. “yeah,” he says, voice dipping low, teasing. “netflix and chill?”

you laugh, loud enough that a couple of donors glance over. “you’re too old to be using that reference.”

he raises an eyebrow, mock-offended. “too old? girl, i’m 28, not collecting a pension.”

“you said that like an uncle at a barbecue,” you giggle, covering your mouth. “you’re ancient.”

he grins, leaning down just enough that his breath brushes your ear. “ancient, huh? keep talking like that and i’ll make you a playlist of ‘old people’ music for our netflix night.”

you bite your lip to hide another laugh, eyes crinkling. “you’d totally pick the most dramatic movie possible just to see me cry.”

“nah,” he says, bracelets chiming as he straightens. “something light. something that lets you fall asleep halfway through.”

you grin up at him. “that’s very presumptuous of you.”

he shrugs, eyes catching the chandelier light, looking every bit the kind of man the tabloids will obsess over tomorrow. “no,” he says, easy, confident. “just a good guess.”

and you can’t tell if it’s the champagne or the warmth in his eyes that makes your heart feel too big for your chest—but you laugh again anyway, the sound soft and real, and for the first time all night, you’re actually looking forward to going home more.

the valet barely has the escalade in gear before you’re tugging tengen’s sleeve, whispering sonic please please like a kid who’s spotted the last ice-cream truck of summer. he only huffs a laugh. quiet, indulgent, and veers off the main drag, bracelets clinking against the wheel as the city spills into softer blurred lights.

midnight air presses warm through the cracked windows, perfume of highway and grass clippings. you toe your heels off, silk pooling at your ankles, and cue up “sexyback” on the dash. the bass drops; tengen’s grin tilts half-dangerous in the glow of the console.

“this is officially your theme,” you announce, hair whipping as you bop in the seat.

“i do love this song,” he rumbles, tapping the beat on the steering wheel.

the sonic sign flickers turquoise over asphalt. he presses the call button and order two cherry limeades with extra cherries. when the carhop skates up, tengen pays in crisp bills, nodding thanks while you put your straw into your cherry limeade.

seconds later you’re slurping pure sugar, windows down, song on replay. the night smells like barbeque and frying oil. he takes a first sip, eyes sliding your way. “approve?”

“solid twelve out of ten,” you say, fishing for the bright cherry bobbing in your cup. an idea sparks; you spear the fruit on your straw and tilt toward him. “tribute to you.”

he side-eyes you but leans closer. just as you lift the cherry toward his mouth with your fingers, the escalade thumps over a sneaky speed bump. momentum jerks your arm; the cherry bumps his lips, your finger follows, soft and sudden against the heat of his tongue.

time hiccups—his mouth closes, catching fruit and fingertip together. warm. slick. his eyes flick to yours, dark and startled, then soften. he lets the cherry roll off your straw, tongue sweeping sugar, then licks a slow stripe along the pad of your finger before you can pull away.

heartbeat bangs in your ears louder than the bass. you blink, breath stuttering, stuck halfway between apology and something reckless.

he straightens in the seat like nothing happened, though the corner of his mouth gleams cherry-red. “road hazard,” he says, voice husky, shifting back into drive. “better keep both hands on your drink, pretty girl.”

your laugh comes out thin, shaking off sparks. you cradle the limeade like it might explode, smile glued to your lips while the next chorus claims the speakers and the streetlights streak gold across the windshield, each pulse of neon lights marking the miles still humming between you and home.

the driveway glows quiet under the porch lanterns when the escalade sighs to a stop. inside, the house holds that middle-of-the-night hush, air cool and lemon-clean, like it’s been waiting up for you. you peel out of your heels the second the front door clicks shut, silk pooling toward your ankles as you climb the stairs on tiptoe. tengen slips past, murmuring he’ll sweep the grounds—voice still sticky with cherry sugar—while you do your bedtime nonsense.

bedroom lights low, you unzip the gown, let it slide whisper-soft to the carpet. jewelry clinks into a dish, earrings first, bangles last. the shower steams up fast, jasmine soap curling around the tile. warm water beats the gala off your shoulders, taking perfume, small talk, the royal’s handprint, everything. you pad out wrapped in a towel and tug on a silk cami and matching shorts, fabric soft against fresh skin.

through the window you spot him moving the perimeter: tall silhouette against hedge shadow, flash of gemstone each time the porch sensor flares. a few minutes later you hear the guest-suite door shut, the low hiss of his shower, the faint clatter of bracelets set on marble.

netflix loads on your laptop at the foot of the bed. you’ve queued a feel-good heist film but haven’t hit play when the knock sounds—two soft taps.

“come in,” you call.

he appears clean, hair damp, a towel hung loose around his neck, charcoal sleep shirt clinging to shoulders. he’s carrying a pillow under one arm, limeade in the other. “hope you don’t mind,” he says, lifting the drink. you pat the mattress. he settles beside you, the bed dipping, his scent now a mix of cedar and soap.

movie starts, city lights streaking across the screen, but conversation tangles over the dialogue anyway. you mention that the script reminds you of a fic you read last week—a ridiculous crossover with even more ridiculous flirting. he asks to see. you pull your phone, open the archive app, scroll until the title winks back. he cranes over your shoulder; heat lines the gap where his bicep brushes your arm.

you read the tagged summary aloud, and he bursts into quiet laughter, deep and rolling, head falling back against the headboard. “there’s no way that works,” he says, eyes bright. “scroll, let me see how they pull it off.” you do, skimming paragraphs, both of you stopping every few lines to cackle or groan. halfway through he starts voicing one character—bad accent, too much bravado—and you’re snorting so hard you have to pause the film.

then you trade: he hands over his limeade and you swap to another fic, this one angst-drenched. he reads with surprising patience, mouth twitching whenever the prose goes for maximum heartbreak. when the final line lands he presses the screen to his chest like it’s a wound and whispers a dramatic “why.” you lose it again, laughter bouncing off the bedroom walls, softer, sleepier each time.

hours slide by in small fits of giggles and sugar sips, the heist movie long forgotten on pause at thirty-three minutes. outside, dawn nudges the horizon pale. inside, netflix asks if you’re still watching. you glance at the question, then at him—eyes half-lidded, smile lazy, bracelets glimmering faint in the first gray light.

“yeah,” you murmur to the room, thumb tapping the laptop. “we’re still watching.”

he hums beside you, low and warm, head tipping to rest against yours. his arm curls tighter around your waist like instinct, like gravity.

“barely,” he mumbles, voice frayed with sleep.

“hm?”

“‘m watching you more than the movie anyway.”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut, heart thudding steady.

a beat. then—

his mouth brushes your temple, soft as breath. just once. just enough to make your skin tingle. and when you shift to look at him, he’s already watching you—barely awake, gaze tender, half-lost to whatever dream you’ve lured him into.

you lean in without thinking, lips meeting his in a slow, sleep-heavy kiss. it’s warm. unhurried. a little clumsy at the corners, like your minds haven’t caught up to your mouths. but it’s real.  he sighs into it like a man exhaling a wish.

and the house, satisfied, drifts with you both into the quietest part of morning, screen glow painting two silhouettes tangled in pillow until sleep finally wins.

morning stretches quiet through the curtains, pale and dust-soft. the side of the bed where tengen sat laughing at fanfic punchlines is already cool, pillows fluffed back into parade rest. bodyguard business, you guess—cameras to check, keypads to test—while you shuffle downstairs in sleep-wrinkled silk and raid the fridge for last-night quiche. the marble is cold on bare feet. a voicemail light blinks on the hall console, your father’s voice a cheerful crackle straight from a tarmac somewhere:

hi, sugar bear, flying to zurich for three days. be good, rely on uzui, that man could stop an earthquake with his charm, love you more than sunshine, call if you need anything.

you mouth love you back to the empty kitchen, fork scraping the last bite.

the patio doors stand ajar, cicadas humming a low summer chant outside. you follow the sound of metal and breathed sighs until the side veranda comes into view: tengen under the beam of a support post, doing pull-ups with slow, vicious control. morning light skims every muscle, sweat rolling down the line of his spine like liquid gold. the white head wrap is gone; damp hair clings to his temples. baby hairs frayed, bracelets lie in a neat pile on the steps.

you lean against the rail, voice still rough with sleep. “do you ever take a break?”

he doesn’t pause the upward pull, but a grin ghosts his mouth. “you make it difficult.”

heart flips. you lift a bowl, shaking it so strawberries clink. “fuel?”

he drops, landing silent, shoulders blooming wide as he rolls them out. you spear the reddest berry on your fingertip and raise it. he bends to bite, but gravity jostles the fruit; it slips, tumbles, lands between you. both of you freeze, staring at the scarlet dot on warm planks.

you crouch first, silk shorts skimming thighs; he mirrors, forearms braced on knees. eye level now, breath mingling. sunlight catches in his lashes. you pick up another berry, slow, and lift it back to his mouth without breaking the stare. he parts his lips, closes gently over the fruit and the tip of your finger, teeth barely grazing. sweet juice blooms against skin. you feel it everywhere.

he chews once, swallows, gaze still locked on yours. soft morning breeze ghosts over sweat-damp hair; the whole yard seems to hush, listening.

“better?” you whisper, voice gone small.

“could be,” he answers, words thick with something warm, “might need another.”

you find another strawberry in the bowl, heart hammering steady and hard, and the world tilts closer while red juice stains your fingertips and his mouth waits, patient and hungry.

you balance one more berry on your fingertips, hold it in the small space between your mouths. his teeth graze skin the same way cherry syrup did last night, slow and sure. heat flickers down your spine like someone struck a match behind your ribs. once the berry is gone you clear your throat, toss a grin that feels too bright.

“keep up the good work, hotness.”

you spin before he can answer, stride back inside like your pulse is not rattling in your ears. upstairs the bathroom mirror catches you with flushed cheeks and smiling eyes and you have to splash cold water until the reflection calms down.

an hour later you thump down the staircase, phone in hand, tennis skirt swishing, cardigan swallowing your shoulders. comfort armor. you cut through the foyer and almost collide with him turning the corner, fresh out of the guest room in black cargo pants, house hoodie, hair still damp from a rinse.

his gaze drags from your sneakers to the oversized sleeves swallowing your hands. he frowns like a man assessing damage. “are you going out?”

“yeah,” you say, jingling the keys. “i’m bored.”

his mouth curves, half amusement, half disbelief. “you know i got a reputation to uphold, baby. i can’t be seen with someone who looks like they’re headed to study group.”

you bark a laugh and point at him. “please. you look just as bummy as i do. cargo pants? really? what is this, 2005?” he snorts, unbothered, tucking his hands into his pockets. “i just got out of the shower,” he says smoothly. “i’m getting ready. you’re ready.”

“we’re not going to a club,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “we’re going to barnes and noble.” he tilts his head, grin widening, all flash and teasing. “you say that like it’s not a runway. people are gonna see me, princess. i gotta represent.”

you shove past him toward the door, muttering, “you’re unbearable.” his laughter follows you down the hall—low, easy, and far too pleased with himself.

you grin into the hall mirror while tugging on a cropped jacket. outside the engine starts, cedar and citrus drifting through the doorway. barnes and noble waits, sign blinking like an eager accomplice to whatever this is becoming.

barnes & noble yawns open in front of you. fluorescent light, soft coffee steam, rows on rows of color-spined art. the second the escalade doors shut, tengen falls into step beside you—one smooth gravity, bracelets catching the store’s overhead glow. it feels startlingly domestic: him nudging the entrance door, you brushing by with a grateful smile, both of you breathing in that new-and-old-paper smell like it’s fresh air.

“rule one,” you whisper, grabbing a basket, “we leave with fewer than seven books.”

“alright,” he counters, but he hums approval and follows.

aisles slip past: manga, sci-fi, cookbooks. you stop at the romance endcap and jab a finger toward a cover with a shirtless gladiator. “this is basically your vibe.”

he chuckles, deep and polite. “if the bangles count as armor, sure.”

you wander farther. he surprises you by drifting toward fashion and design—big coffee-table hardcovers full of runway lighting and fabric close-ups. he thumbs pages reverently, pausing on a spread of avant-garde streetwear. vivid color splashes across a model’s jaw; tengen’s eyes sharpen. connecting the dots to your earlier interaction in the foyer.

