writingmi

The first time you saw him was at the front of the building, clipboard tucked under his arm, chatting up the tenants like he’d been born to do it. Tall, broad-shouldered, messy brown hair that fell into his purple eyes when he laughed—and he laughed a lot, loud and goofy, like a golden retriever in human form. He wasn’t what you expected at all.

When it was your turn, he leaned against your doorframe like he already knew you, grin so easy it almost disarmed you. “You must be… let me guess…” His eyes swept you up and down before he tapped his pen against the clipboard. “The mysterious writer in 3B? My grandma used to say you were always clacking away at night.”

You blinked at him. “That’s me.”

“Hell yeah, nailed it on the first try.” He gave you a wink, then extended his hand like you were old friends. “I’m Caleb. New landlord, same building. Figured I should get to know my tenants, y’know? Keep the family business running.”

You shook his hand, noticing the way he held on just a second too long. His palm was warm, rough, and when he finally let go, he still lingered there in your doorway, rocking on his heels, grinning.

“So,” he said, like he had all the time in the world, “what do you write? Horror? Romance? Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who writes smut and tries to hide it. My grandma would’ve loved that.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “I… write fiction. Different stuff.”

“Cool, cool.” He nodded enthusiastically, messy hair falling into his eyes again. “That’s awesome. Bet you’ve got a ton of stories. You’ll have to tell me sometime.”

It was harmless, you told yourself. Just a goofy young guy, suddenly inheriting more responsibility than he probably knew what to do with. He made a couple of corny jokes about rent—“Don’t worry, I won’t make you pay me in blood, ha ha”—and then scribbled something on his clipboard.

But when he finally left, you couldn’t shake the way he’d looked around your apartment like he was memorizing it. Like he wanted to know more than just your name.

It started with one pair.

You figured you’d dropped them somewhere between your bathroom and the laundry room, maybe caught on another piece of clothing or shoved too far into the dryer drum. Things got lost all the time in a shared building like this.

But then it kept happening.

Another pair went missing the next week. Then two more the week after. You counted one morning, standing in front of your dresser with your hands on your hips, and realized you were down nearly half your underwear. The good ones, too—the ones you actually liked wearing.

It didn’t make sense. You weren’t careless. You weren’t that forgetful. And yet every time you shrugged it off, convincing yourself you were imagining things, you’d pull another empty drawer and feel your stomach sink.

What you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that your missing underwear never made it out of the building. They were upstairs. In Caleb’s room.

He’d tried to hold back at first. The very first pair he’d “rescued” from your laundry basket, he’d told himself it was just curiosity, just one time, just a stupid little peek because he couldn’t stop thinking about how good your smell must be. But one time turned into two, and then three, and then now.

Now he was spread out on his bed, the violet of his eyes blown wide with a glassy haze, his thick brows pulled together in desperate focus. Four used tissues were crumpled on the floor beside him, and he was rutting against the fifth pair like an animal in heat.

Your panties—pink cotton, soft and worn—were pressed to his face as he moaned, voice muffled and filthy. His hips bucked into his fist, stroking himself raw, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Not when your scent was clinging to him, filling his lungs, drowning out every thought except you.

“Fuck—pipsqueak,” he groaned into the fabric, voice breaking on the nickname he gave you. “Smell so fuckin’ good, can’t—shit, can’t stop—”

He buried his face deeper, nose dragging over the gusset until he was practically whining. His body trembled, desperate and frantic, as if the panties themselves were his lifeline. The mattress creaked under his weight, the slick sound of his fist pumping echoing through the room.

Around him, the evidence was everywhere. Pairs of your underwear scattered across his sheets, some balled up, some laid flat, some stained and ruined already. He’d tried to keep them neat once, folded in his drawer like trophies, but the hunger was too much. Now they littered his room like a shrine, and still it wasn’t enough.

Caleb’s chest heaved as he came undone again, hot spurts spilling across his hand, staining his stomach, dripping messily onto your panties. He kept rubbing them against his face even as his orgasm tore through him, shuddering with need.

And then, as soon as his breathing slowed, he reached for another pair.

He couldn’t help it. He needed more. Your scent was addictive, sweet and dizzying, and every time he thought he was finished, the ache clawed back inside him.

Caleb clutched another pair to his nose—lacy, delicate ones this time, the kind that made his throat go dry just imagining them stretched over your hips—and groaned low in his chest. His cock twitched in his fist again, aching, insistent, already hardening back to life.

“Fuck, pipsqueak… what are you doin’ to me?” he whispered, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to the lace as if he could sink into it. His body curled in on itself, hips grinding into his hand like a dog rutting against anything that smelled of its mate.

His sheets were ruined, his body sore, but none of it mattered. Not when your scent was in his lungs, not when your panties were his only salvation.

And still, he thought about you downstairs, pacing your room, probably frustrated and confused, probably wondering where all your underwear had gone. The thought made his cock throb painfully, precum smearing over his knuckles.

If only you knew.

If only you could see your landlord, your goofy, smiling Caleb, sprawled out in the dark, surrounded by your stolen underwear, jerking off for the fifth time tonight like a total fucking weirdo.

It was getting ridiculous.

First panties. Then bras. Then—what the actual fuck—your apple-printed pajama shorts. Who even wanted those? They had a bleach stain on the thigh.

And yet they were gone. Just like the too-tight crop top you’d kept for “motivation purposes” and even your socks, mismatched and worn down. You stood in front of your laundry basket one night like a detective on the verge of a breakdown.

“The dryer’s not eating them,” you muttered to yourself. You’d checked. Twice.

Which meant the only possible explanation: some pervert was going to town on your clothes.

The idea made your skin crawl. And yet—there was no way to prove it. No cameras in front of the laundry room. Nothing but your own paranoia. So you started paying attention. Standing guard. Lining up to wash your clothes instead of leaving them overnight. Still, things disappeared, and you swore you could hear the X-Files theme every time you folded laundry.

By the time evening rolled around, you were frazzled. Your desk was covered in empty mugs and crumpled notes. You’d been pounding away at your laptop for hours, trying to hammer out a smut scene for your latest fic, but the flow just wasn’t there.

You slammed the space bar, growled into your hands, and nearly headbutted the keyboard.

“Fucking—”

Ding-dong.

The doorbell startled you upright. Muttering, you padded over and yanked the door open.

And there was Caleb. Clipboard in hand. Purple eyes bright, thick eyebrows bouncing with every word as he grinned.

“Monthly check-in!” he chirped, like he wasn’t the reincarnation of your stress.

You sighed, rubbing your temples, and stepped aside to let him in. “Yeah, sure.”

Caleb strolled in with all the grace of a golden retriever let off leash. His gaze wandered over your living room, lingering here and there a little too long. And then you remembered.

Your laptop. Your violently-typed, wide-open smut scene.

“Shit—” you bolted to your desk, practically diving to slam the tab shut.

Behind you, you swore you heard the low rumble of a chuckle.

When you turned back, Caleb was already scribbling something on his clipboard, face scrunched in fake concentration. And then he looked up, lips quirking into that same goofy smile.

“All done,” he said lightly. “See you later, pipsqueak.”

Your eyebrow twitched at the nickname, but you bit your tongue. He wasn’t raising the rent, so you let it slide.

He clicked his pen closed, spun on his heel, and headed for the door.

You were halfway to the kitchen when your eyes drifted to your laundry basket.

And froze.

The black thong you’d left there—the one you swore you’d wash later—was gone. Just. Gone.

With Caleb.

You stared at the basket. Then at the door. Then back at the basket.

“…oh. My. God.”

Your voice was flat, horrified, disbelieving. You blinked once, twice, as realization hit you like a fucking truck.

Your landlord. Your goofy, golden-retriever-smiling, thick-eyebrowed, clipboard-toting landlord.

Stealing your underwear.

Somewhere down the hall, you swore you heard Caleb humming.

Caleb barely made it to his office before he was clawing at his belt.

The second the door shut behind him, he bolted to the chair, yanking your black thong from his pocket like it was the crown jewels. His cock was already straining against his sweats, leaking through the fabric, twitching with every heartbeat.

“Fuck, pipsqueak…” he groaned, voice cracking as he pressed the thong to his face. “Bet you didn’t even shower yet… fuck, smelled you so good today…”

His hips jerked upward as he fisted his cock with desperate, violent strokes, the slick sound filling the room. He moaned openly, shamelessly, like some bitch in heat. The thong dragged against his nose and lips as he inhaled, shuddering like he might break apart from just the scent.

“Her unwashed thong… mmmhh—fuck, smells so good! God—so fucking good!” His words slurred between panting, his eyes glassy, rolling back with every thrust of his hand. His whole body trembled, thighs spread, cum-slick cock shining under the office light.

The desk rattled with the force of him rutting into his fist. Papers scattered to the floor. He didn’t notice. Couldn’t notice. Not when he was drowning in you, muttering your name like a prayer, a curse, a desperate fucking mantra.

He was gone. Utterly gone.

So gone, in fact, that he didn’t notice the office door swing open.

You stood there, frozen in the doorway, jaw dropping as the scene burned itself into your retinas.

Caleb—your landlord—thick brows furrowed, violet eyes rolled back, cock in his fist, your thong plastered to his face. The obscene sound of wet strokes echoed around the office.

And then—

He came. Hard.

“FUCK—” His back arched clean off the chair, hips snapping up violently as his cock exploded. Cum shot so high it actually spattered against the wall behind his desk, dripping down in obscene streaks. His moans broke into whimpers, thighs trembling, body jerking with the aftershocks as his orgasm tore through him.

Panting, gasping, Caleb finally peeled the thong off his face—only to freeze when his violet eyes locked on you.

Your hand was still on the doorknob. Your mouth was wide open. You swore you wanted to scream, or bolt, or call the cops, but nothing came out. Just stunned silence.

Caleb looked like he’d seen a ghost. His lips parted, his thick brows shooting up, panic flashing across his face.

“P-pipsqueak—” his voice cracked, trembling.

You didn’t move. “….”

“H-hey, p-pipsqueak, I—I…” He scrambled off the chair, tripping over his own pants as he tried to yank them up. His softening dick bounced against his stomach with the motion, making the whole scene even more humiliating.

Your throat worked, and finally, you managed to whisper: “I’ll file a report—”

Caleb practically lunged forward, hands up, eyes wild. “Wait! No—don’t—listen to me!” His words tumbled out, desperate, his voice breaking. “You don’t… you don’t have to pay me rent!”

You blinked. “…what?”

He gulped, then—like the absolute freak he was—pressed your thong back against his mouth, moaning at the scent, shameless even with cum drying on his shirt. His eyes fluttered back, his hips twitching helplessly as his softening cock gave a little jump in his half-zipped pants.

“Pay me in these…”

You stared at him, horrified. “You… want my underwear?”

“Fuck yeah.” His answer was immediate, wrecked, voice thick with hunger.

Silence stretched between you. The only sound was his ragged breathing and the faint drip of cum sliding down the wall.

You thought about screaming. You thought about running. You thought about your dwindling bank account.

Finally, you exhaled, long and slow. “…deal.”

And with that, you shut the door.

It got… normal.

Well, normal in the sense that your landlord would casually sniff the air when you walked into a room, tilting his head like a bloodhound and asking, “Showered yet, pipsqueak?”

You always thought he was a weirdo—which he was, let’s not sugarcoat it—but he was your weirdo, and more importantly, he wasn’t charging you rent. And when your bank account was gasping for air every week, that was enough to keep you tolerating his freak habits.

The first month, Caleb showed up for “check-in,” leaned against your doorframe with that goofy grin, and then just… waltzed right in. You didn’t even fight it. He rooted around until he found your laundry basket, plucked out three pairs of unwashed panties like he was harvesting apples, and left humming to himself.

You sighed, plopped back at your desk, and smashed your keyboard to get another smut scene out. As long as you saved money, having a pervert gooning to your underwear wasn’t the biggest deal in the world. Or maybe it was. You didn’t think too hard about it.

The second month, though…

Caleb showed up again, hair messy, violet eyes wide and twitchy, practically bouncing on his heels. “Pipsqueak, c’mon, I need it fresh outta the source this time. Please. Please.”

You stared at him, deadpan, and then sighed through your nose. Slowly, you hooked your thumbs under your shorts, peeled off the panties you’d been wearing all day, and slapped them into his waiting hand.

He made a sound. A wrecked, desperate, feral sound that you swore belonged in some nature documentary. And then, like a complete horny freak, he stayed in your doorway, panting, jerking himself through his sweats as he buried his nose in the damp fabric.

“F-fuck—fuck, pipsqueak—ohhh god, smells so fucking good—”

You dragged a hand down your face and went back to your desk, deciding to pretend none of that was happening in your peripheral vision.

By the third month, you didn’t even blink when he knocked.

Caleb sauntered in for his “check-in,” twirling a lacy pair of your panties around his finger like a keychain. His grin was pure menace, thick brows raised, violet eyes glinting like he’d just robbed a bank.

“Hey, pipsqueak,” he sing-songed, waving the lace at you before pressing it to his face. He inhaled deep and moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Mmmm—bet you’re not showering to let the scent linger even more, huh? you've anything else for me?” He wiggled his eyebrows like he was proud of the detective work.

The worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

You were drowning in commissions, barely sleeping, barely eating. Showering felt like a luxury. Shaving? Forget it. You were running on caffeine and deadlines.

So instead of arguing, you reached under your oversized shirt, unhooked your bra, and handed it over.

Caleb’s reaction was instant. He whimpered. Loud. Like a kicked puppy who’d just been given a steak dinner. His knees almost buckled as he pressed the bra to his face, rubbing it over his nose and mouth, his whole body shivering like he was seconds from busting in his pants.

You blinked at him, expression flat. “…you’re unbelievable.”

And Caleb, muffled against your bra, moaned, “Unbelievably lucky.”

You smashed your keyboard once again.

Caleb had been practically vibrating ever since he could see your thigh hairs peaking out from those shorts. His eyes were sharp, ridiculously so, noticing every single detail. His clipboard was still abandoned by the door, rent forms forgotten, his goofy grin melted into something desperate—hungry.

“God, pipsqueak…” he rasped, pupils blown wide like he was drunk on you, his hand hovering an inch away from your thighs, twitching like it took every ounce of willpower not to latch on. “You really… fuck, you really don’t shave anymore, huh?”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re not seriously—Caleb—”

“Dark little curls peekin’ out—mmhh—fuck, I knew it,” he cut you off, his own voice hitching like he’d already palmed himself half-hard just from the thought. He crouched lower, shamelessly eyeing the faint hair on your thighs. “God, bet this pussy’s a goddamn jungle… been thinkin’ about it all week. Nasty, musky—fuck, I wanna bury myself in there so bad.”

The heat rushing up your neck was embarrassing, your own body betraying you. Your oversized shirt felt suffocating, sticking to your skin, and the way his gaze locked onto the damp spot forming on your shorts made you press your thighs tighter together.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you muttered, but it came out weaker than you intended.

Caleb moaned like you’d just sucked him off, head tipping back, hand squeezing the bulge in his pants. “Nnnhhh, pipsqueak… you’re hairy and smelly and I swear to god that’s all I want. Your pussy probably tastes like heaven after days of sittin’ hot in these panties.”

“Two months rent,” you snapped, face hot, ignoring the way your cunt clenched at his words.

His eyes lit up. “Deal—fuck yeah, deal.”

The oversized shirt rode up when he tugged at your shorts, clumsy but frantic, his big hands swallowing the fabric until he yanked it past your knees. And there it was—your puffy folds straining against damp cotton, dark curls spilling out the sides, the faint tang of your arousal hitting his nose.

Caleb whimpered—whimpered—like he’d just been blessed by god himself. “So pretty…” he moaned, fingers trembling as he hooked his thumb under the waistband and peeled the panties off you, his mouth falling open at the sight.

You raised a brow, trying to play it cool even as your stomach flipped. “What, you never seen a hairy pussy before?”

His jaw went slack, eyes glassy, his chest heaving like he’d sprinted a marathon. “Not like this… oh fuck… not yours.” His cock twitched violently in his jeans, precum already wetting the front.

Then he just folded, literally shoved his face forward and pressed his nose against your mound like a starved man. A strangled groan tore out of him. “F-fuck… musky, sticky, hairy—nnnhhh, god, pipsqueak, this is it, this is it—smells so fucking good.” He humped your thigh like a dog, rutting desperately while inhaling lungfuls of your scent, drool dampening the curls above your slit.

You nearly laughed at the absurdity if it didn’t make your head spin. “You’re disgusting,” you muttered, but your legs parted on their own, your body betraying you.

Caleb was too gone to care. He mouthed at the curls, sloppily making out with your pussy lips, leaving trails of spit that matted your hair further. “Mmmhh—fucking love it—your hairy pussy, fuck, jungle time baby!” he moaned, voice muffled as he shoved his tongue between your folds.

Your eyes rolled back at the first hot swipe of his tongue, and you had to grab his stupid fluffy hair just to ground yourself. “F-fuck—Caleb…”

He whimpered against you, humping your leg harder, his voice vibrating through your cunt. “Mmmhh so good, so fucking good… hairy, smelly, fuckin’ perfect… pipsqueak tastes like heaven. Don’t ever shave, don’t ever shower, just—fuck—let me drown here forever.”

His nose buried against your clit, his tongue lapping messy and desperate, sloppy smacks echoing as he kissed and sucked every bit of you he could get. He was noisy, shameless, every groan dripping with depravity.

“Goddammit…” you gasped, toes curling, heat coiling in your belly. Against all logic, all dignity—you were enjoying this. Enjoying how your drop-dead gorgeous landlord was losing his mind over something so stupid. Enjoying how freaky he was, how it turned you on more than anyone else ever had.

Caleb pulled back for just a second, his chin glistening, panting like a bitch in heat. His eyes rolled back as he moaned again, grinding his clothed cock against your leg. “Y-you smell so fucking strong… f-fuck, I’m addicted, I’m—lemme taste more, please please please pretty please—”

You tilted your head, playing at nonchalance despite how wet you were dripping down the couch. “A year’s rent.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Deal—fuck—DEAL!” he cried, before burying his face back in your hairy cunt like a man possessed. His tongue shoved deep inside you, his nose grinding your clit, his muffled moans vibrating until you were gasping, your thighs clamping around his head.

And Caleb? He was in heaven—whimpering, rutting, face smeared in spit and arousal, a depraved freak making out with your hairy pussy like it was oxygen.

Caleb was already whining into your cunt, his tongue sloppy and desperate, when his hips started moving on their own. The grind of his cock against your thigh was shameless, rough, precum soaking through his jeans as he moaned filth into your folds.

“Mmmhh fuck—smell so good—taste even better—” his words muffled against you, his jaw working as if he could suck your scent out and swallow it whole. His big hands slid under your ass, squeezing, digging in, and suddenly he lifted you halfway off the couch like you weighed nothing.

“C-Caleb—what the fuck—” you gasped, legs dangling, cunt spread wide against his face.

He just groaned, shaking his head like a starving man at a feast, his nose grinding your clit while his tongue lapped up everything dripping from you. His hips rutted harder, humping your thigh like an animal, his cock throbbing as wet spots spread across his pants.

If it were any other guy, you’d be disgusted. Mortified. But Caleb—your stupid, gorgeous, pervy landlord—he made it feel filthy and addictive. He made you want it.

Your back arched, fingers tangling in his hair as your thighs clamped around his ears. His moans got louder, wetter, his whole body trembling with the effort of eating you out while fucking into your leg.

“F-fuck—Caleb I’m—” Your words cut off as your body convulsed, orgasm ripping through you, spasming hard against his face. His tongue never stopped, lapping up every spurt, groaning so loud the vibrations nearly made you scream.

And Caleb? He came with you, rutting hard into your leg until his hips jerked violently, cum flooding his pants, the wet squelch audible as he whined into your pussy. His back arched, his cock spurting through denim, and he nearly sobbed from how good it felt.

When you finally collapsed back onto the couch, panting, legs twitching, he pulled his mouth away with a wet smack. His face was glistening, hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes glazed and blissed out.

He looked up at you with a stupid, goofy grin, panting like a happy dog that just got a treat. “That was… heaven!”

You stared at him, speechless, your brain fried.

And from that day forward, you didn’t have to pay Caleb rent. In fact—you never paid him rent at all.

Now, sitting in his living room years later, you watched him chatting with a nervous guy who came to see one of his apartments. Caleb leaned back, laughing, his wedding ring catching the light as he gestured with his hand.

“Yeah, sorry man—no can do,” Caleb chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m married. A married man. The marriest of all.”

You glanced at your own ring, the sparkle even brighter in the sunlight, and rolled your eyes. Married to your perv of a landlord. The absolute freak who ruined you for anyone else.

“so then i had to go to the one on campus, even though i already know it doesn’t taste the same…” you sighed sadly. “what if they did that on purpose? what if they want me to stop coming?”

megumi huffed an amused breath through his nose and shook his head gently against your shoulder. “don’t think so baby. i feel like you keep them in business with how much you go.”

you huffed and crossed your arms, grumbling. “yet they treat me like this...”

tilting your head down then to get a better look at him, you peeked at his sleepy face and tired eyes as he tried his absolute hardest to stay awake for you, wanting to listen to everything you had to say and more, but his eyelids drooping every couple of seconds before opening back up again just not letting him.

you smiled softly and carded your fingers through his black hair, pushing the front strands back and giving him a cute peck on his forehead.

“take a nap gumi… you’re so tired i can see it.”

“uh uh.” megumi hummed.

he lifted his head groggily and propped his chin up on your shoulder, eyes closed.

“keep going.” he murmured, his words a little slurred. “did you end up getting your coffee cake from the other bakery..?”

“i did.” you responded softly, caressing your thumb over his warm cheek as your soothing voice lulled him. “it was nasty. the end. c’mon baby you have practice tomorrow—”

“no.”

“gumi it’s late i don’t want to keep you uuupp.” you whined, nudging him.

“if you sleep over.” he mumbled.

“but i have class tomorrow.”

“i’ll take you.”

“but you always do and i feel bad…” you pinched his cheek softly. “it’s okay i can—”

“don’t care.”

you giggled. “well i do. i want you to get more sleep gumi, your practices are crazy long now and you have them like everyday—”

he groaned loudly and ushered you up, you complying as you watched him lazily stand from the bean bag and grab you, baggy eyes half lidded as he picked you up from around your legs and threw you over his shoulder— something he always did ever since the day he confessed, and something you absolutely floored over whenever he did it.

your giggles rang through his quiet and spacious apartment that made him sleepily smile as he lazily carried you down the hall and to his room, setting you softly to sit on his plush bed as he pressed a sleepy kiss to the top of your head, though nearly almost missing, him leaning back up and grabbing the hem of his black shirt— pulling it over his head and carelessly tossing it somewhere in the room before climbing into bed.

you felt so so bad. the team’s schedule was released just two weeks prior, and seeing as the world series was coming up— the most important segment of competitive games they could possibly ever have, the coaches and managers were grinding and overworking their players to pure fucking filth, them wanting to keep their streak as the number one baseball team no matter what it took.

and because of that, megumi was always so tired and stressed— holding on day by day as the higher ups demanded so much of him because he was the most skilled on the team, him spending his days trying to stay awake and make time for you— picking you up from class and taking you out to lunch like he always did, but your worried gaze always on his dark under eyes as you insisted and told him already that you understood, that he didn’t need to right now if it was over the subject of his career.

and especially if it was for the world series.

“lay down.” he murmured, patting the pillow next to him as he peeked at you with one eye open.

you stood, pulled the covers back and hopped in, megumi’s arm immediately snaking around your waist and pulling your back to his bare chest, his face nuzzling in your hair as you noticed how quickly his breathing deepened, falling asleep almost the minute you got settled in his arms and fitting like a little puzzle piece.

it had been almost an entire year since you and megumi started dating, and you have never ever been happier in your life as you thanked your lucky stars over and over again for being such a dumbass— wholly believing that if one thing had changed, it wouldn’t have played out the way that it did.

and you adored the way that it played out.

megumi was so affectionate. everyday. his love language being physical touch as he literally never left you alone and always had to be touching you in any given situation— like his hand on your thigh whenever he drove, playing with your fingers from across the table while out at a restaurant… and like now, his toned body literally engulfing you into his that it made you feel so cared for and warm and loved, something you always wanted to feel for the rest of your life as long as it was with him.

the next morning he drove you to school like he said he would, and then went straight to practice after, you telling him that you would be there once your classes were over.

and when you did get to the stadium later that day, megumi was mad.

“what the fuck happened?” you quickly sat next to your best friend on the sidelines, her snickering as you both watched megumi tell off another player for fumbling a double play on the field.

“they’re making more errors today,” your girl friend sighed. “they’re all nervous since their division series game is tomorrow and they’re getting closer to the big thing… but megumi is not having it.”

“you bobbled the ball go to first fucking base and eat it what the hell are you doing trying to—”

you gnawed at your bottom lip.

it was common for megumi to bark out orders and take charge on the field, that wasn’t out of the ordinary, but it was only here and there where he was yelling and insulting the rest of his teammates like that (mostly rarely). a sign you knew was because he was stressing the fuck out.

“what you just did was a kiddie fucking error we won’t make it to the world series like this dingus the fuck are you—”

you covered your face and groaned. “i can’t watch… i don’t think i’ve seen him like this since that one day he asked me to come here.”

“you mean the day he ate you out in—”

“shuuushhh!” your hands shot out and slapped over her mouth as she let out a muffled laugh, your eyes wide and cheeks pink as you frantically looked around to see if anybody had heard her.

she took your wrists then and pulled them away. “have you guys even had sex yet? how many times am i gonna ask you until you say yes—”

you nudged her away. “no! we haven’t yet.”

you didn’t know why you hadn’t— the topic just one that was never brought up by either of you.

but you’ve definitely done other things though.

megumi was like a dog, not knowing the meaning of ‘keep your hands to yourself’ as he was always groping your ass in public out of no where just to hear you squeak in surprise, shoving his hands down your pants and making you cum repeatedly on his fingers when you’re both innocently just watching a movie on his couch, pressing his face into your tits and sucking hickeys whenever you wore a low cut shirt, and bullying his way in between your legs to lick and devour you up whenever he felt like it— all things he did with zero hesitation nor self control.

you weren’t complaining though, definitely not— you were just as freaky.

because every time megumi wore those gray sweatpants after practices that you loved oh so very much, no shirt on with his perfect toned body out only for your eyes— your mouth was on him, licking his chest all the way down to his pelvis, tugging the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers down until all that was left before you was his mlb dick, you taking him into your mouth and sucking the absolute life out of him until he was shaking and breathlessly chanting your pretty name like a prayer—

“break!”

you pulled yourself from your thoughts and stood, your eyes already watching the way megumi walked over from across the field with his head down, chest heaving and his face glistening with sweat against the setting sun, his baseball uniform covered in dirt.

both you and your girl friend walked down the steps and towards the bullpen, you quickly grabbing a clean white hand towel from the gatorade jug rack beforehand and catching up, spotting yuji and megumi already seated inside on a bench.

upon megumi noticing you coming up, he smiled softly, tiredly.