“like this,” he murmurs, tapping the image. “layering that refuses to back down.”

you lean in, shoulders brushing. “i pictured you more… functional black.”

“flash and function are not mutually exclusive,” he says, mouth curving. “clothes should either whisper or shout. nothing in between.”

you pocket that thought, tuck it somewhere warm. in return you tug him toward the graphic-novel wall, showing off an indie title with different colors and chaotic panels. he crouches, studying the line art, genuinely interested, asking about plot, penciling, inks. you ramble, delighted, and he listens like every fact matters.

before you know it the basket holds: two runway books he picked, one enemies-to-lovers novel you defended with a passion, a tiny hardback on bonsai cultivation he insisted you needed because “cool new hobby” and a shared treat—a sleek art-theory volume you decided was “joint custody.”

checkout is easy chatter. the cashier eyes the bangles, eyes the pile, smiles like she’s stumbled onto a low-key date. tengen pays before you can swipe; his bracelets glint as he slips the card back, and you roll your eyes but mouth thank you anyway.

bags rustle on the walk back to the car. he taps your elbow lightly. “learn anything?”

“that you’re a secret fashion nerd,” you say.

“and you,” he returns, “are a flashy curator of indie graphic novels who pretends not to be soft.”

you bump his hip with yours. “shut up.”

he laughs, warm and whole, and opens the passenger door for you. inside the escalade the new books slide onto the seat between you like shared treasure. you buckle in, smell of ink drifting up, and for a heartbeat the world feels trimmed down to this quiet car, this stack of stories, and the man who keeps finding ways to stand exactly where you like him.

whole seasons rinse by like color filters: spring edges out of early chill, and you and tengen are still glued together, the city stitching new memories around your hearts.

first it’s fashion week—an invite from a designer who owes your father favors. you would have declined, for it not tengen’s lit up eyes—ones he swore weren't there. runway lights burn white; music thrums low in the sternum. you guide tengen to front-row seats, bracelets snickering under house spotlights, his eyes going wide at silhouettes that smoke across the catwalk. after the show you catch him studying seam finishes, knuckles brushing satin swatches while you whisper commentary in his ear. somebody snaps a photo: you pointing, him leaning close, bangles bright, your laugh soft—internet fodder within hours.

then fitting rooms become second homes. you pull him through boutiques tucked behind cafes, show him racks strung with wild color. he plays reluctance, then lights up when you clap over a cobalt bomber or a pair of pleated pearl-grey trousers. card swipes, and suddenly packages pile in the foyer: metallic sneakers, oversized knits, tailored cargos that silence your early-2000s jokes. you make him do a “runway” down the hallway—hips loose, grin lethal—while you clap like a delighted director.

“you missed your calling,” you tease, snapping photos.

“you missed your chance to hire me,” he fires back, spinning so the jacket flares.

evenings stretch lazy in the garden: you lounged on cushions, tablet glowing with the latest lookbook, him scrolling beside you, pointing out drape lines you hadn’t noticed. you trade strawberries dipped in chocolate, lift one to his mouth, pull back last second. he leans too far, almost topples, catches himself on an elbow, laughs low and wrecked while you smirk, victory sweet on your tongue.

in the escalade you crank playlists, shout-sing, your knee knocking his. at red lights he slips rings from one hand to the other; you steal one, wear it oversized on your thumb. “mine now,” you declare. he just hums, eyes on the traffic, smile like slow syrup.

every tease grows sharper. you flick open his top shirt button before meetings, claim it’s “style adjustment.” he retaliates by calling you a princess in his velvet morning voice, watches the flush climb your ears. you try to outdo him; but he always meets you halfway.

summer finally tips into gold dusk. you find yourselves side by side on the balcony post-rain, catalog of fashion shows behind you, city glitter below, thunder still muttering. your slippers tap the tile. his bangles chime. he nudges a shoulder against yours, soft enough to feel like a question.

“ready for the next lineup?” you ask.

“only if you’re in the front row,” he answers, and the night settles around the two of you, a hush filled with a familiar pulse between your hearts.

the new gala is all brass and velvet, a winter garden under glass. you arrive on your father’s arm in a suit set picked to match him on purpose, your dress the same ink-dark tone as his tux lapels, a neat family portrait that moves. cameras nibble at the edges, flash teeth when you pass. tengen ghosts at your flank in tailored black, gemstone head wrap bright as a dropped star, eyes on exits, bracelets muted to polite little notes.

inside, champagne light puddles across parquet pattern floors. your father plays host and general and meteorologist, praising the donations, forecasting the future, ushering people into the right conversations, and then he does what he always does when the noise gets too loud. he leans and murmurs, “walk with me,” and peels you off the current like he is stepping out of a river. you let him, your fingers folded around his sleeve, the two of you slipping along a corridor of fairy lights toward a quieter wing of the museum.

he keeps his voice easy, happy to have you to himself for a minute. asks if you ate. asks if the shoes hurt. asks if the security team is behaving. you answer, smile, bump his shoulder. he looks so pleased that you match. he tells you you look like your mother did the first time he saw her in a black dress and you make a face at him so you do not melt on the spot.

then he stops under a skylight where the glass turns the night to silver and looks at you with that careful softness that can still undo you better than anything. “tell me about uzui,” he says, light like it is small talk, but you hear the weights on each word. “you and he are very close lately.”

you lift your chin like you can coast over the surface of it. “he is good at his job.”

“he is,” your father agrees, eyes warm. “and you like him.”

you pick at the beadwork on your clutch. “i like a lot of people.”

“you do not look at a lot of people the way you look at uzui.”

you try to pivot, you try to swim. you tell him about the bonsai book you bought together. you tell him tengen prefers jasmine to mint tea. you tell him the head of that one foundation is wearing a counterfeit watch. your father lets you dance around it for a full minute, amused.

“are you into him,” he asks at last, gentle like he is asking if you would like more dessert.

you groan, head tipping back, then nod, small because the word is so big. “yeah.”

he hums, a pleased sound he never bothers to hide when life lines up with his private hopes. he laughs under his breath and your shoulders come down because he is not angry and he is not worried, he is just lit from inside like someone handed him good news. “i like tengen,” he says, and it folds up something tight in your chest and puts it away safe. “he is steady. he is smart. he is entirely too flashy, but he seems to be yours about it. i am delighted.”

“do not say delighted,” you groan again, cheeks hot, laughing because it is either that or short circuit. “people are going to hear you. do not manifest anything out loud.”

“i am manifesting that everything goes well,” he says serenely. “that is a father’s right.”

“it is a father’s curse,” you mutter, but you are smiling and he sees it and nods, satisfied.

footsteps whisper somewhere back toward the ballroom. your father flicks a glance past your shoulder where tengen waits at the threshold, posture easy, eyes never leaving you even while pretending to look at exit signs. your father lifts two fingers and motions him closer, the gesture casual, claiming back the guard who has become a piece of the family picture. tengen takes a step, bracelets catching the skylight, the gap between you shrinking one careful pace at a time while winter stars lean their faces against the glass above and the warmth of the party rolls back like a tide to lap at your ankles again, the music ready to fold the three of you into its next bright measure

you meet his gaze. for a breath too long, neither of you look away. there’s something quiet and unguarded in it. something that feels like warmth tucked under all that polish. his smile blooms slow, small at first, then wider when yours mirrors it, the kind that could easily be mistaken for something else if anyone were paying attention.

and someone is.

your father watches the exchange, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. he says nothing, only folds his hands behind his back, eyes soft with the kind of knowing that doesn’t need words. when tengen finally steps beside you, your father turns toward the sound of music and conversation, his tone light as he says, “come along, you two.”

he doesn’t have to say it, but it’s written plain in his smile—  he’s already seen everything he needs to.

the escalade door thuds shut behind you, muffling the gala’s glitter into distant echo. silk pools around your thighs as you slouch across the leather, shoes already a forgotten heap on the floorboard. outside, the city blinks midnight neon; inside, only the low thrum of the engine and the hush of your own heartbeat.

tengen slides into the driver’s seat, bracelets giving a tired little chime as he fastens his belt. “your father’s motorcade’s two lights ahead,” he says, voice soft from the long night. “looks like a snag on the bridge—might be an hour before things clear.”

a sigh slips out of you, half-groan, half-defeat. you tip your head back, stare at the ceiling stars the city can’t blot out. somewhere up front the console clicks; the privacy partition hums halfway up, shielding you from the glare of passing streetlamps.

minutes drift. the cab warms with the faint scent of the new car smell and spent alcohol, all the adrenaline of the gala draining slow. you watch his silhouette in the mirror: broad shoulders easing into exhaustion, fingers drumming idle patterns along the wheel. something inside you stirs, the same bright tether that’s been pulling tighter for months.

“tengen,” you call, voice low.

he straightens, focus snapping to the reflection. “yes?”

the corner of your mouth curves; you let the words pour smooth. “you’ve been such a good boy tonight.” unprovoked.

silence thickens—one breath, two—before it breaks on his answering inhale, sharp, wrecked. his grip whitens on the leather. the partition slides the final inch, sealing the cab in humid hush. you see the tremor in his shoulders as he turns toward the back, gemstone catching a shard of traffic light. he checks his blind spot before heading into the nearest parking lot.

seat belt unlatches with a metallic click. bracelets chime louder now, no longer polite, as he rises on one knee over the console, eyes blown wide, hungry, all the careful control you’ve watched him polish cracking in real time.

“say it again,” he murmurs, voice rough.

you lean forward into the amber glow, heartbeat tumbling. outside, horns pulse in distant frustration, but in here the world narrows to the warm rise of his breath and the sudden quake of the leather under his hands.

“good boy,” you repeat, softer, tasting the words like sugar on your tongue.

whatever leash he held snaps. the cab rocks as he climbs fully into the back, bangles singing riotous approval, the night outside forgetting how to look away while the city sits stalled and oblivious around the two of you.

the breath between you snaps tight as piano wire—your pulse ricochets against bone and you realize, in one dizzy sweep, that teasing has tipped into free-fall.

his eyes are wildfire, need shining through the cracks in all that composure. “you wanna tease me, baby?” the words grate out low, hoarse. “then do it—right now—please.” he’s trembling, whole frame thrumming like a bowstring while you slide across his lap, skirts and nerves tangling. you can taste panic sparking at the edge of thrill, yet the look on his face drags you forward anyway: pure, open want.

“screw it,” you whisper— more to yourself than him— letting the reckless heat flood every second thought. you sink down until your knees pin either side of his hips. bangles rattle as his hands lift, hesitating a breath before brushing the straps from your shoulders, trembling at how real this suddenly is.

“dreamt about this,” he murmurs, lips ghosting your jaw, confession spilling against skin. “every night—couldn’t stop.”

your heartbeat kicks hard. a flash of clarity cuts through the rush and you seize his chin, grounding him with a firmer grip than either of you expects.

“focus,” you order, voice a ragged whisper against his mouth.

he nods—once, twice—too fast, too eager, like devotion wound so tight it aches. you feel the shudder roll through him, see the way his lashes tremble. your fingers stay at his jaw a beat longer, holding eye contact until his breath evens, until you decide you believe the promise shining there. only then do you let the world tilt again, silk sliding, bangles chiming, the cabin sealing you both inside a hush thick with anticipation as traffic crawls somewhere far beyond the tinted glass.

his voice turns to velvet static, all praise spilling like wine over every inch of skin he uncovers. each soft curse is sweetened by your name, each breathy thank you a worship offered straight to your pulse. he tells you you’re perfect, the only thing real in a city made of noise, that he’s wanted to taste you since the first ride home, that even the shape of your laugh kept him up at night.

dirty words slip out ruined, half-groaned, thick with sugar—so love drunk they quake apart in his throat. every time your hips roll he answers with helpless wonder: gorgeous, so gorgeous, you feel like summer, like heaven, i can’t—please—yes.

his confession comes raw when the world whites out. “you have no idea how much i love this,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, mouth slipping over the words like a plea he can’t stop repeating. “love you.” the last syllable breaks inside the kiss as he lets go, arms locking tight, holding you as though one loose breath might steal you away.

the aftershock hums through both of you, sweat cooling, air thick with new truths. you blink, heart tripping, tug his hair back enough to see his eyes. “love?” the word lands hushed, stunned.

he swallows, cheeks flushed dark. “yeah,” he admits, a crooked smile tilting up even as his voice shakes. “i’m a lover boy. can’t help it. you’re good to me.  you’re all i think about. on duty, off duty, doesn’t matter. it’s you.”

silence stretches soft, the night outside still stalled, windows fogged with everything that just changed. his thumb traces circles at your waist, waiting. your pulse steadies under his palm, his body is molten against yours, all glitter and muscle and want. the moment the first domino falls, he’s insatiable. touchy. greedy. ruined in the best way. your dress is hiked up past your hips and his hands are under it like they’ve been starved for years. he scoops you up easily, like you’re a precious and breakable thing, even if his mouth is anything but soft where it lands on your skin—shoulder, collarbone, the bend of your neck. every kiss is hot and hungry. every breath, a thank you.

“so perfect,” he mumbles, lips dragging over your sternum, voice thick. “so beautiful and perfect to me, baby.” your head tips back and you giggle because it’s too much and not enough. he groans like that sound alone is going to undo him.

“can’t believe you let me have you,” he pants, grinding into you through his slacks, cock thick and pressed tight to your center, not even inside you and already shaking. “you don’t even know what you do to me. fuck—i love your laugh. i love when you look at me like that. i’ll take anything, anything, you’ll give me.”

your fingers thread in his hair, tugging as he kisses down your ribs, open-mouthed and breathless. the heat where he ruts into you is unbearable. he’s so hard, twitching with every little shift of your hips, nearly whimpering from how much he wants it.

you press your heel into the seat for leverage and roll your hips just right, just once—and he gasps, low and desperate, clutching you closer like he’d crawl inside if he could.

“this is what you do to me,” he groans into the curve of your breast. “you break me, pretty thing. fuck—i’m yours, always was.”

he’s trembling when he says it, like he’s offering up the last piece of himself. and god, he means it. every frantic kiss says so. every breathless praise sings it. all of him, wrecked and raw, just for you.

you fumble at his belt, still half-drunk on the way he’s kissing you—like he can’t choose between tasting your skin or catching his breath. the second the buckle clicks free, he gasps, a sharp, needy sound that makes your spine arc in response.

“oh?” you blink, wicked grin blooming. “didn’t take you for a whimpering beggar.”

his head tips back, chest rising. then he looks down at you with that grin. the one that says he’s about to wreck you in a couple of minutes. “you’re gonna regret saying that,” he murmurs, voice rich and smooth as silk slipping off a hanger.

and then—

then you do.

because your fingers finish the job. because he springs free, hot and heavy against your palm, and you pause. blink. because it’s not just big, it’s absurd. it’s criminal. there’s girth and weight and the kind of length that makes your mouth go dry and your thighs press together on instinct.

you glance up, momentarily stunned. “oh.”

he’s already watching your expression, smug and love drunk, biting his bottom lip like he’s enjoying your slow realization too much. “still wanna tease, baby?”

“…i made a mistake.”

he chuckles, breathless and giddy, pulling you in with both hands on your hips. “nah,” he breathes, brushing your lips. “you made a choice. and now you’re gonna feel the consequences.”

and oh, you do.

he kisses you slow, teasing, like the interaction never happened—until one hand slides down your thigh, then under it, then grabs at the band of your panties like it’s in his way.

you blink, breath hitching. “wait—”

rrrriip.

you gasp. it’s not delicate. it’s not hesitant. it’s a full, brutal tear—lace and silk shredded like paper between his fingers, tossed somewhere into the corner of the cab.

in your head, it’s pure screaming. oh my god. oh my god that was so attractive.

you don’t say it aloud. but your body reacts before your brain can catch up—heat curling so fast in your belly it’s dizzying.

“shit,” he mutters, eyes flicking down, grip bruising your hips. “sorry, baby. i’ll treat you right later. draw you a bath. feed you grapes. get you a new pair.”

his voice drops, the sound rough and nearly reverent, “but right now—fuck—right now, i need you.”

he lines up, leaking tip dragging against your soaked slit, and you jerk forward with the friction, hips already trying to chase it.

and then he pushes in. just the tip.

the stretch is already making you reel. he groans like it’s breaking him apart, like your body is the answer to every unspoken prayer.

your legs fall open wider. your eyes flutter. he kisses your temple, eyes shut, as he sinks in slow with a ragged breath like he’s finally home.

you sink onto him like you were made to, your breath snagging sharp as you stretch around him—too full, too deep, too much, but you don’t stop. you can’t. his hands are trembling at your hips, his head falling back for a second like the sensation alone has knocked the air from his lungs.

then he’s moving. pistoning up into you in sharp, hungry thrusts, meeting your rhythm with brutal precision. the sounds are obscene—slap of skin, moans in tandem, the wet drag of your bodies pressed together in the dark cocoon of the escalade’s backseat.

you ride him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. your hands braced against his chest, his abs flexing beneath your palms, gold bangles clinking against your thighs every time he bucks upward. and he’s starving for you—mouth on your neck, jaw, lips crashing into yours over and over like he can’t bear the inch of space between.

you kiss him back just as feverishly, drunk on the taste of him, dragging your nails down his shoulder blades. he whimpers into your mouth, broken little sounds that spark heat low in your stomach.

“please,” he gasps, “please—don’t stop. take what you want—use me— use me— fuck, please use me—just don’t stop—”

your fingers tangle in the straps of his headwrap as you press your forehead to his, rolling your hips harder, chasing the high with both your bodies strung tight and aching. his hands are everywhere—spanning your back, down your thighs, cupping your ass to help you take every inch of him.

“you feel so good,” he chokes. “so fucking good. like a dream—baby girl, i’ve wanted this so long—” you meet his eyes. pupils blown, mouth parted. wrecked. and you ride him harder.  he chases you like something feral—like hunger has carved itself into the lines of his body and only you can ease it. every thrust is frantic, hips snapping up to meet yours with aching want, but his voice… his voice is honey-thick, all devotion and sweetness, spilling over you like you’re his altar.  a devoted zealot of yours.

“so beautiful,” he breathes, biting back a moan. “so perfect like this—god, you ride me like you know i’d die for you.”

you tilt your head back, body arched, heat spilling from you in waves, and he’s still chasing—hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish into the misted windows and moonlight.

“look at you,” he gasps. “my pretty girl—fuck, you feel like heaven—”

you lean in, lips brushing his, smug and breathless from the thrill of being wanted this much. it’s not just the stretch of him inside you, not just the desperation in the way he meets every roll of your hips—it’s the way he wants you. eyes wild. mouth soft. heart beating like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment in this exact seat.

“so good,” he whimpers, “you’re so fucking good to me—so tight, so warm, i can’t—baby, you’re everything—”

his voice cracks on the last word, and he kisses it back into you, tongue soft, lips desperate, praise pouring from him like breath. every thrust is another compliment. every sound he makes is another promise.

he’d give you the world if you asked. but right now?

he gives you everything else.

he’s unraveling beneath you, sweat beading down his temple, jaw slack and lips parted, eyes dazed and glossy as you move on him like you’re all he’s ever needed. and maybe you are. he’s overstimulating himself on your body, chasing pleasure so hard it’s tearing him apart—hips bucking up into you like instinct, breath hitching every time you clench around him.

“fuck—fuck—please,” he whines, voice low and ruined, as if it’s too much and still not enough. “if you let me—god, if you let me fuck you like this every night—i’ll do anything—”

you whimper as he drives up into you, raw and desperate, and his hands are everywhere, trying to hold you still, to ground himself. but he’s losing it. unraveling with every roll of your hips.

“i’ll keep you safe,” he moans into your shoulder. “i’ll listen to everything—your rants, your stories, your tiktoks—i’ll be your doormat, baby, i’ll be your fuckin’ toy if that’s what you want—your lover boy—”

you’re groaning, mouth falling open as your head tips forward. nodding. helpless.

“yes—yes—please—tengen—”

he chokes on your name, and you feel him twitch under you, rhythm breaking as his whole body tenses, trying to keep from losing it.

“you make me crazy,” he gasps. “look at me—please—just look—”

you do, and it destroys him.

his hands dig into your hips, and he begs with every thrust, swears he’ll never want anything else again. and the way you say his name back, sweet and broken, makes him believe it.

he sputters beneath you, thrusts turning sloppy, all desperate rhythm breaking into ragged stutters. the sound that rips from his throat isn’t even human—it’s guttural, strangled, wrecked. his head falls back, jaw slack, and he ruts up into you hard one final time before he freezes, arms trembling.

“t-tengen?” your voice is breathless, pupils blown. “did you—”

you blink, startled, hips twitching. “did you cum inside?!”

his eyes snap open, horrified. “shit—shit, baby—i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to, i swear—fuck, you felt too good—i couldn’t hold it, i—”

you shove him back into the seat with a palm to his chest, and keep moving.

“oh my god—”

his hands fly to your thighs, his breath going ragged all over again as you roll your hips slow and deep, dragging his oversensitive cock back into the friction. he’s twitching, groaning, eyes fluttering like he’s seconds from fainting.

“c-can’t—baby, fuck, it’s too much—” his voice cracks into a whimper, body jerking underneath you as your slick walls milk him. his whole body trembles, overdone and shattered, nerves fried like live wire. “you’re gonna ruin me—”

“good,” you whisper.

and that’s it. something inside him breaks loose again.

he groans—low and helpless—and grabs you like he’s drowning. in a blink he flips you, your back hitting the leather seats with a thud and your legs thrown over his shoulders.

“you wanna keep going?” he pants, already pressing back in, flushed and trembling but too far gone to stop. “then i’m gonna give it to you—gonna fuck you like i need it—”

his voice drops against your throat.

“’cause i do.”

and then he’s fucking you again, deeper than before. ruined. relentless. yours.

the escalade rocks on its shocks, windows fogging in slow, steamy tendrils that crawl up the glass. tengen is fucking you like a storm, like he’s starving man. every thrust is punishing and greedy, slamming into you so deep you feel it in your ribs.

his arms are caged around you, sweat slipping down the muscles of his back. his breath is ragged in your ear, and his voice? wrecked and dirty now.

“fuck yeah i am,” he growls, the sound primal and pleased. his rhythm stutters for half a beat—just long enough for him to breathe against your ear, voice thick with awe. “you have no idea what it does to me, finally having you like this—exactly the way i imagined every damn night. you’re perfect, baby—so warm, so tight, so mine.”

your pulse trips; you whimper, body clenching around him as the praise pours into you.

“don’t worry, baby. as long as we’re together? every single need of yours”—his hips slam forward again, dragging a scream from your throat—“they’ll be met. all of them.”

he presses in, forehead to yours, skin flush to skin, hot and slick and desperate.

“again,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, “and again,” another thrust, “and again.”

you don’t know who tips over first. maybe it’s you, thighs trembling around his waist, head thrown back with a cry you can’t even hear over the pounding of your heartbeat. or maybe it’s him, face buried in your neck, hips jerking erratic and frantic, like his body is chasing the heat of you even as it gives in.

his moan is strangled and he finishes deep, hot, thick inside you again. your breath catches. his name tumbles out of your mouth broken and soft.

and then he kisses you.

hard. hungry. mouth locked to yours. your teeth knock. your lips bruise. it’s messy and desperate and nothing short of worship.

and then… stillness. your bodies still connected, tangled in the leather seat, sweat drying between the ridges of his abs and the curve of your waist.

his forehead rests against yours. the heat in his eyes hasn’t faded, but the frenzy is gone. now, there’s just the soft sound of your breathing, synced. your fingers twitch where they rest against his neck, stroking lightly.

you both just… stare. wide-eyed. overwhelmed. overwhelmed together.

his chest rises. yours follows.

“hi,” you whisper, dazed.

he smiles. not cocky this time. just soft. honest.

“hi.”

.

oh yea. yall are getting a 2nd chapter of this. don’t even trip. i loved this story way, WAY too much lol.

likes, reblogs, comments are appreciated!

link for taglist!

You woke to silence.

For a moment you thought you’d dreamt it all. His cock pressed deep inside of you, the way he’d whispered your name as he spilled inside you again and again. But the ache between your legs was too much and your body too sore to mistake it for anything but real.