“you guys are sucking today.” your best friend deadpanned, and you elbowed her.

“no. you guys just look really nervous… is everything okay?”

you took a seat next to megumi and silently offered the clean towel, him gently bringing up your extended wrist and pecking it in gratitude before taking the towel and wiping down his face, your cheeks flushing in response.

yuji sighed deeply and shook his head, scratching the back of his neck. “everyone’s literally losing it. we win every year but each year that comes is extra added pressure to keep that up.”

megumi nodded wordlessly in agreement, his head hung.

“well this is your first bad practice isn’t it?” you softly mentioned.

“yeah… maybe it’s just today and you guys will be okay tomorrow.” your girl friend added, smiling comfortingly at yuji, him giving her the same smile back but with apprehension in his eyes.

“would’ve been fine if it was yesterday.” megumi cut in, voice monotone. “not today. not when it’s the last leg for the world series.”

he leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms with closed eyes, yuji nodding next to him.

you pulled your lips into a thin line, heavy anxiety brewing in your chest at the thought of them possibly losing before even getting into the league championships, something their team has never done before as they’ve always just gone straight through.

in order to get through to the world series, their team has to win the division series and the league championships, then they earn their rightful shining spot of playing in the world series and winning— something megumi has been a part of for almost three years now, and something the team has dominated over for five consecutive years straight.

but what if this year was different?

“how are you feeling?” you gently asked megumi after a bit. “i saw you were a little mad today on the field…”

he slowly pried his eyes open and looked at you, sighing softly through his nose.

“m’fine pretty baby.” he murmured. “they’re just not playing like they should be.”

megumi took his cap off and scratched the side of his head, his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. “and neither am i to be honest.”

your eyes softened.

“what do you mean?”

“m’just not meeting the standards i set for myself.”

“but you play well in every game gumi..” you mumbled. “don’t overwork yourself please. just keep doing what you’ve been doing… it’s been going great so far, hasn’t it?”

he gave you a little smile and lazily reached up to delicately caress and run the ends of your hair through his fingers. “i need to amp it up though. i need to try harder.”

“try harder when you’re already winning?” you quirked a confused brow.

he nodded.

“what’s the reason behind that?”

megumi gave you a sly smile. “because you’ll be watching me.”

you gawked, shaking your head at him. “gumi, you know anything that you do makes me freak out and it’s embarrassing...” you subconsciously tugged a bit at the sides of his jersey. “the way you tied my shoes for me the other day made me freak out. the way you pumped my gas last week made me freak out. the way you stuck your fingers inside my pu—”

his eyes bulged open as he shot forward and muffled you with a kiss, you kissing him back and laughing cutely once he pulled away.

“nasty mouth…” he mumbled, but the little grin on his face made you giggle as he put his cap back on over his head and nudged it down, trying to conceal his eyes and the blushing of his cheeks— but you catching on anyways.

“how was class?” he asked quietly, readjusting his cap. “did you get your coffee cake after i dropped you off?”

you shook your head. “no because i’d rather die than get the one on campus. they need to close that place down.”

megumi snorted, but his eyebrows pinched momentarily as he took your hand in his and started playing with your fingers. “you should’ve told me. i would’ve drove you to the one you like.”

“no gumi i wasn’t gonna make you do that... i wanted you to sleep in as much as possible.”

“i’ll take you after practice.”

“no! you need to nap after don’t waste time—”

“m’not wasting time.” he replied, but before you could get another word in, his coach called all players back on field.

“i’ll see you after.” he stood and pecked your forehead. “i love you pretty baby.”

you smiled shyly, your cheeks a cute pink.

“i love you too.”

thankfully, megumi didn’t seem as pissed off for the rest of practice, and you hoped it was because of the little chat you had with him in the bullpen prior and that it cheered him up in some way— the team playing a lot better and actually working together this time instead of being at each others throats over feeble mistakes.

and when they were all finally back at the locker rooms packed up and ready to go, you organized his clean uniform for tomorrow and hung his gloves neatly inside his locker, closing it once you were done.

“you don’t have to do that baby.” he murmured, gesturing to his locker as he swung his duffel bag over his shoulder and extended a hand. “organize. i can do that.”

“but i like doing it...” you took his offering hand and interlaced your fingers with his. “it helps you find things quicker.”

you both stepped out, quickly bidding your girl friend and yuji goodbye on the way as you walked down the echoey hallway together.

“—you also don’t have to drive me to school every morning but you do that anyways.”

he smiled. “touché.”

he led you out of the arena and over to the private parking area for players and crew— him opening the passenger side door for you to step inside and shutting it after, throwing his duffel bag to the back once he got in the drivers seat.

and like he always did, megumi buckled you up himself, grabbing the seat belt strap and pulling it over you to click on the other side with a kiss to your cheek— him never letting you do it yourself since the day you two properly met.

“do they sell food at the bakery?” he looked over at you as he pulled out. “they do don’t they.”

“they do!” you nodded sweetly. “but we’re not going.”

“why.”

“because you need to sleep—”

“no.”

“megumi—”

he shot you a glare and you squeaked.

“gumi! i-i meant gumi!”

he fixed his glare and broke out into a small smile instead, laughing lightly as he set his big hand over your thigh and squeezed lovingly.

you giggled softly.

“lunch first and then i’ll sleep.”

“oh my—”

you reached over for the door handle and pulled, brows furrowing once the lock wouldn’t budge after multiple frantic tries.

“you still have child lock on?!”

megumi shielded his mouth to hide his snicker, eyes to the road.

“uh huh.”

“why?!”

he gave you a deadpanned look and pointed to the door. “exhibit a, baby. the car is moving.”

“gumi if you hate me just say that.”

pulling into the bakery’s parking lot, he playfully rolled his eyes at your comment and pinched your cheek gently.

“be quiet.”

the bakery was a cute little place that was a frequent pit stop for the both of you to pick up breakfast on the way to the things you had to do in the mornings— always cozy and warm and filled with little trinkets and postcards of places from around the world, you always gushing when you or megumi would spot a new souvenir on the walls or on the shelves, and him sometimes having to stop you from snatching some for yourself…

“they have a million!” you whispered. “they won’t notice this one. please it’s from greece it’ll look cute on my fridge!”

megumi sipped his lemonade and gave you a half lidded look as you both sat in a booth.

“i don’t know if anyone has ever told you this but.” he gently slid the coffee cake closer to you, silently ushering you to eat. “that’s called stealing.”

“not if they don’t notice.”

megumi gave you an amused smile.

“i’ll take one for you too!”

“for me?”

“yeah!” you put your elbow on the table and propped your chin on your palm, tilting your head with the cutest expression megumi has ever seen in his fucking life.

“i’d do anything for you.”

his cheeks flooded pink, and he swallowed thickly.

megumi would do anything for you.

“i appreciate that pretty baby,” he murmured, tenderly tracing the pad of his index finger mindlessly around the back of your hand.

“great! so can i do it?”

“no.”

“maaannnn!” you slumped over the table and pouted. “you’re no fun.”

he chuckled and took a bite out of his ham and cheese deli, your mannerisms sometimes reminding him of his dad.

he swallowed.

“gojo wants to meet you.”

you froze. “really? he does?”

megumi nodded.

“okay! that’s okay— wait no! wait—” you groaned and leaned against the booth. “i don’t think he’s gonna like me very much…”

“huh?” his eyebrows furrowed. “why do you say that?”

you peered up at him sheepishly. “because i talk too much… i’m not gonna notice and end up telling him my lore, my school gpa, and my social security number.”

megumi laughed, and your heart fluttered at the sight of his crinkling eyes and gorgeous smile, the sound of it making you swoon.

he shook his head and rubbed his sleepy eyelids. “no baby... he’d love you. i know he would.”

“i don’t know gumi…” you sighed, looking down at your lap. “i want to meet him of course! that’s a given… but..”

megumi quirked a brow. “but?”

“i just don’t want to look stupid…” you laughed nervously. “it’s happened before where my friends parents say i’m a blabber mouth and i don’t want to embarrass you—”

his tired eyes narrowed. “blabber mouth? who’s saying you’re a blabber mouth?”

“my— my ex boyfriend in high school…” you cowered a little. “but it’s okay because i was over sharing!—”

“no.” he said firmly, his gaze looking directly into yours. “you’re not a blabbermouth. there’s a difference between being really open and friendly with people right off the bat and being a blabbermouth.”

megumi shook his head in annoyance. how could someone ever say you were a blabbermouth? he had never heard something that was so far from the truth.

you were too sweet for your own good, that was your only fault. you considered everyone you met a close friend of yours and weren’t afraid to tell them whatever came to your precious mind and made them feel welcome— something that megumi adored so much about you… so much, and something that made him borderline violent when people berated you for it.

“they just can’t handle it when someone is actually genuine. like you. and that’s not your fault.”

the shiniest smile grew on your face then, your eyes sparkling and feeling like a million fucking butterflies were fluttering all over your tummy— internally screaming at his words.

“thank you gumi…” you spoke softly. “i’m glad at least you don’t see an issue with it.”

“i don’t.” he shook his head. “i don’t at all.”

he loved it.

the rest of your lunch date was spent with megumi still not letting you steal the greece trinket magnet from the wall, you scolding him for the bags under his eyes, and him buying you two more slices of coffee cake to go no matter how many times you told him it was okay, the both of you gathering your things and going back to his car after a bit for him to drop you off back home.

“i’ll be here in the morning to take you to class.” he said gently, turning the corner and nearing your street.

“what? isn’t the division series game tomorrow?” you asked, taken aback. “gumi no just get as much sleep as you can it’s a big day. i can take myself.”

he looked at you boredly.

“no.”

“guumiii!”

he pulled into your driveway and shifted his gear into park, the corners of his mouth turned upward into a little goofy grin.

“i can take you baby it’s fine,” he pushed gently. “don’t worry.”

“you’ve been stressed though… and tired.”

you unbuckled your seatbelt and reached over, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in as he immediately leaned in and tucked his face into your neck, breathing in your honeyed perfume and letting himself slump into your soft frame.

“please promise me that after the division series, you’ll rest up like crazy before the league championships.” he pulled back slightly to look at you, his eyes nearly closing as he sleepily blinked. “okay?”

“league championships? didn’t know we already won.” he murmured.

you giggled. “obviously. you’re my cool baseball man, are you not?”

he tiredly grinned and pressed a sweet sweet kiss to your cheek, him biting down on it after and making you yelp before snickering and pulling away.

“bye gumi,” you quickly grabbed a slice of coffee cake and placed it on his leg. “here eat this on the way home so you don’t fall asleep.”

he chuckled and watched as you grabbed your things, hopped out, and ran across the front of his car, leaning your head in through his open window once you reached him and pressing your soft lips to his, megumi fucking melting at the feeling.

you pulled apart and he pecked you one last time— a series of i love you’s iterated before you backed away and waved excitedly from your front door, him waiting until you were inside to reverse, his engine roaring and his black car shining against the moonlight as he sped down the street.

the next morning you got up around the time that you usually did, showered and did your hair and got ready for class, packed your school bag and made your bed—

but megumi hadn’t texted you. like at all.

he usually sent you a good morning text, followed by him letting you know when he was leaving the house, followed by when he was on his way, and followed by when he was just down the street and pulling up.

except you got nothing.

you figured maybe today was just one of those days where he maybe just simply forgot and was already on his way, but as you stood literally outside of your house, gnawing on your thumb and the time coming painfully close to the start of your morning class as you still got nothing from megumi (even when you had texted him multiple times at this point), you started shitting it.

just as you were about to run inside to get the keys to your car, your phone buzzed as a picture of you and megumi flashed across the screen.

megumi!

“hel—”

“baby!—” he breathed out, frantic. “baby i’m sorry i’m so sorry i’m coming okay im down the street—”

“what happened?” you breathed out worriedly, your heart hammering against your chest.

“i overslept!—” he explained quickly. “i’m late to the team’s call time and— and you’re late to class and i— fuck!”

you heard his horn blare and his tires screech as muffled curses flew from his mouth, you jumping at the noise.

“sorry sorry someone cut me off i’m almost there—”

“no gumi go straight to the stadium you’re late!” you spoke firmly. “i can take myself—”

“no but i wanted to see you before the game—”

“it’s fine we can see each other after the game okay? when you win—” you grabbed your keys from the coffee table by your door and ran out, unlocking your car and getting in. “you’re late baby so fucking late please turn back this isn’t good coach is gonna chew you out—”

“shit! i know i know—”

“go gumi hang up it’s okay!”