Still, the bed was empty. His side cold. Your heart dropped. He was gone?

Of course he was gone. Why would a man like Tengen, with his wives and his beauty and his entire life, stay with you? Why would he linger after something so reckless, so selfish? Shame crawled hot through your chest as you buried your face in your hands.

The sound of the door sliding open made you flinch.

"There she is." came that deep voice, just as a morning blizzard. "My little flower, already looking scared when I’ve barely left the room."

You raised your head, blinking through tears. He stood there with a tray balanced in one hand, two cups of steaming tea, and a plate of sweet rice cakes. His hair was loose around his shoulders, catching morning light like dew.

"You—ou left..." you whispered through sniffles.

He set the tray down and knelt in front of you, smile softening and that made your stomach twist. "I left to fetch tea. And something sweet for you to put in that pretty mouth of yours." His thumb brushed your lips. "Did you really think I’d run off after last night?"

Your throat tightened. "I don’t know...I thought maybe you regretted—"

"Regret?" he cut in. He leaned closer, eyes burning into you. "Angel, I’ll never regret putting myself inside you. Filling you so deep I know no man could ever take my place. I am yours in every way, and I will never regret loving you like I do."

Your breath stopped, shame and desire tangling until you could hardly tell one from the other.

He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips unhurried. "Drink your tea." he said. "Eat something. You’ll need your strength because I’m not done proving you’re mine."

And though guilt still held at you, you hated yourself for how your heart bloomed because of his words.

The Butterfly Mansion was alive in the day light, the gentle sound of footsteps, the scent of herbs simmering somewhere down the hall and giggles heard from younger slayers echoed in the yard. You clutched your basket of folded fabric tighter, willing your face to look calm, ordinary. Just another day. Just another seamstress walking in the halls.

But your body betrayed you. You felt sore, shaky, and with every step you felt the feeling of last night’s touches. And you couldn’t stop remembering.

"Good morning." came Shinobu’s from behind you.

You stiffened, forcing a smile as you turned around. "Gㅡood morning, Kocho-Sama!"

Her sharp violet eyes flicked over you. "Strange..." she murmured, tilting her head. "I checked the tailor’s quarters earlier, but your futon hadn’t been touched. Where did you sleep?"

The question struck you like a pin through cloth. Your throat went dry. She wasn’t accusing you of anything, her tone was casual, curious even but your heart slammed against your ribs all the same.

"I—I.."

Before you could stammer out an excuse, another voice rang through the corridor.

"That’s because she’s in love!"

Mitsuri bounced into view her hair swishing behind her. Her eyes sparkled as they landed on you. "I know that look anywhere! She’s glowing. Isn’t she glowing, Shinobu-Chan?"

You froze, the heat rushing to your cheeks almost unbearable. "I-I’m not—"

Shinobu hummed, pressing her fingers lightly against her chin as though considering the observation. "Love, hm? Well... that would explain the flushed cheeks and the distracted expression."

Her lips curved, sly. "Still... I do hope whoever it is treats you kindly."

Your stomach dropped. If only she knew. If only she could hear the way he whispered mine in your ear, the way he kissed every inch of you, the way you burned with guilt right after yet still begged for more.

Mitsuri clasped her hands together, sighing dreamily. "Oh, it’s so beautiful! I knew it the moment I saw her smile just now. That’s not the smile of someone who had a lonely night!"

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You wanted to disappear, to vanish into the walls. But all you could do was bow your head, throwing some flimsy excuse about being too tired to make it back to your futon.

Shinobu gave you a look, not suspicion, not really, but still. Mitsuri only giggled, nudging you gently before skipping off.

And you were left clutching your basket, knowing that they could see in you what you’d tried so desperately to hide.

More weeks had passed and your meetings with Tengen became a routine.

Last night, he took you to see the sakura trees near the old shrine.

You sat together on a faded tatami mat, the scent of spring and cedar drifting through the air, eating from a bento he prepared himself. The night was still, it felt like even the gods had turned their eyes away.

Yet, the gods couldn't keep the inevitable away.

You almost dropped the tray when you saw her. Hinatsuru. Her hair gleamed in the sun, her smile so beautiful that your chest filled with panic. She shouldn’t be here. She couldn’t be here.

Your breath stuttered as she approached. You felt your palms sweat, your mind racing with a thousand ways this could go wrong. Surely she knew. Surely she could see it all over your face.

"Excuse me?" she said gently. "Could you tell me where to find the head healer? I was told she’d be here today."

For a moment you just stared. Then you scrambled to bow, your voice trembling. "YㅡYes. Of course! This w-way."

Your heart pounded so violently you were certain she could hear it. You kept your eyes down, afraid she might look too closely, might see through you, might realize that you had touched what belonged to her.

But she only smiled again. "Thank you! You’re very kind."

It hurt. Gods, it hurt.

Behind you, you heard a voice. "Hinatsuru?"

"Lord Tengen!" she brightened, her voice lifting.

You froze as his tall frame filled the doorway. Relief surged for a split second, until you saw the way he touched her waist, the way his lips bent to hers without hesitation, without shame. A simple kiss, nothing more than a husband greeting his wife.

Yet it split you open.

You couldn’t breathe. Your throat closed, your stomach twisted. It wasn’t supposed to hurt this much. You had always known he belonged to others. You had always known you were nothing more than a secret. But knowing and seeing were two different things.

His eyes flicked to you. Brief. Enough to remind you he hadn’t forgotten. Enough to twist the knife deeper.

You lowered your head, bowing quickly to hide the way your eyes were already welling up with tears. "I’ll take my leave" you whispered, and before either of them could stop you, you turned and slipped away.

Outside, you pressed your back to the wall, clutching at your chest as if that might keep your heart from breaking free.

What did you expect? They are his wives. He is promised to them. You're but a secret.

Night came and you were back in your quarters.

The knock at your door was soft. When you opened it, he stood there all tall and shaken, his eyes wide of tears, hair undone from the long day, his hands full of wildflowers he must have picked on the way.

His eyes. Oh, his eyes looked broken.

"My little flower." he breathed, stepping inside before you could protest. The flowers were pressed into your hands, his palms trembling as they brushed yours.

"I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. For making you doubt, for having you see that. For making you wait. I can’t stand the thought of you hurting because of me."

You stared at him, clutching the blooms against your chest. "Tengen-Sama..."

But he was already moving closer, his large hands cupping your face, his lips crashing down on yours.

It was desperate, an apology written in the way he kissed you, in the way he whispered against your mouth.

"I love you. I love you more than I can bear. I’ll leave them, all of them, I’ll leave it all behind. We’ll run, you and me. We’ll disappear! I’ll build us a life, a home, I’ll give you everything... Please."

Your breath stopped, tears stinging. You pulled back just enough to look into his face. "I don’t want to run away. I don’t want to leave everything behind. IㅡI want to love you here. In the open. Without shame. Without fear!"

His expression shattered, then reformed into something more certain. His thumb traced your cheek, his forehead pressed against yours.

"Then marry me."

Your eyes widened as you pushed him back. "What?"

"Marry me." he said again, firmer this time. "Be my wife. Be mine in every way. Let the world see it. Let them hate me, let them curse me, I don’t care. Just say yes. Say you’ll be mine forever."

He kissed you again.

"Say yes, angel. P-Please. I can’t live without you."

He hugged you close to his chest, cheek pressed on the crown of your head. You could feel hot tears from his eyes dropping onto your scalp. You couldn’t bare to see him this way.

You could taste his desperation between your mouths.

Your hands lifted weakly, clutching at his haori. You wanted to disappear inside him, wanted to run and never stop, wanted to say yes.

Your voice came out small like a mouse. "What about your wives?"

For a moment you thought he wouldn’t answer at all.

"I care about them. I’ve built my life with them. They’re my family." His voice broke. "But you— you’re the only one I love like this. The only one who makes me want to burn everything down. Gods, I hate myself for it but I want to wake up beside you. Just you."

He takes a deep breath in.

"I don’t know what you’ve done to me. But I love the way I feel when I’m with you. I am so happy. I don’t care what happens next. Just... let me make you my wife"

His voice cracked at the last word. His hands trembled as they framed your face, thumbs brushing away tears that hadn’t even fallen yet. He looked at you like a man who’d been starving his entire life and had only just tasted food.

Your lips parted but nothing came out. The tears hit your cheeks before you even realized you were crying. You threw your arms around him, clutching at the back of his haori like it was the only thing holding you up. Your forehead pressed to his chest.

"Why?" you sobbed against him. "Why did you mㅡake me love you?" You said through hiccups.

His arms tightened instantly, pulling you against his chest, his big frame curling around yours like a shield. He bent his head, lips finding your hair.

"I’ll make this right. I swear it. I’ll make this right."

He rocked you gently, his hands moving up and down your back. "I’m so sorry, little flower. I didn’t want this to happen. But I can’t let you go. I won’t. I’ll make it right. I promise."

He just held you.

"Let me make you happy." he whispered. "Let me take care of you. Let me make you mine. You just be happy and love me. I will deal with the rest."

The days in his home were always quiet. The clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the sound of Hinatsuru’s song as she worked, the sharp back and forth of Makio and Suma bickering over something stupid. Sunlight crept across the tatami mats, pale gold warming the wood.

Tengen sat on the veranda with his hair down, brushing it out in long slow strokes. His wives loved when he wore it loose, and he let them tug and braid it when they felt playful, but now his hands moved automatically without thought. His mind was elsewhere.

You.

The way your tears had tasted on his lips. The way your voice had begged him why. The way you clung to him like he was the last thing keeping you upright.

Marry me.

He had said it. He had promised you everything. And now here he was, sitting in the morning sun, his wives bustling around him like nothing had changed.

"Lord Tengen!" Suma’s shrill voice cut through the haze. She came running barefoot down the hallway, hair messy, holding out a half sewn sash. "Makio says it looks terrible but I think it’s adorable, don’t you think it’s adorable?"

He caught the fabric between his fingers, tugged her down into his lap with a laugh that sounded way too normal. "Very." he agreed, pressing a kiss to her temple. She squealed and preened, and for a moment he almost felt alright again. Almost.

Hinatsuru appeared in the doorway with a tray, her calm smile softening everything around her. She set down bowls of miso and rice, poured him tea.

"You’re quiet this morning." she observed.

Makio was next, stomping down the hall with her arms crossed. "You’re coddling him." she snapped at Hinatsuru. "He’s fine. Aren’t you, Tengen?"

He smiled at them, dazzling. Their brilliant husband. "Of course I’m fine."

And yet the tea scalded bitter on his tongue and the food tasted of ash. Because no matter how soft their laughter was, no matter how beautiful the morning sun on their face, how gentle they kissed him, they weren't you.

He was the husband they needed. The husband he had promised to be.

But beneath the mask, his heart was beating with a single thought, and a single name was in his mind.

How dare he, when three already call him theirs?

And still he wanted you more.

The sun was sinking low, staining the sky with bruised purple and orange. Tengen walked the perimeter of his home with his hands clasped behind his back.

Every step felt restless. He’d trained, eaten, spoken when spoken to. He had smiled when he was supposed to smile. And yet the pain inside him hadn’t stopped. It only grew louder with the night.

Your face. Your voice. Your lips against his chest. How you wrapped around him.

He stopped at the far edge of the yard, staring out over the garden where the first stars bled into the horizon. He could almost hear you, no, feel you.

Footsteps padded behind him. A hand slipped along his arm, then a body pressed against his side.

Makio.

"You’ve been so far away lately." she said, tilting her head up toward his. Her lips brushed his jaw, seeking. "Let me take your mind off it."

But instead of warmth, rage boiled up like fire under his skin. He jerked his arm out of her hold, his voice sharp enough to cut the sky in two.

"Don’t touch me."

Makio froze. Her eyes widened, hurt flashing across her face. "Tengen—"

"I said don’t." he snapped, stepping back as if her touch burned. "Do you think this helps me? Do you think pawing at me like some desperate wench fixes anything?"

He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. His chest heaved with a fury he couldn’t place, fury that wasn’t meant for her but had nowhere else to go.

Her lips trembled. Her voice was a whisper. "Why are you like this with me? What did I do?"

The first tear slid down her cheek, catching in the last glow of sunlight. And that sight should have gutted him. It always had. But now it only made him feel caged. Smothered.

He tried for half a second to reach for her. His hand hovered and his mouth stammered "I didn’t mean—"

But the lie lodged bitter in his throat. No. He had meant it. He was so tired. Tired of lying. Tired of pretending. Tired of playing the role of the husband he was supposed to be when his soul was already elsewhere.

His hand dropped. He turned on his heel.

Makio’s voice cracked behind him. "W-Where are you going?"

"I don't have time for this."

His body was already moving, long strides carrying him through the gate as Makio cried behind.

The only thought in his head was you. Only you.

By the time he got to the Butterfly Mansion it was already dark and most people, if not everyone, were asleep. Except you, of course. Gods, it's like you could read his mind, sense he was coming.

He moved silently until he reached your door. He pushed it open gently.

You turned at the sound, startled. Your brush slipped from your fingers, falling onto the futon. "Tengen-Sama?" Your voice was small, eyes wide in disbelief.

He didn’t answer. He crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of you, head bowed. His hair fell forward, hiding his face. His broad shoulders trembled.

Your heart squeezed. You crawled toward him on your knees, your night robe pooling around you. Slowly, you lifted his face between your hands. His skin was warm, damp, his lashes heavy with tears. Gods, he looked so big like this, too big for your small hands, but so breakable and so human.

This is what you have fallen in love with.

His mouth opened as if to speak. "I—" he rasped. "I’ve ruined—"

You leaned in and kissed his lips just once, quickly.

He froze under your touch. His breath came out in a shaky sob.

You drew him into your arms, tucking his head against your chest, your fingers threading through his hair as he cried.

"I’ve made up my mind." you whispered into his hair. "I don’t care if I have to run away. I don’t care what happens. As long as I get to love you."

His heartbeat thudded against your palms.

"My answer is yes."

His head lifted. His eyes searched yours, confused, wet and shining. Sniffling he asked "What?"

"Yes." you said again, smiling. "I'll marry you."

His eyes locked to yours.

He let out a strangled sob, his hands clutching at your arms as if he could hold the world together through you. "ThankㅡThank you." he whispered, voice shaking. "IㅡI don’t deserve this, youㅡ"

Before you could respond, he crushed you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like iron, shielding you, swallowing you, keeping you so impossibly close. Your body was swallowed by his, but it only made him hold you tighter, trembling against you and shaking with relief as he cried into your hair.

"Gods, I l-love you. I love you so much." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his teary eyes wild.

"I love you." You said back, fingers wiping at his tears. "Please stop crying, it guts me seeing you this way."

He let out a shaky laugh. His thumbs stroked over your cheeks again though his tears still fell.

Hunger. You saw it better now.

"Let me have you." he said, his voice lower now. "Let me take you, right here, right now. Please! I need you around me, under my mouth, all of you."

You blinked up at him, startled, because it was almost like another man had stolen into his body. His eyes were wide and glistening, like a boy who had lost his way yet they didn’t match the hunger at his mouth, the primal need of a man starved for something only you could give.

"I’ll be gentle, I swear it." he rushed, almost taken aback too by what he said, though his grip on your hips had already tightened. "But I need it, I need you. I’ll go mad if I can’tㅡ"

"Tengen-Sama..."

He cut you off. "Will you let me fuck you, my love?"

It sounded like something holy.

Your 'yes' hadn’t even finished leaving your lips before his mouth was on yours again, savage like he needed to drink you down just to stay alive. His hands dragged at your robe until it slipped from your shoulders, pooling uselessly at your elbows.

"Tengen—" you gasped, but your protest died the moment his teeth grazed your throat.

He growled against your skin, lips bruising your pulse point. "Say you’re mine."

"I’m yoursㅡ" you whimpered, back arching when his calloused hands slid up under your thin nightclothes. "Only yours."

A broken sound ripped out of him, a sob, a moan, maybe both. His hands gripped your hips so hard it ached, pulling you down against the thick press of him straining beneath his robes. He rocked up once and it made you gasp.

"Fuck—" he choked, forehead pressing against yours, eyes swimming with tears. "I don’t want anyone. Only you. Only you."

Your fingers threaded into his hair, pulling his face up so you could kiss him again. He tasted of salt, of iron, of tears and guilt. He kissed you back like he’d die without it, hands already sliding under the hem of your nightgown to rip it higher, higher, until he could get his mouth on your bare chest.

"Oh—!" you gasped, your hands clutching his shoulders as his tongue swirled over your nipple, his teeth biting enough to make you jolt.

His eyes glanced up at you from where his mouth latched onto your breast, pupils blown wide. "I’ll ruin you." he panted against your skin. "Mark you so deep, no one will ever think you belong anywhere but here." His fingers shoved your thighs apart, the heel of his hand pressing hard against your cunt through your thin underthings, making you cry out.

"With me."

You writhed in his lap, your hips grinding helplessly against the firm heat of his palm. Your moans filled the quiet room, the sound reckless and dangerous especially when you both knew others could still be awake in the mansion.

But he didn’t care and you didn't either. He didn’t even try to be quiet. His mouth trailed back to yours, devouring you, tongue and teeth clashing with yours until you could barely breathe. "Let me fill you up." he begged into your lips.

"Right now, gods— I’ll take you on this floor."

You were already so dizzy.

"Please." he whispered again. "Let me inside you— I need it, I need you."

Your answer came in the way you tugged his clothes open, your hands fumbling with the thick fabric until you freed him. He groaned, a guttural sound tearing from his chest when your fingers brushed over his leaking cock, already hard and flushed.

"Oh, angel—" his voice dropped as he clutched your wrists, guiding your hand along him once, twice, before he ripped your undergarments down and tossed them aside.

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you open on his lap, his gaze falling between your legs.

"So wet for me already." he rasped, his thumb swiping through your slick folds. "Gods, you’re perfect. Made for me."

Your head fell back as he teased you, the pad of his thumb circling your clit while he pressed the fat head of his cock against your entrance. Your body arched into him, a cry escaping when he pushed just the tip inside, stretching you so suddenly you had to clutch at his shoulders.

"Tengen— Oh, my!" you gasped, nails digging into his skin.

"I’ll go slow." he promised. He knew you were still sore from a few nights ago. "I’ll split you open but I’ll take care of you. Always take care of you."

And then he pressed in deeper, inch by inch his jaw clenched and his forehead pressed against your chest.

You cried out, the burn and fullness overwhelming, but he hushed you with kisses.

"That’s it, thaaat’s it, doll. Take me in. Oh, you feel like heaven— mngh, so tight." He groaned as he finally bottomed out, his hips flush against yours.

When your whimpers turned to small pleads, his control snapped. He drew back and thrust into you hard, swallowing your cry with his mouth. The sound of your slick heat taking him filled the room, every rough snap of his hips louder than you meant it to be.

"You’re mine." he gasped against your throat as he fucked you, his thrusts ragged, each one hitting deeper.

"Say it while I’m inside you—"

"I’m yours!" you sobbed, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. "A-Always yours, Tengen-Sama!"

He buried himself to the hilt and held you there before spreading your thighs wider, making you fall on your back. The mats were soft underneath your back.

Tengen pulled you closer by your ankles before settling them on his shoulders. Your breasts bounced as he pushed back inside. You swear could feel him in your lungs when he had you in this position.

He thrust harder, faster, each snap of his hips making your body jump, the pain delicious.

"Look at how deep I am, fuck—" His voice cracked, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as his movements faltered into a feral pace. "I need to fill you— need to breed you."

Your moans came out broken cries, your head falling back as your body arched. The heat coiled tighter and tighter in your belly until you shattered, crying out his name, and your cunt clenching around him in relentless waves.

"Tengen—!"

Your release dragged him over the edge with you.

He let out a loud moan as he slammed deeper, his cock pulsing violently inside you. He spilled inside you warm ropes of come, filling you until it spilled out around him.

"Yes, yes, take it—" he choked out, his body shaking as he fell above you. His lips crashed against yours again and again, wet with tears and sweat.

Your body was wrecked, your thighs falling around his waist, but you clung to him all the same. "I’ll never leave you."

He buried his face in your neck, still pulsing inside you, refusing to pull out. "Gods, I love you. I love you so much, little flower."

And with his seed filling you, his arms locked around you, and your head pressed to his it felt like there was no world beyond this moment.

You were humming a song when he first saw you. Well, heard you.

A song so faint it felt like something long forgotten, or remembered by accident. The kind of song a child might hum while plucking apples at dawn.

Tengen Uzui had just returned to the Butterfly Mansion after nearly a month away. A simple wound, really, nothing worth a fuss, but Shinobu had insisted, and well, even a Sound Hashira couldn’t argue with poison in the bloodstream.

He was walking the corridor past the tailoring room when he heard you. A voice like honey stirred into warm tea. Not loud, not flashy. Not like him at all.

Through the open sliding door, he glimpsed at you for the first time.

A new tailor, clearly, your face unfamiliar, your hair tucked back in a silken scarf. You were sitting cross legged in the center of the room, a swatch of pale haori spread across your lap, hands busy with neat, delicate mending.

He might’ve kept walking.

But you tilted your head just slightly, lips still humming, and the light caught on your lashes. You smiled to yourself, perhaps at the evenness of your stitches, perhaps at nothing in particular.

Something about that smile made him still in his step.

There was nothing remarkable about the scene, not really. No dramatic lighting, no gust of wind, no gods sent sign, all though he could see the blossoming sakura trees out the window behind you, their petals raining down. And yet something in him stirred. Unfamiliar. Soft. Like lace sliding off a blade.

He stood there too long. Way too long.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t see him. That alone was strange. Uzui Tengen was not used to being overlooked. He's a God. He didn’t say a word.

Tengen took one step back, then another. Left as silently as he’d come. But even after he walked away, he couldn't stop thinking about you.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

A few days passed before he saw you again. A clean tear across the lower hem of his uniform gave him the excuse. It wasn’t bad, Hinatsuru could’ve fixed it in ten minutes, but he wrapped it carefully and left the house with a lie half formed in his mouth.

The walk to the Butterfly Mansion was unusually quiet. But his heartbeat wasn’t. It wasn’t about the uniform. Not really.

He told himself he’d forgotten about you. That whatever spell you’d cast when he first saw you stitching in that room, with the falling flowers in the background, has long faded since.

But the truth was what he wasn’t willing to admit, yet.

His steps slowed as he neared the sewing room. He didn’t even knock at first, he just stood there in the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest, watching. Maybe shying away.

Huh. Tengen Uzui isn't shy. He's a God.

You were there again. Bent gently over a pile of cloth, again humming something faint and wordless, lips pursed in concentration, a tiny crease between your brows.

You didn’t notice him until he cleared his throat.

You startled, not with a jump, but a soft flinch, and when you looked up, your eyes went wide.

"Uzui-sama!" you gasped, already pushing back from the table, skirts brushing the floor. "Forgive me— I didn’t hear you come in—"

You bowed once. Then again. Hands flitting like butterflies, fingers wringing. "I’m sorry for the mess, I was just— just finishing up a seam— I didn’t know you were—"

He lifted one hand, stopping you mid apology. "You don’t have to do all that" he said "I’m not your daimyo."

His voice was easy, bored even. But he didn’t stop watching. Didn’t stop the way his gaze dragged down, slow as syrup, over your bowed form. You stayed kneeling beside the low table, heart skipping in your chest like a startled fawn.

And he didn’t look away. Didn’t ask you to rise. He enjoyed seeing you like that. He laid the folded uniform on the table between you. "Tore the hem. Figured I’d bring it in before it got worse."

You nodded quickly, already reaching for the bundle, fingers brushing over the fabric with reverence. "It’s not too bad. I can have this mended by tomorrow afternoon."

"That fast?"

"I try to be efficient, Uzui-sama!"

You were trying very hard not to look at him. But he was there, tall, golden, too much. You felt it in the heat rising in your cheeks, and the flutter in your belly. The way he stood without moving, like a statue carved from amber and sun. The rumors were correct. He did look unreal.

You worked quietly, inspecting the seam, smoothing it out. He didn’t speak again. Just watched. Like he had all the time in the world, even though he said he'll get back home that same day.

"I should introduce myself." you said, sitting back on your heels. "I’m the new tailor here." Then you gave your name, and you were a little breathless.