“okay.. fuck okay okay—”

you heard rustling on the other line before he spoke again.

“i love you i’m sorry ill see you after!”

and the line went dead.

you slugged through the rest of your classes as the day felt way fucking longer than it normally did, you desperately just wanting to see megumi and know that he was okay, that he wasn’t in trouble with his coach and the management team for being over an hour late to the division series call time, you on the verge of literal tears multiple times over him.

your best friend and you had planned to get ready for the game together and sport your men’s jerseys from the stands— a girl’s night you were agonizingly looking forward to all freaking month, and so so excited that the day was finally here to support and be present for the making of yet another year for the boys’ team.

“and then he hung up. i thought he was gonna get into a wreck man—”

you ran your fingers through your styled hair in your vanity mirror, your best friend readjusting her jersey behind you— ‘itadori’ in big capital letters on the back.

“megumi is the most hard headed mean stubborn man i have ever come across in my life.” she searched around in her makeup bag, pulling out her lip liner and reapplying next to you. “i don’t know how many times you told him to sleep and get some rest. and yuji too! he hasn’t stopped talking about him since the schedule change and now i’m starting to think he’s in love with him.”

you laughed loudly.

“i know…” you sighed anxiously through your nose, nervous clammy jitters in your chest. “his eye bags have gotten so bad this past week.”

“i think it’s because he’s been practicing over time.”

you stopped.

“what do you mean?”

she looked at you quizzically. “i thought you knew? yuji told me that the higher ups had a meeting with megumi and told him that they were expecting him to bring the world series home.”

she popped the lid back on her lip liner and threw it in her bag. “he practices all night on the field until like four am.”

“what the fuck?” your eyes narrowed. “he never told me that? he picks me up for my seven am class everyday… that means he’s only been getting what— like two and a half hours of sleep this past week?”

she stopped. “he didn’t tell you?”

“no!” you exclaimed. “when was this meeting?”

“at the start of last week.”

“oh my god.” you grumbled.

why didn’t he tell you?

“that’s fucked up.” she shook her head. “talk to him about that after babe… i don’t know why this man didn’t tell you something like that.”

“i would’ve never let him pick me up for class if i knew this was going on…” you gloomily fiddled with the buttons on your jersey. “or hang out with me after practice.”

and why the hell were the higher ups demanding so much from megumi? why were they burning him out with a responsibility so huge as to ensuring the success of the team for the world series? that wasn’t fair to him. that wasn’t fair at all.

your girl friend hugged you comfortingly.

“it’s fine don’t worry about it okay?… just talk to him after.”

once at the stadium, you and your best friend squeezed and pushed through the crowd to get to the v.i.p. section, the both of you sweating and panting over having run across the stadium’s parking lot and the main area, all because your best friend couldn’t decide which way to do her hair, and because you couldn’t decide if you should wear a skirt or jeans.

you ended up choosing for each other and calling it a day.

“hey! you guys!”

you both snapped your heads up and you recognized the source of the voice as one of the assistant crew members of the team, jogging up to you guys with two devices in his hands.

“you guys want these radios or are you good? they’re connected to the announcers and have earbuds!”

“oh i’ll take one! thank you!” you answered politely, smiling as he passed you and your best friend a radio.

you pushed the earbud into your left ear and sat.

the crowd was buzzing and cheering with excitement, flashes of light shimmering throughout the sold out stadium as many held up posters and signs or bobble heads, you smiling wide every time you spotted a few of megumi’s face and name.

the air was warm, and every kind of news reporter, publicist, and journalist was present on the sidelines as they filmed and interviewed several players from the opposing team.

“let’s play ball!”

the crowed roared, claps and whistles ringing through the air as yuji walked out from the dugout, the both of you screaming as the rest of the team followed suit, your shoulders evidently relaxing at the sight of megumi jogging out into position looking absolutely jaw dropping in his clean cut uniform and cap, serious and focused.

as the game ensued, it was no surprise that the boys’ team was absolutely demolishing the opposing players, megumi doing fucking stellar out on the field as he caught ball after ball with his glove, the announcers commentary certainly helping with explaining the context of the game due to your lack of knowledge, but you trying your hardest anyways to understand on your own.

and finally after a while of switching sides and megumi hitting like a greek god, the teams switched sides what seemed like the final time since it was almost the nine inning, his turn to hit.

“walking up to base now… number eighteen— megumi fushiguro!”

the crowd went fucking insane as he walked up, you immediately standing and screaming over the railing as he took his position up there— swinging soft faux hits before properly adjusting his footing on the loose dirt, fans waving around their fushiguro banners or his baseball cards as he settled.

the bags under his eyes…

you gnawed anxiously at your bottom lip. his team was so close to moving on to the league championships…

“and the pitcher throws….”

hit!

“strike one!”

megumi screwed his eyes shut and grimaced, shaking his head furiously as he shook the nerves from his body and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

“oh!” the announcers groaned. “looks like megumi fushiguro missed a hit for the first time in history!”

for the first time?

you whipped your head around to face your girl friend. “for the first time?”

she looked at you with the same terrorized expression.

“fuck i knew he always hit but i didn’t know he never missed…” you whined worriedly. “he’s exhausted man i can see it look—”

megumi’s footing slightly slipped from the dirt as he positioned himself, getting ready for the next swing.

“and the pitcher throws again…”

hit!

“strike two!”

“fuck!” megumi roared, walking off the home plate and chucking his bat to the wall— the wood flying and clattering as it hit the ground, your eyes widening in horror.

“woah looks like fushiguro got another strike and.. needs to take a breather off the field..?”

“if megumi doesn’t get this next hit, they’re done!” your girl friend shook her head, eyes wide and afraid. “the other team is gonna take it!”

you ran your fingers through your hair exasperatedly, frantically looking at the scoreboard and back at megumi who was pacing a little off the plate with his head down, his hands on his hips.

“fushiguro!” you spotted yuji yelling from the dugout. “get back on the plate! we could get flagged!”

megumi’s chest heaved as he picked up his bat and wiped off the dirt, walking back over to the home plate and repositioning himself.

cameras flashed and recorded as he tried to get back into focus, news reporters talking their asses off and journalists scribbling god knows what— as they just earned themselves their biggest headline of the season.

megumi fushiguro missed his first hit in playing history.

“and the pitcher throws…”

hit!

“oh there it goes! looks like a fair ball!”

the crowd rallies as megumi books it over the first two bases, everyone watching as the ball hits over the outfield fence as he fucking dashes across the remaining two bases like nothing, earning himself a home run—

and scoring a spot in the league championship games for his team.

you and your best friend jump for complete joy, throwing your arms around each other and swaying as fans all around you celebrated and cheered just like the both of you, you happily watching the players from the dugout run up and engulf megumi in a group hug, jumping and laughing.

as the crowd began to disperse and take leave, you both quickly ran down the steps and to the field, you immediately spotting megumi and running up to him with your arms out.

“gumi!”

he noticed you and extended his arms, but his face read nothing as you jumped into them.

“good job good job! you did so amazing!”

“nice fushiguro!” yuji nudged his shoulder. “you brought us through!”

“i missed the first two hits.”

he set you back down.

yuji shrugged. “so? it happens. i do it all the time! you made a home run and scored us the league.”

megumi only silently nodded, his face to the ground as you told yuji and your best friend that you would see them in the locker rooms with everybody else.

and once everyone had cleared out from the field, you turned to him.

“hey…” you started. “what’s wrong?”

his eyes remained glued to the dirt.

“i missed the first two hits.”

your shoulders deflated. “you heard what yuji said… it’s okay. it was bound to happen but it’s fine because you fixed it—”

“we were on thin fucking ice today.”

his snippy tone took you by surprise a bit.

“yes… but you made it...” you responded softly. “you all pulled through. especially you.”

he scoffed and shook his head, him finally raising his baggy eyes and looking to the side, pissed.

“i almost cost us the league. that’s what i did.”

“gumi—” you exhaled a frustrated breath. “you literally played like a machine the entire time and had other hits that were amazing? i don’t understand why two little strikes—”

his eyes snapped to yours. “two little strikes?” he shook his head again. “two strikes too fucking many.”

“what is your issue?—”

“my issue is that if i fucked up that third hit it would’ve been all over. we would’ve lost the division, lost the league, and lost the world series, all because i don’t know how to fucking play ball—”

“yes you do! you’re being way too hard on yourself baby you need to take a breather and rest—”

“how many times have you nagged me about that already.” he spat.

you froze.

“nagged?” you repeated softly.

“yes. you’ve told me enough times i get it i need rest, i need sleep, i need this i need that—”

“i’m saying that because look at you!” you motioned with your hands, feeling potential tears prickling at the back of your eyes at the way he was speaking to you. “your under eyes are dark and purple, your eyes are red you look exhausted!”

“and i told you i’m fine!” he raised his voice a bit. “you wouldn’t understand the shit that i have to do for this team the shit i have to pull and i gave them absolute garbage today—”

“oh my god megumi!” you snapped. “your team is a team effort! it’s not just you! you’re not the only one pulling the stops so enough with trying to take on this load and overwork yourself! please you played amazing today everyone was cheering so loud for you and—”

“stop talking.”

you paused.

“just—” he rubbed his tired eyes and turned to the side. “just please stop talking.”

stop… talking?

he struck a chord, and you felt your heart literally break at his words, an aching heavy pit in your chest as you recounted his yelling and snappiness when all you were trying to do was help him.

thats all you’ve ever tried to do for megumi really— help him, support him, and love him. but for him to throw it all back in your face and say you didn’t understand? for you to basically shut up?

tears were slipping past your eyes at this point, and when you felt like megumi finally bothered to look at you in the face, his eyes widened and his shoulders dropped.

“baby—”

“and what about you?”

he stopped. “about me—”

“yes about you. you’re saying i don’t understand anything you’re fucking going through, as if i haven’t followed you through your career since the moment we met and before that, like i haven’t supported you on the sidelines and asked you question after question about your games just so i can fucking understand—”

“no i—”

you cut him off. “and then you’re here— yelling at me, telling me off, and telling me to shut up when i’m the only one fucking standing here with you after the game trying to be there for you?!—”

“baby— fuck i’m sorry okay i didn’t mean—”

you laughed bitterly. “you didn’t mean it. didn’t mean what? to accidentally let it slip that you actually do think i’m a blabbermouth?”

he was taken aback as his eyebrows furrowed, shaking his head desperately. “no— no that’s not what i meant at all y/n i’m sorry. i’ve been so stressed and tired and i’m taking it all out on you right now and— and that’s not okay and not an excuse.”

megumi quickly stepped forward and placed his hands on your face, but you pushed him away, hurt flashing across his eyes as you did so.

“and why didn’t you tell me about the meeting huh? the one with the higher ups last week?”

surprise crossed his face. “how did you—”

“doesn’t matter how i heard it. why didn’t you tell me? do you understand how that makes me feel when i have to find out through someone else and not my own boyfriend?”

he ran a hand through his spiky black hair and sighed exhaustedly.

“i didn’t tell you because i knew you would be upset about it and i didn’t want you to worry—”

“so you just chose to keep it from me that’s real nice.” you spat. “of course i wouldn’t be happy with it they’re stripping you down and exploiting you! how could they say that it’s all on you to bring it home for the world series? do you understand how insane that sounds?”

“i know but i can’t tell them anything i just have to say yes!” he explained.

“you have every right to tell them something! and if you would’ve communicated this with me like you should’ve done, i wouldn’t have let you lose so much sleep over me and maybe you wouldn’t have played the way you think you played, and you wouldn’t be standing here shitting all over me!”

he really struck a chord.

“y/n—”

“bye megumi.”

his breath hitched.

“no— hey don’t do that—”

he scrambled after you as you made your way out of the field, him quickly catching up and tugging you into him with his long arms around your shoulders, bringing your back to his front as he ducked his face down.

“let’s fix it please we need to fix this—”

“i want to be alone right now, megumi.” you mumbled.

god he hated how many times you’ve called him that already tonight, feeling like the biggest asshole to ever grace your precious life.

“no i don’t want you to be upset with me please—”

“we can talk later on the phone.” your tone was lifeless. “i just need to be alone.”

he faltered, feeling gutting pain cascade all over his body as he hesitantly, slowly, slipped his arms away and released you.

“o—okay.”

he watched you walk up the stands and to the exit as you clutched yourself, his eyes catching the back of your jersey reading his last name that sent an immediate pang through his chest, your frame disappearing from his view and leaving him in his stupid thoughts as he snatched his cap off from his head and threw it to the side in frustration.

that night megumi tried to call you but you didn’t pick up, you barely even answering his texts as he wallowed in self pity alone in his apartment.

and you hadn’t stopped crying since the moment your tears hit on the field— hurt and exhausted and guilty as you settled into bed, unable to bring yourself to call him and go through with your word, deciding to text instead.

(you): i’m really tired i’m sorry. i’ll see if i can call you in the morning.

megumi took no time at all to respond.

(gumi <3): can i take you to class tomorrow?

(you): i don’t think that’s a good idea

he swallowed the lump in his throat and fought back the urge to fight it, wanting to respect you and your space.

but you only kept crying.