And then he said it back to you. Like an echo dropped down a well. Your whole chest burned. He nodded once with sharp chin tilting.

"Alright then." you looked down, hands curling in your lap. You weren’t sure what else to say.

He turned toward the door, then paused. "I’ll pick it up tomorrow."

You nodded quickly. "Yes, Uzui-sama."

He left without looking back.

But that night, he didn’t sleep again. Not because of battle wounds, or old ghosts, or even his wives’ soft voices curled around him in the dark.

Your name. That one, tiny thing, it kept him up all night.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Another morning for you of the same old.

You carry a bundle of folded kosode to the little stall in the village square, where some of the younger slayers exchange worn pieces for repairs. The sun is soft through the mist, the wind just gentle enough to lift the hems of your sleeves. You think the rain will fall soon.

You’re alone. For a little while. Until you aren’t.

A man steps into your path. Civilian, tall, with too many teeth in his smile and a type of stare that makes your stomach pull tight.

"Well now.." he says, eyes dragging down your chest. "They’re lettin’ girls like you dress the Corps these days?"

You blink. Stiffening. "I’m— excuse me—" You try to push past him.

"Aw, don’t be like that." He steps closer. His breath is sour. "Bet you take special requests, huh? From your higher-ups." Your hands grip the cloth tighter.

"Please move." But he doesn’t.

He leans in, low enough to make you flinch, and you can smell the alcohol in his breath. "I could tear something right now. Want to fix that for me, sweetheart?" A sharp spike of fear floods your chest.

You look around and see a woman across the road. Two shopkeepers. An older man leaning on a cane.

Someone shouts. "Hey!" You manage to slip by him.

The man’s eyes flash. "Tch. Fuckin’ bitch." And then he’s gone after being shoved back by a younger slayer who must’ve seen the whole thing.

You’re left shaking. Breath caught in your throat. The bundle of cloths limp in your arms. Someone takes you aside. Someone offers tea. Someone asks if you’re alright. You nod, because it’s easier than explaining the ache in your lungs. You nod, because you are alright.

Mostly. Nothing happened. Nothing really happened.

You don’t go back to the mansion for a while. But when you do, that night, under the wash of stars, you find Uzui Tengen waiting in the hallway.

He looks like he’s just returned from a mission. There’s a cut on his cheek and shadow in his eyes. "Tailor girl." he instructs. "Come here."

You stop midstep. "Yes, Uzui-sama?"

"I said, come here."

You move to him slowly. Nervously. And when you reach him, he lifts his hand to touch your arm. Gently.

"Are you alright?" You flinch but smile up at him.

"I am fine."

"Something happen today?" You hesitate. He notices. His hand tightens. "Someone hurt you?"

"No. I’m fine, truly. It was just—someone said some things. It wasn’t a big deal." His face darkens.

"What kind of things?"

"Just words." you say. "It’s over now. A few people stepped in."

He moves back, just once and nods stiffly. Then he leaves.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

You don’t need to know.

The moon is high. Pale and watchful. And Tengen is already halfway into the village. His long hair swings with each step. His jaw is locked. Every footfall thuds heavier than the last.

He doesn’t run. He hunts.

Just words you said. But your eyes said something else. Your hands trembled. Your mouth pressed tight. You didn’t want to worry him. Didn’t know that you already do.

The bastard’s name took five minutes to get. Someone saw. Someone whispered, then someone told him where that piece of shit likes to loiter, behind the sake house, under the back stairs.

That’s where he finds him. Leaning on the wall, half-drunk, shirt open, muttering to himself. Tengen doesn’t speak. He doesn’t give a warning. He grabs the man by the collar and slams him against the wooden wall so hard it cracks.

"What the fuㅡ"

Another slam. Wood splinters fly up around him.

"Pleaseㅡ" the man chokes, "I didn’t do nothing!"

"You spoke to her." His voice is low. Deadly. "You touched her."

"I didn’t! I just said—"

A punch. Hard enough to knock some teeth loose. The man howls, blood spraying across the dirt. Tengen doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop.

His fist meets jaw. Meets ribs. Meets gut. The man drops to the ground and he goes with him, grabbing the front of his yukata and dragging him up only to hit him again, again, again.

"You don’t speak to her."

Crack.

"You don’t look at her."

Crack.

"You don’t breathe near her."

Blood stains his hands. The man sobs. Whimpers. Curls into himself like a dog. Tengen exhales hard and drops him. "Be grateful I didn’t kill you." The man doesn’t answer. Can’t. His mouth is full of blood and broken teeth.

Tengen turns. His knuckles are raw. His breath burns in his chest. But all he can think about is your voice, your doe, teary eyes. The way you smiled like nothing had happened. He keeps walking until he's back at the Mansion.

The hallway is silent at this hour. The walls of the Butterfly Mansion seem to breathe, wood creaking gently, the wind sighing through paper doors. Tengen walks without sound, barefoot, still blood slicked.

Your room is near the end. It's small, tucked away and lavender scented. He would know. He stands outside it for a long time. Long enough that a sane man would have walked away.

But he doesn’t. He slides the door open just enough to slip in, closing it behind him with a soft click. Moonlight pools across your futon, washing over your sleeping form. One hand curled near your cheek. Your chest rising and falling slowly. Hair loose across your pillow like spilled ink. He stands there, not moving.

His face is wet with blood and sweat. His eyes roam over you. Careful. Hungry. So hungry. He just watches. Drinking in the peace he doesn’t deserve.

At one point, you shift. A soft sound escapes your throat, and his whole body tenses, poised like a predator, afraid like a boy.

But you don’t wake. He stays only a moment longer, then slips away, leaving nothing behind but the faint smell of iron.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

It’s Mitsuri who mentions it. She's babbling about cake, about confetti, about surprises, and then she says your name, laughing brightly.

"Did you know today’s her birthday? The little seamstress! Isn’t she the cutest?"

Tengen stiffens. Doesn’t say anything. Mitsuri blinks. "Oh? Didn’t you two talk the other day?"

He nods slowly. "I didn’t know."

"Well, now you do!" she says, pouting. "Better get her something before the day’s over! She works really hard."

He brushes it off. Shrugs. "I don’t do birthdays."

But that night he’s standing in a shop in the merchant quarter, scowling at tiny boxes with shaking fingers.

He picks a hair clip. It’s small. Elegant. Pearl inlaid. Shaped like a chrysanthemum.

When he gives it to you the next day, he’s awkward. Which is not like him. So not like him.

"Don’t read into it" he says, handing you the tiny box without meeting your eyes. "Mitsuri said it was your birthday. That’s all." Your fingers brush his when you take it and he twitches.

You speak up. "I dont know from where she knows... But, Mitsuri-San is so thoughtful. She brought me American pancakes this morning." He hums.

You open the box slowly, and when you see what’s inside, your eyes go wide. "Oh!" you breathe, like the wind’s been knocked out of you. "It’s beautiful!" You look up, glowing. "Thank you so much, Tengen-sama! I’ll treasure it."

He crosses his arms, looking off to the side. "It’s just a clip." But he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning like a fool. His ears are red and his heart won’t stop hammering.

And when he sees you put it in your hair, he already knows he won't sleep a damn minute.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Some more weeks pass. He's here more and more and his wives are asking him more and more questions. It hurts him to lie, really, but he feels so alive knowing he gets to see you everyday.

Is it that wrong? He thought this would go away, thought fucking away his feelings might work, but it's pointless.

What is wrong with him?

He's awakened from his deep thoughts when his fingertips graze something soft. He finds a handkerchief. Tucked between folded linens in the supply room, smelling faintly of lavender and honey. A neat corner embroidered with tiny stitched flowers. Not your name, but he knows it’s yours. He recognizes your threads now the way a soldier recognizes his blade.

He touches it without thinking, brushes his thumb over the edge. There’s a smear of pink there.

Lip balm? Lipstick?

He brings it to his nose before he can stop himself. Something stirs low in his stomach. Shame. Hunger. Guilt.

"Fuck." he mutters with his voice rough, snatching his hand back like he’s been burned. What the hell is he doing?

You're just a girl.

Just a soft spoken girl with careful hands and beautiful eyes who bows way too much when she speaks and smiles so gently it makes his heart feel too big for his ribs.

A girl.

He balls the handkerchief in his fist and walks out without folding the linens back. He needs air. He needs distance. He needs to get you out of his head.

But that night, he dreams of your mouth around his aching cock, as he he pumps himself with one hand and with the other keeps the handkerchief smelling like you close to his nose.

Who could've seen this coming?

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

You were just walking back from the market, a little paper bag in your hands. You’d bought too many skewers of dango. You’re never good at saying no when the vendor smiles like that.

And then you see Tengen Uzui, leaning against a shaded post, wiping sweat from his neck. Shirt open. Eyes dark. He sees you and straightens himself.

"You’re out early." he says, voice unreadable as always.

You bow too fast, early drop the bag. "Uzui-Sama. Yes—! I just— had a market run."

His gaze flicks to the bag. "Is that dango?" You blink.

"Oh! Yes, um. Way too much, honestly. I—" He holds out his hand. "Then share."

Your eyes widen, but you offer him a stick. He takes it and chews slowly. You watch, embarrassed, but he says nothing. "Do you like it?" you ask, shyly.

He swallows, and you swear something shifts in his expression. "It’s good. Too sweet, though." You smile faintly. "I like really sweet things." His eyes flicker to your mouth as you chew.

"So do I." he says.

That night he dreams of you. Again.

Not the kind of dream he can laugh off in the morning, not a flickering day image or idle thought curled into his pillow. This one touched every part of him. He wakes up hard and aching.

Your voice had called to him in the dark. Your hands had slid against his jaw. Your lips had parted like they knew him inside and out. It felt so real. Too real.

So he comes to you. Still dressed in the clothes he slept in, hair undone, the sky outside barely greyed. He doesn’t even knock, just slips in through the side door, past the empty corridor, breath loud in his chest.

You’re there, hunched beside a workbench this early, smoothing out a sleeve with steady, practiced hands.

When you look up, surprise flickers across your face. Then soft delight, and then concern.

"Tengen-sama?"

"Please—" His voice cuts through the morning hush. "Don’t speak." You blink.

"I need to tell you something." he says, walking toward you "I’ve been holding it in for the past three months. I thought if I ignored it, it would go away, but it hasn’t. Not even once."

You straighten, heart fluttering too close to your throat.

"I think about you." he says. "More than I should. More than is fair. I’ve dreamed of you. Iㅡ I’ve wanted you. Not just your body, but your breath, your laughter, your eyes when you concentrate, the way you look at me when I speak. I’ve memorized your damn footsteps, and it’s hell, it’s driving me insane."

You inhale too quickly.

"But don’t you have wives?" you whisper.

His face twists. "I do." he says. "I do. And I love them! I swear it. But you— fuck." His voice splinters. "You’re in my veins. You’re in everything. I try to shut it down but it only gets louder. And when I’m near you, it’s like I finally… breathe."

You don’t know what to say. So you just smile. Small. And sad. A little crumb of a thing.

"I’m really flattered." you answer softly. "That someone as honorable and strong as you wouldㅡ would feel something like that for someone as insignificant as me."

"No."

His voice is low as he moves closer. "You’re not insignificant. Don’t ever say that. Please." He lifts one hand and touches your face like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His thumb ghosts over your cheek. And then he leans in so slow you could have stopped him. But you don’t.

His mouth brushes yours rapidly but just as fast he pulls back. "I’m sorry." he breathes, anguish flashing across his face. "I shouldn’t—"

"No." you whisper. "It's alright."

He searches your face. "You’re sure?" You nod.

"You.. can kiss me, Tengen-sama."

And he does.

This time, it’s full of breath, of heat, of all the months he’s held back. His hand tangles in your hair, the other cradling your jaw, pulling you in like you’re the last soft thing left in the world.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Ever since that kiss, he’s been different. You feel it in the way his shadow lingers outside your door. In the way his voice softens only for you. In the way he finds a reason to see you nearly every day. It is all way to evident.

A loose seam. A torn uniform hem. A spare button, missing. He’s never been this involved in fabric care.

You’re bent over your work when he appears, broad silhouette darkening the doorway. "Again?" you say with a small smile. "You must be the most destructively dressed man alive."