(gumi <3): okay

(you): goodnight

(gumi <3): goodnight pretty baby

just as you were about to place your phone back on your nightstand, it buzzed again.

(gumi <3): i love you i’m sorry

you sniffled and put your phone away officially, choosing not to respond.

the following week leading up to the league championship game, megumi spent every waking moment trying to make it up to you, trying to fix it, but you only seemed to stay away from him and distance yourself, something that hurt megumi like no other.

you felt like it was your fault he played the way he did that day. if you had been smarter, more mindful, you would’ve noticed that the intensity of his exhaustion was extremely abnormal, and perhaps you could’ve done something about it before it was too late and saved yourself the dreadful fight you had with him.

you hated the way you spoke to him, and you fully convinced yourself that you only served as a distraction for him, opting to keeping your distance as far away as possible so it allowed megumi to get his head focused again and ensure a promised route to the world series— something you had hoped to be there to witness, but deeming his success way more important than your needs at this point in time.

so you stopped going to all of his practices following that day, the fact tormenting megumi as you always went to each and every single one and was there for him without fault— rain or shine, always waiting for him in the locker rooms when he was finished.

but you weren’t there anymore. and each day you weren’t was another day megumi would spend angry and frustrated with himself that he did what he did. he knew your defense mechanism was pushing people away, and your current behavior gave him flashbacks to the time last year when he was falling for you and you kept running away from him, scared— those actions a carbon copy of what’s happening now, except far worse.

and he did that to you. he yelled at you and snapped at you, told you to stop talking for some fucking reason that he still couldn’t find the proper explanation for… and he made you cry. so much. your usual sweet honeyed voice you spoke to him with long gone since that day.

and he missed you. more than anything.

“you stupid—” throw “self absorbed—” throw “asshole—” throw “narcissistic—” throw—

“okay that’s enough that’s enough!”

yuji pulled your best friend back as she chucked towel after towel at megumi following one of their practices, her absolutely fuming.

he took every hit, not bothering to dodge. he deserved it.

“she told me what you did—” she shook herself away from yuji’s grip. “what the hell is the matter with you? how could you yell at her like that on the field? when all she’s ever done is love you—”

“i know.” megumi mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “i know i’m really sorry. i regret it.”

“fuck yeah you should,” she scoffed. “that woman’s been cooped up every day in her room bawling her eyes out over you!”

yuji nodded sadly, and megumi let out a pained breath as he closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, propping his elbows on his knees, leaning forward.

“fuck me…”

“yeah fuck you—”

“okay! okay. he’s already down let him bleed out.” yuji muttered to her as he rubbed his hands over her arms soothingly, an attempt at calming her down.

he looked at him. “megumi, you and i both know that she understands you were frustrated that day. the both of you. if you just talk to her—”

“you think i haven’t tried?” megumi picked his head up, and the both of them froze at the way his eyes glossed over.

“i’ve— i’ve called her, i’ve texted her, i drove by her house but she’s never there, fuck i even went to her campus at seven in the morning but couldn’t find her.”

he took his cap off and roughly rubbed over his eyes again.

your best friend sighed then after a moment, slowly stepping forward and sitting down next to him on the bench.

“she’ll come around megumi.” she mumbled. “just give her some time. i know it’s hard, but she really really loves you.” she sighed deeply. “she’ll come around.”

megumi nodded solemnly, and yuji stepped forward, patting his shoulder.

“you okay man?”

he nodded again.

missed phone calls, lagging dry texts, and last minute cancellations from you all happened for a week straight.

and when the time finally came for the league championships, megumi wanted nothing more than for you to be there as he stared at his messy fucking locker when prepping for the game— another reminder that you hadn’t been around, and another reminder that you wouldn’t be here tonight to see him, something he completely did not blame you for.

luckily, the league championship game was at their home base once more, and as the crowd got settled to watch, energies heightened as the players all got settled over the field to play ball— megumi shook the nerves from his body as he focused with the game, and you, on his mind like a religion.

and as the game ran on with the team scoring run after run, another win was blatantly obvious for them— megumi entirely unaware of your presence that was watching him the entire time in the stands.

you couldn’t help yourself. you needed to be there to watch him, needed to see him take home another achievement like that, regardless of where you both stood as you watched from just above the v.i.p section, shivering like an idiot because you forgot to bring a jacket after deciding to wear a flowy tube top for the day, but excited for him nonetheless.

you didn’t tell a single soul you were coming, not even your best friend as you just wanted to see megumi again before running off into the shadows of your embarrassing despair, missing him like fucking crazy and nearly sobbing when you saw him walk out on the field at the start, but even more emotional to the fact that they were actually going to move on to the world series by the looks of it.

and the crowd hollered eventually as the speakers blasted megumi’s teams signature song—

finalizing their spot in the world series.

your eyes glowed as you watched his team run up on the field and tackle each other down, literally rolling in the dirt as you giggled to yourself— sighing contently and about to turn and walk out of the stadium to go home when a strong rough hand wrapped around your bare upper arm.

“you’re fushiguro’s girl! aren’t you?”

you snapped your head up and saw someone you recognized as one of megumi’s crew members for the team, and you relaxed, trusting him.

“oh! yeah i am!”

“sweet! i just got hired to be on the crew a couple of weeks ago.”

“that’s great!” you answered politely, smiling. “how is—”

“listen i was wondering if i could get any tickets to the world series from you?”

what.

“um—” your eyes darted around awkwardly. “for— for the world series?—”

“yeah! i took this job so i could get some but apparently i need to be working longer than three weeks. dumb.”

you gnawed at the inside of your cheek as your eyes drifted downward to your arm.

he still hadn’t let go.

“oh i’m sorry.” you mumbled. “i could— i could maybe get you one? one for sure!”

he shook his head. “shit sorry, i need like five.”

“five?!” you gawked. “i can’t get you five i’m really sorry… i can only maybe get you one.”

his eyes narrowed. “why not? you’re fushiguro’s girl are you not?”

“yes but what does that have to do with me getting you tickets to the world series?” you spoke nervously, trying to put on a brave front as his height literally towered over you.

“why don’t you ask him for tickets? he’s literally megumi fushiguro i’m sure he can cough up some—”

you scoffed.

“i’m not gonna ask him anything for you just because you want to use me to get tick—”

“so then what the fuck are you with him for?” his grip tightened around your arm as he pulled you a little, and you winced.

“let go of me!—”

megumi considered himself a relatively calm person throughout his life.

he knew he had his explosive rude moments here and there, him also accidentally offending people unknowingly with his words, but that behavior only stayed on the field as it pertained to the game at hand or with baseball itself, his life outside of that a treasured tranquil one as he spent his days with you and only you, something he looked forward to every waking moment since the day he met you.

but as he heard your little voice through the yelling of the crowd, instantly recognizing it and picking up on its distressed demeanor— his body did a full one-eighty as his eyes frantically searched for you through the mass of people.

and once he did spot you? your breathtaking little self being manhandled by some fucking moron who had his hand around your upper arm?

he didn’t consider himself a relatively calm person anymore.

megumi quickly snatched his cap off and passed it to a confused yuji and your best friend, sprinting at the speed of light across the field and to the fence of the v.i.p. section before hoisting himself up and climbing, jumping over once he reached the top and landing on the stands— him running up a few steps before finally reaching you and tearing the guy off.

“get the fuck off.”

he gently pushed you behind him, his chest heaving.

“the shit are you doing hurting her arm like that for huh?!” megumi stepped forward.

“hey! hey i’m sorry man i— i didn’t know i was hurting her—”

“sure you fucking did she was literally telling you to let go and you were throwing her around like—”

“megumi please—”

“are you part of the crew?”

“y—yeah?”

“you’re gone. you’re fired you’re—”

“wait i’m sorry! i was just trying to get tickets to the world series—”

megumi’s eyes blew open, wild and infuriated.

“that’s why you were grabbing her like that? you were harrassing her for some fucking ticke— you know what—”

megumi stepped forward before you could stop him as he reeled his fist back and knocked him straight in the jaw, the guy stumbling back a bit and the crowd gasping before megumi spun around and grabbed your legs, throwing you over his shoulder.

“get the fuck out of my way.”

the small crowd that stuck around for the altercation parted with no questions asked, his long legs striding over across the exit and to the teams now vacant locker room— kicking the door open before gently setting you down on your feet.

he ran his hands over your soft hair frantically as he grabbed your cheeks and checked you over, your teary doe eyes breaking him apart.

“hey are you okay? are you fine?”

megumi let go of your face and gently lifted your upper arm, his eyes hardening at the purple forming bruise from that dickwads hand.

“he’s gone he’s gone—”

you lunged and wrapped your arms around his waist tightly as he started to charge back out, pulling him back.

“no! stop it’s okay you already hit him i think he got the message.” you mumbled, letting him go.

megumi turned to you then, his eyes softening over your timid sad frame as you played with your fingers, gaze down.

“y/n.”

“hm?”

he frowned.

“can you please look at me.”

you listened reluctantly and peered up at him.

he exhaled. “baby i— i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry for everything that i said to you that night. i meant none of it. nothing. i was just angry at myself and stressed and stupid and i hate that i talked to you like that and took it out on you. you didn’t deserve that at all.”

you hurriedly wiped your silent tears— nodding, but saying nothing.

he leaned down to look at you at eye level.

“are you okay?”

you nodded again and sniffled.

“talk baby.” he pleaded with you gently, eyes sad. “tell me, please.”

you cowered a little as you finally broke into tiny sobs, your hands hovering over your face to hide your tears as he placed his big hands on your upper arms, megumi feeling like he just got run over by an entire military tank at the sight of you crying because of him.

“i—i’m sorry i yelled at you—” you hiccuped. “i was so mean and i f—feel really bad—”

“baby why are you apologizing?” he shook his head. “it’s me it’s all me i’m the one who was mean to you—”

“no but—” you sniffled. “you were just stressed from the game like you said and that’s fine i should’ve been more aware. i didn’t mean to upset you with me talking—”

“oh pretty baby..” he breathed out, agonizingly, megumi literally beating himself up. “remember when i said one time you were too nice for your own good?”

you nodded.

“this is one of those moments. you should be yelling at me and throwing things at me like your best friend did.”

your eyebrows furrowed as you sniffled. “she— she did?”

“she did.” he nodded. “rightfully so.”

you giggled a little, and he smiled softly.

“i’m sorry i distanced myself the way i did…” you mumbled, a waterfall of tears coming down again. “i just thought that i was a distraction and— and i wanted you to focus.”

“a distraction?” he murmured. “y/n you are never a distraction.”

“no but at the end of the day i was…” you sobbed. “you need to be there for your team you have—“ hic! “you have responsibilities and i don’t want you to put me above that and— and keep hanging out with me when you have so much to do—”

“something you need to understand is that i’m replaceable.” he cut you off, tone firm. “the minute they find some other dude that’s way better than me and quicker than me and they draft his ass over to the team? they are going to replace me faster than you will ever think. that’s just the way jobs are. i’m replaceable no matter how much you wanna think it’s not true.”

he shook his head, his face pained. “but you are not. you’re not fucking replaceable there is no other you. you are my life now baby. yes my career is a priority, but so are you, and i would rather them replace me than lose you entirely.”

he wiped the tears from your cheeks, your doe eyes wide.

“i appreciate that you care so much and you support me and that you want me to devote all of my time to only this— you’re an angel on earth for all of that… but as your man i’m telling you that all of my time is devoted to you now, not just baseball.”

you wrapped your arms around his neck and tugged him closer to you, tight, him immediately reciprocating and snaking his arms around your waist.

he could finally breathe.

“do you understand?” he murmured softly, rubbing his hands over your back soothingly.

you nodded.

“but you can’t— wear yourself out like you did okay?” you sniffled. “you can’t let them push you and tire you out… and please listen when we say for you to rest…”

“i know i’m sorry. i’ll listen next time baby i promise.”

“i get you trying to improve for yourself and push your limits… but— but there’s a difference between wanting to better your play and straight up wearing yourself down.”

you pulled back a little to look at him, wiping your tears and hiccuping. “and i worry man… i worry so much because i—“ hic! “i love you and i always think about if you’re eating right or— or getting enough sleep—”

his heart literally melted as he felt the remains of it ooze and spread all over his body and insides, your pure sweet concerns tugging at him and turning him into absolute putty before you.

he tightened his grip around your waist and lifted you, gently rocking your bodies as you sniffled and cried, his eyes screwed shut and feeling every possible emotion a human being could ever feel… but feeling love most of all.

love for you. love for who you are.

megumi kissed your wet cheek delicately and let his lips linger there as he spoke.

“i’m in love with you…” he murmured. “i hope you know that.”

your heart fluttered and you nodded, a little smile playing at your face.

“i’m in love with you too gumi.” you hummed, pressing a sweet kiss of your own to his cheek.

he set you back down and cupped your cheeks, slowly leaning in and pressing light tender kisses to your lips, his mouth completely savoring over the taste of yours as he had been deprived of them for a freaking week— feeling like his dried up soul had been rejuvenated and made anew.

and you felt the same way… because you deepened the kiss, picked up the pace, pulled him closer until his chest was flush against yours and your hot breaths were mixed together in a misty cloud, megumi breathing heavily through his nose as he ran his needy desperate hands over your delicious body.

he trailed wet open mouthed kisses on your cheek, jaw, and all the way down to the side of your exposed neck, his hand supporting the other side as he feverishly licked a slow long stripe of spit up your neck with his rough tongue, your fists gripping the sides of his jersey as he nibbled and bit, his lips finally coming to enclose and suck around a certain spot as your breath hitched at how frenzied and sloppy he was being, drool practically running down your neck as he ravished, bit, and sucked over multiple areas.

you shoved your hands down his pants suddenly, and he choked in surprise as his hips thrusted forward, your fingers pumping and palming his hardened cock slowly as his breath shuddered against your neck.