Tengen doesn’t smile. Not really. He steps inside and closes the door. Your fingers falter on the spool. He watches you.

"Have you been avoiding me?" he asks.

You blink. "You’ve been here almost every day." You joke, trying to break the tension, like you always do.

"I think you should just move into my sewing room at this point."

He huffs a dry laugh. You laugh too. But neither of you is really laughing. Silence curls between you. His eyes find you. And you see it in them that something’s come undone in him.

"I dream about you." he says. Your heart jumps. You blink. "Yes, you have mentioned that beforeㅡ"

"No."

He walks forward. "You." he repeats, as if putting the fault on you. "Every night. Every damn night. I can't sleep, eat, speak. I think about your hands. Your smile. The way you bite your lip when you try to fix something."

He stops in front of you. "That kiss ruined me even more."

You look up, breath stuck in your throat. He lowers his voice shaken. Your lips part, but no words come.

He needs more than a kiss.

"I want to touch you." he confesses. "I want to ruin you."

Heat floods your cheeks and your throat closes up.

"I think about it all of the time." he continues, voice gravel. "About the way you'd sound. How you'd look beneath me. About the things I’d whisper in your ear while I made you cry with pleasure."

Your knees press together as your mouth goes dry.

"And I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s wrong. I have three beautiful wives. I’m not supposed to want anyone else, you said all that. But gods." he exhales. "You make me forget myself."

You clutch the edge of the table, fingers trembling. He leans down, eyes burning holes into your face.

"I want to get on my knees for you, worship you. I want to taste every inch of you. I want to make you fall apart with just my fingers, just my mouth—"

"Tengen-sama—" you whisper hurriedly.

"Say my name." he instructs. "Just my name."

Your lips part. "Tengen.."

He groans low and broken, and cups your cheeks. He doesn’t kiss you. Just holds your face like it’s the most precious of metals, waiting for you to say something. Anything.

"Wouldn’t you.ㅡ" you whisper barely "Wouldn’t you want our first night to be… more special?"

He blinks. Did you want him just as much?

You swallow. "Not just… rushed. But something meaningful?"

And for the first time, he looks stunned. Then he lets out a shaky laughing breath.

"Ohㅡ Oh my muse..." His forehead falls to yours, and you feel him smiling. "You’re right." he murmurs. "You’re right. What was I thinking? I’m just a man. A weak, obsessed and broken man."

His hands cradle your face. "I’m going to make it perfect." he promises. "I’ll make it so beautiful for you. You won’t forget it for the rest of your life."

You smile all shy. "You don’t have to go that far.."

"I do." he says. "Because it’s you."

You should feel bad, really. But when his large eyes stare back into yours with that hopeful sparkle in them, all of that fades away.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Some days passed.

Tengen’s hands are meticulous as they arrange the room in a hidden villa tucked away in the mountains, far from curious eyes. One of his old performance hideouts. He dusted it, aired it, scrubbed it with his own hands. Changed the sheets three times before they were soft enough. Sprinkled crushed plum blossom into the bath. Polished every candleholder, lit them with trembling fingers.

He’s sweating through his clothes.

The table by the window is set. Handmade sweets. Fruit sliced into roses. A single porcelain cup. There’s a bottle of plum wine, unopened, because he wants to watch your lips stain dark and sticky.

The bed is layered in silk with pale lavender and soft white, like you. The air smells like sakura and honey.

And in the center of it all, a gift. It’s not much. Just a comb. Gold filigree, inlaid with amethyst, the color of twilight. He bought it a month ago and has carried it ever since. It’s warm from his touch when he sets it down on the pillow.

When everything is finally perfect, he heads home to his three loving wives.

The silence in the Uzui estate is louder than any battle drum. Tengen steps through the door just past dusk, the scent of sandalwood still clinging faintly to his sleeves.

His wives are seated around the table, Suma with her brows knit in worry, Hinatsuru with her usual softness turned taut, Makio staring down at the food she hasn’t touched.

He notices it immediately. The tension spills in the air like smoke. "Welcome home." Hinatsuru says, but it’s brittle. Makio doesn’t even look up. "Where’ve you been?"

Tengen removes his haori with a long motion. "There was a mission."

"There’s always a mission." Makio bites.

Suma pipes up, her voice small. "It’s been happening a lot lately. You’re… always gone."

He smiles the kind that once made them melt. Now, it feels thinner and forced.

"You think I don’t want to be here? With my radiant, perfect women?"

Makio’s gaze sharpens. "Don’t treat us like we’re stupid."

Tengen doesn’t flinch. Instead, he moves across the room, kneeling before them. "I would never." he says, voice deep and smooth as molten honey. "You three are my soul. My pride. You think I’d risk everything we’ve built, everything we’ve suffered for, on some meaningless indulgence?"

Suma blinks. "Then… why do you feel so far away?" He exhales heavily and leans forward, taking her hand, then Hinatsurus.

"You want the truth?" he sighs. "I’ve been training harder. Pushing myself. I can’t afford to be weak when I’ve got three precious lives depending on me."

"Why the secrecy then?" Makio asks, but her voice has softened. "Because I didn’t want to worry you."

He lifts her chin, eyes glittering. "You know how I get when I take a mission personally. When someone gets under my skin. But it’s not about you. You’re my family. You’re the ones I fight for."

Suma is crying. Hinatsuru pulls him close. Makio leans into him, breathing out slowly. And just like that, the tension is gone.

He’s still the man they married. Isn't he?

They fall asleep soon after, curled into him, believing every word.

The next day is uneventful, but he makes sure to spend every second of it with them.

As soon as night hits again Tengen doesn’t stay.

The air shifts the moment he enters his dressing room. He sheds his clothes like it’s armor after a long war. Washes his face, his hands. Scrubs the scent of his wives off his skin. Stares at his reflection with something close to guilt. Or maybe awe?

"You." he whispers under his breath. "What have you done to me?" His hand hovers over his cologne that's faintly spicy. You once told him you liked the way cloves smelled. He never forgot.

He picks out a silk lined robe in deep garnet. No armor. No weapons. Just him. His heart races.

In the drawer where he keeps his cufflinks, there’s a soft thing wrapped in tissue. A little embroidered corner of fabric. One of your handkerchiefs, fraying at the edge. He presses it to his lips then puts it back.

Then, as a final detail, he tucks a single flower into his belt, fresh from the garden. Pale and pretty. You mentioned, once, how much you missed flowers from your hometown. Something dainty, something that reminds him of you.

He looks in the mirror once more. Adjusts his collar touches his neck, still flushed and he walks out the door.

You got to the villa first, as he told you.

When you walk in you can't believe your eyes at how beautiful everything looked. Couldn’t believe that he actually did all of this for you.

You wear something soft, something sheer, something that shimmers when you move, your hair is down and you smell of rose wine and early spring.

You sit there with your hands folded in your lap, nervous, glowing, and you don’t even realize how utterly lethal you are.

The door slides open with a creak. You don’t turn. Tengen stands there for a moment, silent. You know he’s watching you, the way your robe clings to your shoulders, how your hair spills loose down your back as a cascade in summer, the way you shift slightly, fingers wringing the fabric in your lap.

He breathes in sharply, like he’s been punched. Like your beauty physically strikes him in the chest. You rise slowly, head tilted, a shy smile touching your lips.

"Tengen." you murmur. His hands clench. He doesn’t move closer. Not yet. He’s afraid that if he does, the hunger in him will swallow the whole room.

The whole night. You.

"Don't speak yet." he says. "Please don’t say a word yet. Let me look at you." Your eyes widen, and he can see the stars in them. Your hands flutter nervously against your skirt.

He smiles, shy. Unlike him.

"You look.." he begins softly "Unreal."

The way you stare at him, your plush lips, your smile. And your scent. Gods. You smell like blossoms and innocence and want.

You laugh, but your voice wavers. "You did all of this?" You look around.

His hands twitch at his sides. "For you." He takes one step forward.

"I’ve dreamed of this very moment for so long. Of you like this." His voice is thick and hoarse. "So many nights. I see you when I’m awake, too.. Your smile in my mind when I touch my wives. Your voice when I lie to them. I think about your hands. Your skin. I think about what you sound like when you say my name all out of breath."

Your lips part. You tremble, slightly.

You should feel guilty right about now, no?

His voice is quiet, like it costs him to say it.

You still don’t turn. You feel him step closer. Hear the hush of his silken haori, the soft thud of his knees hitting the tatami behind you. And then warm hands cradle your face from behind.

He presses his forehead to the back of your shoulder.

He moves, slowly, around you. And then he’s kneeling in front of you proud, dazzling, yet scared some way.

"I’ve imagined this a thousand ways. You in candlelight. You in shadows. You beneath me, above me. You begging, whispering my name like it’s the only word left in the world."

Your lips open but he shakes his head gently. His thumb brushes your lower lip. "You don’t know what it’s been like" he says, almost angry with longing. "To want something this badly. To see you every time I close my eyes. To crave you. Want you. Need you."

His hands slide down, slow, to your waist.

"I thought I had control. I thought I could keep my hands to myself. I can’t." His forehead presses to yours.

"I want to ruin you so gently. So sweetly. I want you breathless and shaking beneath me. I want you weeping from pleasure and still asking for more."

You smile a bit impatient and he kisses your palm. "Tengen?" You shy away a bit and he looks at you like you've just slashed his heart. "Yes, my beautiful flower?"

"Pleaseㅡ just kiss me already."

He doesn't need to hear more. This time, it’s not soft. It’s hungry. Desperate. His hands cradle your face like a relic. His lips claim yours like a sinner at the altar. You melt into him. You gasp against his mouth, he moans into yours. "This feels unreal." he laughs like it hurts.

Your heart races, the air is thick with anticipation. You don’t answer him. You just let him decide. Let him take that final step into what he’s been yearning for since the moment he laid eyes on you. "Oh, to have you at my mercy..."

Your body responds before your mind can catch up, your hands find his chest, your fingers trembling, and the softness of your touch makes him shudder. His lips brush your neck, feather soft. "May I undress you?"

Your breath catches. You nod all shy and he closes his eyes like that one gesture was a wish answered. His hands move with ceremony, slow and trembling with restraint. He unties the bow at your collar, brushes aside the fabric like it’s woven from morning mist. Each layer falls away under his careful touch, revealing more of you, inch by aching inch. His eyes never leave your face.

"You’re divine. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. My beautiful flower."

You blush so fiercely it burns. You reach to cover yourself out of instinct, but he catches your wrists, firmly. "No." he commads. "Let me see you. Please."

He leans in, mouth brushing over your shoulder, the curve of your collarbone, soft kisses that worship your burning skin. Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

"Tengen.. I—I don’t know what to do.”

He smiles against your skin, and it’s soft. It's real. You're unreal. "Just be mine." he says.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly he’s laying you down, careful like you’re porcelain, and you reach for him like you're afraid he'd let go.

He looms above you, eyes wild. "Beg me." And your breath halts. His large hands are on either side of your head, his body caging yours. "Beg me, my love." he murmurs, like it’s the gentlest thing in the world he could say, even though it is so dirty. "Let me hear how much you want me."

And oh, you want him. Your face heats. You try to look away but he tilts your chin up, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw.

"Please." you whisper, shaky. "Tengen— please touch m-me."

A sound rips from him, low and helpless. His mouth crashes to yours again, like he’s starving. Like you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted.

In a way, you are.

He breaks away just enough to look down at you. His hair’s come loose, falling around his face like threads of silk. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth damp.

"Oh, my little flower." he whispers and lowers himself slowly and kisses your exposed ribs, your stomach, the plush of your hip.

He growls something low in his throat, a sound more animal than man, his hands are everywhere, desperate. "Fuckㅡ look at you." he mutters, like he’s in pain.

His lips trail fire across your nipples as he licks at them. "I’m not going to be so gentle, I can't." he warns, breathless. "Not tonight. I’ve waited too long."

His rough fingers pull at your undergarments and you jolt, embarrassed, overwhelmed and you try to turn your face away, but he catches your chin again.

"No" he commands “Eyes on me. That’s it. Look at me while I touch you.” You do. You force yourself to, and he smiles. His hand slips off the fabric, and your whole body goes tense.