“baby...” he murmured.

“hm?”

“how would you feel if i turned on the shower and fucked my cock in your pretty little cunt for a bit in there huh?…”

a needy whimper slipped past your lips against his ear, and he grew weak.

“is that okay—”

“more than okay—”

you squealed as he wasted no time in picking you up again and walking over to the showers, the both of you clumsily tearing off your clothes as megumi fumbled with the shower switch until luke warm water spritzed from above— entrapping the both of you in a humid trance as megumi squeezed your bare thighs and ushered you to jump, you doing so immediately and wrapping your legs around his waist.

he stepped in and literally slammed the shower door shut, the two of you giggling a little as the soothing water washed over your panting bodies, the sight of his handsome bright face making your cheeks flush and bury your face in his neck in response.

he chuckled softly, gently setting your back against the wet tile wall before kissing you again and again, his mouth messy against your puffy lips as he tried to drink up all that you gave him, the tip of his cock slipping past your folds and brushing against your swollen clit— each time making you squeak and jump.

you didn’t care about anything, your mind reeling and just wanting megumi’s dick inside of you as soon as possible, knowing that you’d never really had sex before and literally not giving a single shit because it was him— someone you trusted the most out of anyone in your life, and someone you wanted to give your all to no matter the circumstance.

he lined his fat tip then against your drooling hole.

“wait! wait the door—“ you gripped his shoulders for support. “the door did you lock it?”

“nope.”

megumi pushed his cock in slowly and gently, your choked gasps and moans echoing inside the shower as his head fell to rest in the crook of your hickey covered neck, him groaning in ecstasy as your gummy warm pussy strangled his dick to the tightest degree, already previously so wet and gushy that it thankfully barely hurt you at all as he bottomed out.

“fuuuckk— you’re warm.” he murmured, gripping your hips like a vice and softly caressing his thumb against your slippery skin to soothe you— hoping (but not really), you’d maybe release the clutch your pussy had on his dick to stop him from already shooting his cum all over your insides like a loser.

he slowly drew his hips back and fucked into you again, you jolting at the force as you fumbled to keep your grip steady on his shoulders, his cock fucking thick and massive as his little curve poked deliciously at your cervix, him gradually increasing his pace as you shuddered over the quick pat pat pat’s echoing through the walls.

“g—gumiii..” you whined.

“what baby?” he mumbled breathlessly, his eyes glued to where his dick connected with your hole as it slipped in and out lewdly, your pussy literally squelching and screaming for him with your bouncing tits in his face that made him clench his jaw in self restraint— trying his hardest not to fucking ram into you like nothing and take you.

“y—you’re biigg!” you hiccuped, your little gasps of breath enticing droplets of cum to leak out of his tip and ooze out of your little wet folds, megumi moaning at your words.

“yeah?” pat pat pat— “s’too much for you baby?”

he picked up the pace, on purpose as he meanly bounced you on his cock and shot his hips up against your pussy, his big heavy balls slapping against your ass and making your eyes fucking cross at the feeling.

“tell me you love me.” he panted. “now.”

“i—“ hic! “i love you—”

megumi grabbed your cheeks with his fingers and mushed them together, grinning deviously at the way your pouty lips pushed out cutely.

“how much.”

“s—so- ah!— so much gumi—”

“more— shit!” he choked, a particular squeeze from your abused cunt almost making him finish. “m— more than anything?”

slap slap slap—

“y—yes!—” you could barely even speak due to the erotic hold he had on your face. “i love you i love you i love—”

you squealed as he let go of your face, gave into his desires and rammed into you, both hands on your bruised hips as he gave your pussy no room to breathe with how fast he was shoving his fat cock inside of you, pounding and pummeling into your guts as your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you felt your release build up in your tummy.

“why were you asking me about the door earlier huh?” he panted. “you don’t want anyone to see how much of a” thrust! “slut you are? your legs spread for me like this and your pretty pussy creaming on my dick?”

you whined and moaned so fucking loudly, it ringing through megumi’s ears like a wicked symphony.

he pinched your nipple when you didn’t respond.

“answer me.”

thrust thrust thrust—

“n—no i didn’t!”

“no?”

he gripped your neck and sloppily ran his mouth over yours, feeling his cum on the brink of shooting out.

“m’gonna cum inside.”

“in— mmphf!— inside?”

“you don’t want it?” he let go of your neck. “cause i won’t give it to you if you don’t want it—”

“i do i do!” you scrambled and cupped his cheeks, bringing his lips back in and kissing him messily.

“give it to me gumi please!—“ hic! “eeekkk!”

hot sticky cum pumped out of his tip and into your gushy walls, your high making your toes curl as you creamed around his heavy cock feverishly, megumi’s entire body fucking shivering at the way your pussy felt like it was entirely made and molded for him.

he softly pumped himself inside and out of you, his mouth hung open in a daze as he watched his white cum slide out of your pretty hole and over his still connected dick, gently easing out after a minute and carefully setting you back down— not completely though, as he knew you’d be sore as he leaned most if not all of your body weight against him.

you held each other in a tight embrace then, your heavy breaths trying to find its normal rhythm as the warm water continued to cascade down your bodies, comfortingly.

“why don’t we have sex more often...” you mumbled.

he laughed softly, pecking the side of your head. “i was waiting for you to tell me baby. i didn’t want to pressure you.”

“i was waiting for you to tell me.” you emphasized. “i didn’t want to jump on you and just violate you—”

megumi’s chest vibrated as he laughed again, a cute boyish one that made you bite your lip.

“violate me?” he murmured, an amused smile on his face. “i’d want you to.”

“yeah?” you tilted your head, and his cheeks grew hot.

“yeah.”

finally you and megumi were in sync again, going back into each other’s routines as if the week long hiccup never happened, the both of you officially unraveling the aching knots in your chests that you hauled for seven tormenting days straight— together and attached to the hip once again as he started picking you up for your seven am classes every morning like before, you going to his practices straight after, and spending your hours sleeping in his dark cozy room this time around, snoring your little life away so megumi could recover.

and eventually, the world series arrived.

“my camera! my camera! my digital one did i bring it?!”

you flipped your purse upside down and dumped all of your things on the floor— your lip combo, compact mirror, snacks, random receipts, and small perfume bottle rolling around on the ground until your digital camera was finally in view.

your best friend cackled as she crouched down and helped you pick up your things. “you were taking pictures up megumi’s nose on the two hour drive over here yes you brought it—”

“i know i forgot i’m so nervous what if they lose what if someone fumbles what if—”

you both stood as you rambled on and she placed both of her hands on your shoulders, shaking you. “calm down! they’ll be fine! win or lose they still made it to the world series!”

the crowd roared much like the past two games, except much heavier, louder, more drilling as the music drummed through your body, the air windy but refreshing, and high pitched whistles echoing from around the stadium as everyone anticipated for the biggest game of the season.

you had lost count how many different news stations were here broadcasting the game, how many reporters you saw scrambling across the field trying to interview certain players— you too busy taking pictures of every single little thing and the both of you reapplying your lip liners over a million fucking times— even flagging down a crew member so you could take a picture with just your best friend, your backs to the camera showcasing the last names of your boyfriend’s on your jersey’s.

and when the game officially commenced and the players all went out on the field— megumi and his team did what they always do best, taking control of the scoreboard and earning runs like chump change as they worked professionally to take the trophy home, you constantly snapping pictures of megumi that your digital camera ran out of fucking storage before you even got the shot that you wanted.

eventually after a while of playing, it was megumi’s turn to hit.

“fuck! record for me please record! my camera ran out of storage oh my god use my phone please i love you—”

your best friend laughed as she took your phone from you and did what you asked, your hands on the railing and leaning over it as you anxiously watched him walk up to home plate and take position.

but instead of doing his usual faux swings and repositioned footing, megumi stepped to the side and turned his bat downward, you unable to tell what he was doing as his frame was blocking, his arm moving in various directions before he stepped back again on the home plate and repositioned himself.

your eyes trailed to the ground.

megumi had carved your initials in the dirt.

your girl friend gasped and cooed. “y/nnn!”

as megumi now did his faux swings, your bottom lip only wobbled as your eyes stayed trained to the carvings in the dirt, your heart skipping a thousand beats per minute as the thought of megumi thinking about you out there during one of the most important nights of his life, made you question repeatedly how you ever landed a man like him when all you do is talk and cry.

hit!

your eyes snapped up and you quickly wiped the corners of your eyes, megumi already running across the first two bases as the crowd roared.

“bring it home fushiguro!”

several of his teammates were cheering him on from the dugout, megumi running four runs with just one fucking hit?—

a grand slam.

and suddenly you were taken back to the day you noticed megumi for the first time, just like now with your doe eyes wide and cheeks pink, recognizing the only piece of baseball terminology you knew besides a home run.

except then he was just a stranger you were hopelessly in love with that knew how to play ball like no other.

now though, he’s a man you couldn’t ever imagine your life without. and you didn’t want to.

so as the game reached nine innings, megumi’s team running on the field in a bundle of absolute tears and yells and hollers that they won the world fucking series, all clustering together as they hoisted several players up on their shoulders, including megumi—

you and your best friend instantly booked it down there in a fit of tears.

you had no time to get your personal belongings together as you sprinted across the field like your life fucking depended on it towards megumi— him being put down by his teammates and him frantically looking around after until he spotted you, the brightest smile spreading across his face as he chucked his cap to the side and opened his arms out wide for you.

you jumped in and he spun you around, holding you tight as the screaming crowd surrounding you drowned itself out as you cried into megumi’s neck.

he pulled back, panting.

“did you see how i did a grand slam?”

you nodded rapidly.

“i did it because i knew its the only thing you would recognize!” he yelled over the noise. “so you would feel included when we won!”

oh my god.

he still remembered when you told him that?

“guummiii! how did you even calculate that?!” you cried harder, and he laughed as he spread tiny kisses all over your teary face, his eyes glimmering with absolute unadulterated happiness and bliss, the reality of having the two things he wanted most in life settling into his mind.

megumi didn’t really have a stance on religion— whether the factor is real or not something he didn’t really care about nor mind as he simply just chose to live.

but as he held you on the field, you crying for him and embracing him the way that you were, kissing him the way that you were, megumi only wanted to be covered in your favor. megumi only wanted to devote his entire life to you.

megumi only wanted to believe in you.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

want more? you can find my mlb!megumi fushiguro masterlist here!

taglist!! <33 (THANK YOU THANK YOU!):

You scramble to push yourself backward, heels scraping against the concrete, but there’s nowhere to go. You're boxed in. Your breath is shallow, chest rising and falling too fast as your thoughts race, searching for an escape, a weapon, anything.

The skinny one crouches slightly, trying to meet your eyes. "You don’t have to run. We noticed you earlier...figured you might like some company. You looked lonely."

Your mouth is dry, panic sticking your tongue to the roof. You shake your head slightly, hoping they’ll take the hint and back off. They don’t.

Not even close.

Wasn't your first run-in with creeps from the N109 Zone. Hopefully this would be your last...and not in the demise kind of way. You’d seen enough horror stories unfold around here to know how fast things could go south. But tonight, it felt like your number had finally come up.

"I have an incurable disease. I wouldn't touch me," you say, voice strained and wavering despite your best effort to sound confident. It was a long shot, a gamble born from panic, but maybe, just maybe, it would give them pause.

The two men chuckle in unison. The fat one sneers wider, eyes flashing, and lunges toward you without warning. His arms wrap around you with crushing force, lifting you off the ground like a ragdoll. You scream, loud and raw, your bag tumbling from your shoulder and hitting the pavement with a thud.

He spins you around effortlessly and traps you in a brutal bear hug, pinning your arms to your sides, holding you fast in front of the skinny one, who now steps in with the air of someone approaching a prize.

"Wouldn't doubt it," the fat one murmurs into your ear, breath hot and reeking of beer and decay. "A girl as cute as you is no doubt a whore. Good thing I brought condoms."

Your stomach lurches. The word "whore" hits like a slap, but the real fear twists in your gut when you realize how calm and practiced they both are. This wasn't a spontaneous act. These two had been prowling for someone exactly like you.

You jerk your head back, teeth bared, aiming to sink them into any piece of flesh you can reach. But the fat one squeezes tighter, cutting off your air, forcing a sharp, agonized wheeze from your throat. Your ribs scream, your lungs burn, and your vision starts to spark at the edges.

"Hold fucking still," the skinny one says, voice low and trembling with excitement. He slips a knife from his coat—small, sharp, and chillingly clean. The blade glints under what little light leaks from the busted streetlamps. You writhe, but your body isn’t responding fast enough. He kneels, eyes locked on you, and presses the blade to your shirt.

He starts slicing.