"Shh." he whispers, eyes burning into yours. "There.. Well done. I’m gonna take care of you." he says. "Every inch. Every sound you make. I want to hear it all. I want to teach your body how good it can feel. Can I do that for you, my love?" You nod, lips parted, dazed with heat. He leans in close again, mouth at your ear.

His fingers dip lower and you gasp. He watches your face, obsessed with every little reaction. "Damn, you’re already so wet... All for me." You gasp, arch under his touch, and he moans. "Tell me you’re mine." he growls. "Tell me, Come on."

"I-I am yours" you whisper. "Oh, Tengen, please—"

He drags his mouth down again, hot and hungry, teeth grazing tender skin. "I want to make you scream. I want you ruined." he pants, pressing kisses just above your exposed core.

"So ruined you forget your own name and can only remember mine." His hand replaces his mouth and you gasp, back arching. "That’s it. Thaaat’s it. Let me hear you. Louder."

One of his thick digits poked at your dripping entrance before he finally pushes it inside, all whilst his mouth sucks at the shiny skin of your folds, your juices mixing up with his saliva, as soft wet sounds and your little whimpers fill the room. He pulls his mouth away to speak, finger still curled inside of you.

You whimper and he smiles, all dark.

"I’ve thought about tying you up. he says, confessing. "Laying you out on silk sheets, blindfolded. Just your body, waiting for me. Dripping for me. I’d take my time. Tease you until you’re sobbing. Until you can’t even remember what it feels like not to need me."

He makes a short pause to add another finger inside.

"Sometimes I think about keeping you... Locked away. Pretty little pet. No one else gets to see you. Just me. Just these sounds—" he curls his fingers again and your moan shatters the room. "Oh, just like that."

Your thighs start shake, yet he doesn’t let up.

"I’d ruin you every night." he sighs. "Leave you shaking and marked. My name bruised into your skin. My mouth between your thighs until you can’t breathe, until you forget how to speak— except to beg."

You gasp his name again, overwhelmed. He presses his forehead to your belly.

"I want to make you need me." Another finger goes in and you see stars. "So badly it hurts. I want to own every sound you make. Every part of you. I want your first thought in the morning to be me. I want you crying into my pillow because you’re still sore but you still want more."

He slows just for a second, just to feel the little pulse in your cunt. "I think about you walking around with my seed inside you.My scent all over your body. Marked. Owned. Loved so good you never recover."

Your nails dig into the sheets below you. "You’d take it for me, wouldn’t you?" he pants. "Whatever I give you. However I want. You’d let me use you, keep you, worship you, because you’re mine. You’re mine, right? Say it again. Please, say it."

"I am yoursㅡ" you choke out. "T-Tengen, I’m yours!"

You come undone on his fingers, gasping, writhing, your pussy clenching, slick gushing around him in wet pulses he feels all the way up his arm.

And he just watches, stunned and mesmerized, lips parted like he’s witnessing some divine miracle. You sound holy. You look holy.

"Fuck." his voice is hoarse. "You’re so beautiful."

You’re still shaking when he pulls his fingers out, slow, glistening. Then his gaze drops to your mouth.

"Open." Tengen breathes. It takes you a bit to register, but you do, puffy lips parting soft and obedient, and he groans, the sound deep as he slides the soaked fingers past your lips.

"There." he murmurs, watching your mouth take him in, knuckles deep. "That’s it. Suck. Come on. Clean them off for me." You close your lips around him and his head falls back.

"Damn, that's, ohㅡ Just like that."

You swirl your tongue, shy at first, then bolder when you hear the way he loses it, grinding against you, cock hard and aching and leaking at the tip.

"Gods, l-look at you." he stutters. "Sweet little thing, licking your own mess like a perfect pet."

You whimper around his fingers. He pulls them out slow, watches the spit and slick string between them and your lips, and then drags his thumb down your chin.

"I should make you suck my cock next." he whispers. "Make you beg for it. Let you choke on it while I hold your hair and tell you all the filthy things I’m gonna do to you next."

Then he kisses you. He tastes your juices on your tongue, and it drives him mad. "You’re mine" he pats roughly at your cheek. "You understand that? I own every inch of you from now on."

He shifts back, slowly, kneeling above you, eyes raking over your flushed skin, your messy lips, your dazed expression. "You’re so good for me." Then his hands go to his robes.

He unties the sash slowly and lets it slide off his shoulders, fabric whispering down muscle and skin like water. You barely have time to gasp before your eyes drop, and you finally see it.

Oh...

Oh.

You don’t even mean to whimper. It just escapes you. A soft, panicked noise as your eyes widen and your whole body tenses.

He’s huge.

Thick and flushed and dripping, so hard, with veins standing out along the length, the head angry red and glistening. And it curves up heavy against his abs, obscene, like it was carved to wreck you.

You make a tiny sound in your throat and scramble back on the sheets, panic and arousal tangling in your gut. He just smirks.

"Oh." he coos, voice low and smug. "Look at you. Don't be scared of it." You shake your head, eyes still wide, heart hammering in your chest.

"You’ll take it" he purrs. "You’ll be good for me. Let me stretch you nice and slow. Let me feel this tight cunt open up around me inch by inch."

Your breath hitches and your thighs press together.

"I’ll make it fit, dear. I’ll go slow. I’ll be so good to you."

He leans down, brushing his lips over your jaw, your neck, your racing pulse. He presses a kiss to your collarbone.

"Come on, little flower." he almost whines. "Lay down."

It's like your body listens to him before you even hear him. You obey his command, and lay down, and despite the fear, you feel yourself more slick than before, skin blushed and lips hurting from how much you nipped at them.

His hand runs down your side, warm and steady, until it curls under your knee, guiding your leg up to wrap around his waist. His other hand settles at your hip, holding you just so. He looks down at you like you’re made of glass, pupils wide, his cock heavy and flushed, nudging at your entrance.

"I’ll be gentle for now. You’re gonna take me so good, little flower. Just breathe for me."

You nod and then he starts to push in. It is painful, that in itself would be an understatement. It feels unreal how full you feel with just the tip in. Your body opens inch by inch, tight and trembling around the stretch. You clutch at the sheets, back arching, gasping his name as he groans low in his chest.

"Shhh, I have you." he soothes, forehead pressed to yours. "Feels too big, doesn’t it? But you’re doing so good."

You whimper, clinging to him, and he doesn’t move, just stays there, buried only halfway, letting you adjust. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your lips, hands caressing your sides, trying to soothe you, even as his cock throbs inside you.

"T-Tengen...Ohㅡ" your eyes well up with more tears as he pushes some more inside, and you swear you're being ripped apart. He waits for a bit, whispering sweet things, but then your legs curl tighter around his waist, pulling him down.

And something in him snaps.

His breath stutters. He pulls back just slightly, and then slams back in. You cry out, body jerking beneath him, and he growls, low and filthy.

"Oh fuck— you want it like that? Huh?" His hand shoots under your thigh, yanking your legs up over one of his shoulder. You can’t even speak, your mouth is open, your voice caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. He braces one hand on the bed, the other gripping your thigh, holding you down as he starts to pound into you, deep and merciless, over and over.

"Listen to you." he pants. “Crying for me—oh, this pussy’s so tight, mph, so good, squeezing me like it was made for me." You’re shaking, tears sliding from the corners of your eyes, tongue lulled out, your body overwhelmed and overstimulated, your brain blank.

"T-Tengen! Oh, myㅡ I can't.." You whimper, ear ringing, you can faintly hear the wet sounds your cunt makes wrapped around him. Tengen growls, teeth bared.

"You can take it. You’re gonna take every inch I give you." Your vision blurs. You can barely breathe, barely think. You want to speak, but can't, you're drugged on him out of your mind, drunk on his voice and smell and the way he feels so deep inside of you.

"That’s it." he whimpers. "Cry for me, little flower. Let it all out." He looks down, eyes catching the bulge he's made inside your lower belly as the loud plap plap plap sound fills the room.

Your body trembles beneath him, boneless and burning. The world narrows down to the weight of him above you, the way his breath stutters near your ear, the press of his hand between your ribs and waist as though he's holding you together and keeping you from unraveling entirely.

"You’re taking it so well"

His forehead presses to yours. Sweat beads at his temple, his mouth parted, whispering things you barely catch, mine mine mine. His rhythm deepens, drawn out, like he wants to memorize the shape of your soul through your skin. He doesn't slow. Doesn't soften.

Tears blur your vision, overwhelmed and stretched so full you think you'll burst. You’ve lost count of how many times he’s pulled you over the edge, making your orgasm, once, thrice, five times? Your mind is syrup, your body is trembling.

His mouth presses to your ear. "Tell me I can come inside" he whimpers, almost crying. "Tell me I can give it to you, p-please. All of it. I need you to let me—” he pleads.

"Hㅡah.. Yes, yes, yes please, Tengen." Your answer is barely coherent, but it breaks him. He sinks deeper, grounding you in place with the weight of his chest.

He holds you folded beneath him, your knees nearly to your chest, your hips locked between his broad hands.

"Y-Yoou feel that?" he rasps, watching the way your belly bulges each time he thrusts deeper. "Made for me. Soㅡah, perfect." You try to answer, but all you can do is sob, your fingers scratching at his shoulders, your lips mouthing his name like a prayer.

He slows, barely, "Want to fill you up and keep you like this. Want you round a-and glowing. Full of m-me. Mine."

You gasp. Your eyes flutter open, glassy and wide like a doe, and he smiles like you’ve just gifted him heaven.

"Yes?" he smiles, dipping lower, kissing the tear streaked corner of your mouth. "You’d let me? Let me b-breed you, keep you soft and heavy with my baby?"

Heavens help you.

"T-Tengen.."

He shudders, his pace faltering a bit. "You’d look so fucking b-beautiful." he moans, hips grinding into you now, deeper, deeper. "Swollen with my child. Dripping with me every night. I’d worship you, little flower. Kiss your belly. Talk to them inside you."

More, more, more. A breathless cry escapes your lips, your nails digging into his back, leaving red marks he's not sure how he's gonna hide. "Say yes." he moans, nearly undone. "Say it again. Say I can give you all of me."

"Yㅡes!" you sob, the word catching in your throat. "Please, please, Tengen— give me, ooh!" That’s all it takes.

He lets out the most broken and guttural sound you’ve ever heard from him, like he’s unraveling at the seams, like your words just carved him open from the inside out. His hips snap into you brutal and deep, until your breath stops and you cry out again.

"Thank you, thank you..." his forehead was pressing against your chest, his whole body trembling as he spills inside of your velvety walls. "Thank you, ahh— fuck, you don’t know what you’re giving me. Letting me have you like this, own you like this…"

You can feel it that moment he starts to lose control, the rhythm falling apart, the heat coiling tighter and tighter inside him. He adjusts his grip, arms locking around the backs of your thighs, folding you deeper into the mattress, and Gods.

He watches your belly again, mesmerized. Watches it swell even more from his seed with every desperate thrust.

"Look at you." he pants. "Already so f-dull. Gonna make it stick, hahㅡ Gonna fill you up so deep they won’t even have a chance to slip out. You’ll feel me for days."

His voice breaks. You’re crying again, shaking under him, and still you beg for more, your body clinging to him, greedy for everything he’s offering. It’s too much. It’s perfect. It’s him.

It hits him like a wave again, violent, fullbody. He cries out your name as he spills into you once more, hips twitching, the air between you two sticky and hot. You feel it flood you, thick and endless, and he doesn’t seem to stop. Not even as you cry. Not even as you plead. He ruts into you, needing to mark you. You feel all warm inside.

"Take it, take it, take it— Gods, you’re perfect. Mine, you’re mine, only mine!"

Finally, finally, he slows. Yet, he doesn’t pull out. He stays buried deep, keeping it inside you, his big body draped over yours protectively. You’re both shaking. You feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. His lips graze your temple.

"I’ll take care of you now." he whispers. "You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll cook, I’ll bathe you, I’ll kiss every inch of you when you’re sore. I’ll be so good to you, little flower. Just stay with me, yes? Just let meㅡ let me keep you."

Your tear heavy lashes flutter, vision hazy. You're all sticky and wet. All you can do is nod. He kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your lips.

The consequences are the last thing on your mind right this moment.