The cold metal kisses your soaked uniform, dragging down the fabric slowly, deliberately. You can hear every fiber snap under the blade, feel the chill rush of night air against newly exposed skin. He’s savoring it, the sick bastard. Every second stretches long and heavy with dread.

The fat one chuckles again, a low rumble that vibrates through his chest and into your spine. "Look, she's already shaking" he snickers. "Can't wait to see that pretty red blood drip down your tits when we're done with you."

Panic claws at your throat. Your mind races.

You're not getting out of this alive.

Had your life truly been destined to be so terrible that it had to end the same way too? Shitty parents, born in a shitty city, working shitty jobs to make ends meet all your shitty life. No breaks, no safety nets...just a constant grind with nothing to show for it but bruises and exhaustion. Every step forward had been a crawl. Every chance you'd hoped for had slipped through your fingers like water.

You tried so damn hard. You kept your head down, followed the rules, did everything the world told you to do. And still, here you were—in some dark alley in the N109 Zone, freezing, humiliated, and helpless. Your chest ached, not just from fear, but from the deep, gnawing sense of betrayal. Like the universe had always had it out for you.

You shut your eyes as you feel the cold air hit your chest. Your bra is exposed now, fabric damp and clinging, offering no warmth or comfort. You bite your lip to keep it from trembling. Well. This was it then? The end? Not even a warning, no last moment of dignity. Just this.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You don't know what you're reaching for—hope, courage, a miracle—but anything would do. Anything to stop this. Anything to change the ending.

You suck in a shaky breath and prepare for whatever comes next. The pain, the cold, the end.

"Gentlemen, fancy seeing you two here. I was actually just looking for you both. Seems you didn't get the memo on our meeting earlier today," a voice says from behind you.

All three of you freeze.

The air shifts. Like a thunderstorm about to break loose right above your heads. You feel it roll over your skin, the tension clamping around your lungs.

The two men whip their heads around, eyes wide, searching for the source. Their confidence drains from their faces like blood down a sink.

"Shit, don't tell me that's—" the skinny man starts, voice cracking like glass.

But he doesn’t finish.

In a blink, his body is ripped backward like a ragdoll, hurled through the air by a force you can’t see. He slams into the side of a building with a loud, sickening crunch that echoes down the alleyway. Brick cracks from the impact, and he crumples to the ground in a heap, groaning once before going eerily still. The knife he was holding clatters to the ground next to him.

The fat man’s grip loosens instantly. Shock paralyzes him for a heartbeat. Then two. He releases you without a word, hands trembling as they fall to his sides. You drop to the ground like dead weight, landing hard on your ribs. Pain jolts through your body, but it's nothing compared to the relief crashing over you.

You groan and look up, blinking through tears and grime, just in time to see it—

Red mist.

Thick, pulsing, and alive. It weaves through the air like smoke with purpose, coiling around the fat man’s legs first, snaking its way up his body in slow, suffocating loops. He stares down in horror, hands clawing at the red haze like he could somehow peel it off.

You watch, frozen, as his feet lift from the ground. He rises—arms flailing, mouth wide open in a silent scream—as the mist tightens, dragging him up like a puppet.

Then he’s thrown.

He rockets backward with impossible force, crashing into the wall opposite his partner. The impact is brutal—louder, deeper, cracking the stone like thunder. Dust explodes around him, raining down in gritty sheets as the building seems to shudder in protest.

Silence follows. Long and oppressive.

The street goes still. Not even the buzz of broken streetlights.

You sit there, gasping, heart racing, and stare through the lingering red mist.

And then—

Shoes. Slow, deliberate footsteps echo against the concrete. Heavy. Calm. Unbothered.

You stop breathing as a man appears out of the shadows. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a slow, confident gait. His hair is white-greyish, short, and groomed neatly as if untouched by the chaos around him. He wears a dark collared shirt, sharp and clean despite the filth of the N109 Zone, and a heavy jacket draped casually across his shoulders like a cape. But the most piercing feature about him? His eyes.

Crimson red.

They glow faintly under the broken streetlights, inhuman and unreadable, like fire simmering behind glass. He glances at you—just for a moment. You can’t read the expression. Indifference? Curiosity? Whatever it is, it sends a chill through your bones.

Without a word to you, he turns and stalks toward the two men groaning on the ground.

"Seems you were too busy harassing women to remember to bring me what I’m rightfully owed," the man snarled, voice low and sharp like broken glass. "No matter. I warned you I'd get it back in blood."

The fat one scrambles, shielding his face with his arms, whimpering. "Sylus! Please! We can sti—"

His begging is cut off by a choked, wet gurgle. His throat clenches under invisible pressure, red mist coiling tighter and tighter around his neck. His eyes bulge. Feet kick. Hands claw at nothing.

The skinny one tries to run. He scrambles up, limping, almost making it two steps before something grabs his ankle. The mist again—faster this time. It twists, tightens, and then—

SNAP.

A sickening crack splits the air, sharp and final. His ankle bends the wrong way, bone giving way with a sound that makes bile rise in your throat. He collapses, screaming in agony.

You can’t take it anymore.

You shut your eyes and cover your ears, curling into yourself as tightly as you can. The screams, the choking, the crunch of bone—it all keeps going, echoing in your skull even through your hands.

You just want it to stop.

A few moments of muffled chokes and screams...and then silence.

Not the kind of silence that feels peaceful, but the thick, eerie kind that makes your skin crawl. Your ears ring faintly, and your breath stutters in your chest as if your body refuses to believe it’s over.

You breathe heavily, chest heaving as you try to calm the shaking in your limbs. The cold from the ground seeps through your soaked clothes, but you barely register it. Your hands are still pressed over your ears, your fingers curled so tightly they’re starting to ache. It takes every ounce of courage to peel them away and crack your eyes open.

You're surprised—no, stunned—not to see the gruesome aftermath you expected. No blood. No bodies. No twisted limbs or broken faces. In fact, there's zero trace of the men who had once stood there, like the earth had swallowed them whole and wiped away the evidence.

You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of the empty space in front of you. Adrenaline is still racing through your veins, making your vision blur slightly around the edges. The only sound now is the soft crunch of gravel beneath a shoe—measured, unhurried.

Your eyes dart toward the movement. You watch as Sylus bends down slowly, like he has all the time in the world, and picks up something small and shiny. At first, it looks like a shard of glass, almost invisible in the dim light. But it catches a flicker from the nearest working lamp—almost clear, glinting faintly with an internal glow that pulses like a heartbeat.

"That's..." you whisper, barely able to hear your own voice. Your eyes widen as the pieces click into place.

A protocore?? You had never seen one so close up before.

They were supposed to be rare. Expensive. Illegal to possess without license, let alone harvest. The kind of stuff people killed over.

You barely get the thought out before he pockets it in one smooth motion. Then he turns toward you.

Those red eyes lock onto yours like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. They burn with a strange intensity, unreadable and terrifying and impossible to look away from. He takes a step closer, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.

But he doesn't speak. He just studies you. Eyes roaming all over you.

And in that instant, you realize something unsettling: he’s not trying to intimidate you. He’s evaluating you. Like he’s sizing you up for something you don’t yet understand.

Your breath hitches, throat dry, mind racing. Who was this man? What had you just witnessed?

You squeeze your eyes shut as he suddenly walks toward you. Shit. You were probably next.

You just watched a man commit murder, two murders no less. Of course you were next as the witness. Your pulse hammers against your ribcage as panic floods you. Why didn’t you run when you had the chance? Why the hell did you freeze?

You brace yourself for the worst, chest tightening as your breath stalls in your throat. Every step he takes echoes louder than the last, like the final countdown to something irreversible. The air around you feels charged, heavy with power and blood.

But instead of pain or a final breath, you feel something else.

A soft, warm weight settles across your shoulders.

Fabric. A jacket.

You flinch at first, confused, until the warmth begins to seep into your frozen skin. The cold on your back evaporates slightly, replaced by the comforting weight of thick, dry fabric. Your eyes flutter open, hesitation making your lashes tremble as you lift your gaze.

He's standing just inches away, crouched down, eyes unreadable in the dim light. No expression.

"For your...situation," the man says evenly, voice low but firm, eyes briefly flicking to your torn shirt and the state of your exposed chest.

Your bra is wet, see-through, and clinging to your skin. You gasp in embarrassment, face flushing hot, and immediately rush to close the jacket over yourself, clutching the lapels with both hands. Your fingers shake, knuckles paling from gripping so tight.

"S-sorry..." you whisper, voice small and shaken. You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for...your appearance, your weakness, your existence? But the word slips out anyway.

He simply sighs, standing up and running his fingers through his hair. The motion is slow, tired—like he’s dragging the weight of something heavier than tonight’s encounter. His fingers rake back through the white-grey strands, revealing the sharp edges of his face, shadowed under the streetlights. His posture eases, but not from comfort—more like indifference. The threat is gone, and so is his interest. But his eyes...they remain hard. Crimson still burns faintly beneath his lashes, like coals left smoldering.

"Do you always apologize for things that aren't your fault?"

The question lands like a blade, too casual to be comforting. Cold. Rhetorical. He doesn’t give you a chance to answer. Doesn’t seem like he wants one.

Without waiting for a response, he turns his back to you.

"I assume you know how to keep your mouth shut. Have a good night."

Your pulse spikes.

His name...his name was Sylus. That was what that man had called him.

It hits you like a gunshot.

That name. You’ve heard it before—in whispers, in rumors passed through alleyway trades and late-night conversations that always ended in warning. There was talk of a syndicate that lived in the bones of the city. Powerful. Untraceable. It didn’t operate within the law. It was the law, in places like this. Onychinus. And at the top of it all, one name. Ruthless. A demon with red eyes they say.

Sylus.

But it was rumored no one had actually seen him. Or not lived long enough to give details.

Could this really be him?

Your breath quickens as your heartbeat stutters in your chest. Slowly, shakily, you get to your feet. The alley feels impossibly long, the lights dimmer than they were before. Your legs tremble beneath you, unstable, the weight of everything finally catching up to your body. The jacket around your shoulders slips slightly, reminding you it's still there. Heavy. Warm. His.

You reach out.

Not because you’ve planned it. But because some part of you needs to.

Instinct. Desperation. A pull you can’t name.

Your fingers brush against his arm and clutch tightly.

"Please wait! Sylus!" you cry, louder than you expect, voice cracking under the strain of exhaustion, fear, and something raw you hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.

He stops mid-step.

The world halts with him.

The buzz of lights, the distant city hum—it all dies. The only thing you hear now is the frantic pounding of your heart.

This is crazy. Absolutely insane. You must have a death wish. What the hell were you thinking, grabbing him like that? Demanding the attention of someone who could crush people without a thought? Your stomach churns with fear, twisting itself into knots, but something inside you refuses to shrink away.

You’re still standing. That has to mean something, right?

If he wanted to kill you—he would’ve already.

And besides, even if he wasn’t Sylus—even if this was all some massive coincidence—he was clearly someone powerful enough to make people vanish into mist. Someone important enough to be feared in this city. And feared men didn’t worry about rent. Feared men had power. And power meant money. And money...

Money meant stability.

A steady job. A real paycheck. Enough to cover groceries without counting every coin. It meant the possibility of fixing your old laptop, maybe even affording a new pair of shoes without soles worn thin. A chance at reclaiming some control, some pride without begging or risking your life.

Sylus doesn’t turn fully. Just tilts his head slightly—enough to glance at you from over his shoulder. It’s a subtle motion, but the weight behind it still makes your breath catch.

The look in his eyes pins you in place. It’s not anger. It’s colder. Calculating. Like he’s measuring you for something. Or deciding if you’re worth the air you’re still breathing.

"Not many are so bold to call me by my name so fiercely on the first meeting," he says. His tone is unreadable, smooth and dry, like stone scraped across silk.

You can’t tell if he's amused. Annoyed. Or seconds away from deciding you’re a loose end that needs cutting.

Then, without a hint of emotion, he adds, "Speak. I have things to attend to."

Your heart skips. Panic swells again in your chest, but it’s different now—warmer, messier. Your fingers tremble as you release his arm. The courage you had seconds ago is unraveling fast under the weight of his presence.

"Sy—I mean, sir..." you stammer, bowing your head quickly, instinctively, as if submission might protect you. "Thank you. For saving me...I just wanted to ask—"

You pause, breath shaky, gathering whatever's left of your pride and resolve. This is insane. This could end so, so badly. But your options ran out a long time ago.

You suck in a breath, chest tightening.

"Please give me a job..."

The words hang there, small but thunderous in the stillness. You know how it sounds. Pathetic. Desperate.

He turns now, slowly, and for the first time you see his full expression. His face twists in slight confusion, one brow raised. "You want...a job? You want me to give you a job?" he repeats, frowning as if the concept itself is absurd. Like you're speaking a language he's never bothered to learn.

Shit. Say something. Make it convincing. Say anything.

You bow your head in shame, your voice wobbling. "I'm sorry, I know it’s sudden! I just...I just got fired and I don’t have many options. I’ll lose my apartment soon if I can’t pay..." Your voice cracks, and you start to sniffle, humiliation burning hot in your chest. You wrap his jacket tighter around yourself like it’s armor, like it can hide how much you're unraveling.

Sylus hums in acknowledgment. It’s not agreement, not exactly—just a sound to let you know he’s still listening. Still watching. Then his voice comes again, even colder this time.

"I'm not a charity. I don't take on the weak."

The words hit like a slap—sharp, final. Your stomach drops, but your mind races.

You scramble for something—anything that’ll keep him from walking away.

"I’m very useful, actually!" you blurt, lifting your head so fast it makes your vision swim. The words come out fast, breathless, desperate. "I can clean, cook, fix things, run errands, I learn fast—I don’t complain, and I don’t need much! Please, I’ll do whatever you need. Just give me a chance. I don’t have anyone else."

Your voice is trembling now, but you keep talking, like if you stop, you’ll shatter. "I’ve worked double shifts on no sleep, I’ve handled angry customers, cleaned up all kinds of fluids from bathroom stalls, learned how to stretch a bag of rice for a week—I’m not weak, I’ve just never been given a shot by someone who matters."

The alley is silent again, dense and waiting. A breeze slips past, carrying the scent of rust and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails and fades.

You’re still staring at him, heart pounding so loud it drowns out your thoughts. Hands clenched into tight fists at your sides. You can feel your knees threatening to buckle, but you stay upright. You won’t beg. If he says no again you'll accept your fate.

At least you'll have tried.

Sylus doesn't seem moved by your emotional outburst, but something shifts behind his eyes. He’s not dismissive—he’s pondering. Cold logic at work, turning your words over in his mind with clinical precision.

"Cleaning, huh..." he scoffs softly, the sound low and rough, like gravel underfoot. There's a flicker of something—amusement? Skepticism?—as a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He slips his hands into his coat pockets, the gesture fluid and deliberate. Nothing about him is rushed. He’s the kind of man who never speaks or moves without intent.

"If I had a nickel for every time someone I saved begged to work for me right after...well, I’d have 3 nickels technically." He let out a low chuckle. "This was surely unexpected."

You blink, trying to read his expression. Your heart is hammering in your chest, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. What does that even mean? Three nickels?? What was he talking about?

"So...does that mean—?" you start to ask, your voice cracking under the weight of hesitant hope.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns his head, gaze drifting toward the skyline like he’s already moved on. His silhouette is framed by the hazy orange glow of a streetlamp, the red mist still curling faintly at his feet. When he speaks again, the words cut through the silence like a blade.

"I'll entertain this 'job' for you. But you have to live up to the standard you've set for yourself. Otherwise, you'll be gone faster than you can even breathe."

His tone is flat. Not cruel, but not kind either. It’s a warning—sharp, unflinching, final.

You don’t move. For a moment, you forget how. The alley seems to pause with you, the air thick with something unspoken. And then it hits—

Your heart swells. Joy floods your chest in a violent, overwhelming surge. It feels like your ribs might split from the pressure of it. You almost can’t believe you heard him right.

"Yes! Of course! I won’t let you down!" you blurt out, too fast, too eager, but there’s no stopping the emotion rushing out of you. You bow your head deeply, again, again—grateful, desperate, stunned.

Sylus sighs, long and drawn-out, the sound edged with the kind of exasperation that says you’re already a handful. He rolls his eyes with a quiet mutter—something you can’t make out—and turns on his heel.

He begins walking away without another word.

Panic flares in your chest.

"W-wait... where do I go? When do I start?" you call after him, stumbling a few steps forward. The weight of his jacket is still warm on your shoulders, grounding you in the surreal moment.

He doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t turn. But his voice drifts back to you, clear and crisp as ever.

"I’ll be back in three days. Tallest building in the city. You’ve seen it. Eleven PM. Don’t be late."

And just like that—he’s gone.

His body dissolves into a swirl of red mist that coils around him and bursts outward, vanishing into the night like smoke drawn into a vacuum. It’s silent again. No footsteps. No echoes. As if he’d never been there at all.

You stand frozen, jacket clutched tightly in your fists, staring at the empty space he left behind. The chill of the night wraps around you, but your skin burns from adrenaline.

Three days.

Tallest building in the city.

You whisper the words like a vow, repeating them to yourself again and again, willing them to anchor you to this reality. Your breath is shaky, your pulse pounding, but for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel alive.

You weren’t dreaming.

You actually got a job.

Why so late at night, though? Maybe he didn’t want you seen. Maybe it was a test—or maybe the day just wasn’t a place people like you belonged in his world. Then again, in the N109 Zone, there wasn’t much of a day to begin with. The sky was always dark, the sun just a rumor behind a layer of industrial haze. But still...even under dim lights and darker skies, this felt like something new.

A clean slate.

Sylus wasn’t sure what he was doing.

Hiring a random woman he saved to be his housekeeper? It was reckless. It was unnecessary. And it was completely unlike him. Even now, as he sat alone in his office, the question churned at the back of his mind like a splinter he couldn’t remove.

Unbeknownst to you, Onychinus had already had housecleaning staff. A full team, trained and vetted, all handpicked to maintain control and order of the base. But the moment he returned—barely hours after dragging two bodies into the shadows and watching you fall apart in front of him—he’d given a simple, final order: dismiss the entire cleaning unit. No explanation.

He hadn’t cared about anything but the image still seared into his mind: a dirt-covered girl shivering in his coat. His coat.

It had been easier to lie to himself at first. You needed help. That’s all it was. A brief act of pity. A one-time gesture. Something to balance the scales after taking two lives without hesitation. Maybe even a little entertainment to break the monotony.

But something about you unsettled him.

The way you’d looked up at him from the ground—mud streaked across your cheek, clothes soaked and cut, lips trembling, chest exposed but your eyes…There was fear, yes, but beneath it, a defiant glimmer. Something that sparked against the cold stone he called his conscience.

He’d felt it. A pang in his chest. It had no business being there. Unfamiliar and unwanted.

So he did what he always did when something unimportant peeked his interest. Ignore it. He even tried to end the conversation before it even started.

But then you’d grabbed him.

That tiny, trembling hand curling around his arm like he was a lifeline. Not to manipulate. Not to seduce. Just to hold on. And asked him for a job of all things. You had no other options. You were recently fired. About to lose your apartment. The perfect excuse to have his new interest near him.

That had done something to him.

Something violent and strange. Something possessive. A pulse beneath the surface that refused to quiet.

And in that instant, Sylus had stopped making excuses.

Now, he stood in his office, watching you on the security feed. You moved through the suite like a ghost trying to prove you still belonged among the living—scrubbing at already clean surfaces, adjusting already perfect details. Your back was straight, shoulders tense, every movement painfully precise.

You were trying so hard. It had been weeks since then and you were still trying to fit in.

Trying not to be a burden. Trying not to mess up. Trying to earn a place no one had offered you.

It was adorable.

It was raw, honest—and it stirred something far more possessive than he liked to admit. You didn’t know how to rest. You only knew how to survive. Every over-polished surface, every obsessively straightened object reeked of someone begging—not for praise, but for permission to exist. It wasn't just endearing. It was maddeningly cute. You were trying so hard, and you didn't even realize who you were trying to impress. Him. All of it was for him.

And he couldn’t look away.

There was something feral in the way you moved, a quiet desperation dressed up in duty. Like a cat that hadn’t been given safety in so long, it wouldn’t know what to do with peace if it had it. That kind of survival wasn’t just familiar, it was intimate.

And you didn’t yet understand that the moment you reached for him in that alley, you stopped being a stray kitten.

You became his.

And you didn’t yet realize that he hadn’t brought you here to mop floors.

He told himself he was still in control. That this was still about curiosity, about amusement. That he was just studying you. Surely, he'd get bored. Fire you, and move on.

But even he didn’t believe that anymore. Not after seeing you a second time when you arrived on your first day. That same feeling had returned—sharper now, more insistent, like something gnawing at the base of his spine. You were under his roof, moving quietly through his space, wearing the weight of his attention like it might crush you. And still you kept going. Still you tried. Even brought him back his jacket. It was infuriating. It was addictive.

What was it about you that made him feel like he couldn’t stop watching? What exactly had ignited this itch under his skin, this tightening in his chest? You weren’t extraordinary—at least not by normal standards. But maybe that was the point. You were quiet. Unassuming. But beneath all of that, he could sense something uncut and wild. Something no one else had tried to reach.

And now it was his.

He needed to know more. He needed to peel back every layer until he understood what, exactly, had hooked him so deep he’d broken his own rules.

Because Sylus never did anything without purpose.

And he hadn’t fired an entire staff, hired only you, and rewired a dozen camera angles…just to be charitable.

He had done it to keep you where he could see you.

Your reaction when he walked out half naked, dripping from the shower a few days ago had been amusing, though he didn’t show it. He'd done it on purpose to see your reaction. The way your face flushed, the way your gaze darted anywhere but at him—it had been a moment he savored quietly, filed away for later. You really thought you could hide it. How flustered you were. How small you felt in his presence.

That habit of apologizing for everything, though—now that grated. Like nails on glass. He’d have to break that out of you eventually. No one in his world got away with empty words, and he didn’t tolerate the kind of weakness that came from guilt without conviction. He often wondered what kind of pain and trauma turned someone into that—into a person who apologized just for breathing.

However…he didn’t completely mind if you were a bit weak.

Weak people were easy to keep an eye on. Easy to understand. Easy to protect.

He watched the screen again, eyes narrowing slightly as you pulled a stool across the polished floor to reach a high shelf. He saw it immediately. You hadn’t pulled one of the legs out all the way.

It would collapse under you.

He exhaled, annoyed but composed, and in a blink—his form dissolved in a swirl of red mist—he was gone from the office. A breath later, he was standing in the kitchen.

You didn’t even notice him behind you, too busy reaching to rearrange items on the top shelf, lips pursed in focus. You were murmuring something under your breath—maybe a list, maybe just the words you used to fill silence, but it didn’t matter. Your voice was soft, distracted, and it did nothing to prepare you for the presence behind you.

Sylus stood silently in the doorway, arms folded, posture impossibly still. His eyes tracked every movement you made with the precision of a predator, narrowed with cold intensity as he studied your choice of outfit.

A skirt again. Of all things. To clean in.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. It clashed so violently with the rest of you—your quiet demeanor, your constant apologies, your hesitant glances like you were afraid of taking up space. He’d pegged you as cautious. Careful. Maybe even prudish. But a skirt like that? That was either reckless...or intentional.

There was no middle ground.

His gaze moved downward, slow and deliberate, and he didn’t even try to stop it. Your legs were bare, shifting with each tentative movement, the muscles in your calves flexing delicately as you struggled for balance. They looked too smooth, too soft for someone who lived in the N109 Zone. You weren’t made for this place. Not really. And yet, here you were, stretching and tiptoeing as if you had something to prove.

The hem of your skirt lifted slightly as you reached higher, just enough to tease. Just enough to show the dip where your thigh met your hip, the subtle curve of your ass beneath the thin, clinging fabric. He stared, jaw flexing, something animal and possessive threading through his blood like poison.

Quite the choice indeed.

You didn’t know what you were inviting.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

He inhaled slowly through his nose, his irritation mounting—not at you, not exactly. At the way he responded. At the way his body reacted, heat flooding low in his gut just from watching you stretch in that stupid skirt. You had no idea what you were doing to him, what kind of restraint it took not to close the distance, not to press his hand flat against the small of your back and bend you over the marble counter just to make a point.

Then his attention flicked to the stool.

He noticed it instantly: the leg, barely extended, shaky. A disaster waiting to happen. And you, too distracted to realize it. Too busy trying to impress. Too busy trying to earn your place.

He could’ve called out.

He didn’t.

He watched.

Three seconds passed.

Two.

One.

The stool gave out beneath you, the sharp crack of metal folding breaking the moment like glass.

You yelped, arms flailing, and your body dropped fast, too fast.

But the floor never came.

In one fluid movement, before your breath could even finish escaping your throat, he was there.

His arms snapped around you, catching you mid-fall with unflinching strength—one arm anchoring your waist, the other locked across your back like steel. The force of the motion sent your body into his, chest against chest, your breath stolen not by impact, but by proximity.

You collided not with cold tile—but with him.

With warmth.

You gasped, hands curling instinctively into the front of his shirt. His muscles shifted under your fingers—hard, tense, unwavering.

His face hovered inches from yours. Red eyes locked onto your expression, studying every flicker of panic, every rapid breath you took.

You started flailing in his arms, clearly panicking, eyes wide with embarrassment and confusion. The contact—too sudden, too close—had scrambled your senses. You didn’t know what to do with yourself, writhing slightly in his grip as if you could squirm away from the electricity between you. Your breath hitched, hands pressing feebly against his chest, but he held you like he had no intention of letting go until he was ready.

Inwardly, Sylus chuckled, dark amusement curling behind his otherwise unreadable eyes. You were flustered beyond reason, struggling in his hold like a bird that had flown into the jaws of a predator. It was almost sweet. Ridiculous, really, how easy it would be to keep you. A word, a gesture, a little pressure—and you'd fold like paper.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you were there!" you panted, cheeks burning as you tried harder to escape his grasp. Your voice cracked slightly, high and breathless, and your fingers gripped at his shirt like you weren’t sure whether to push him away or hold on.

Reluctantly, he let you go. His arms unwrapped from around you with a slowness that betrayed how much he didn’t want to. Every inch of lost contact felt like something stolen. He could still feel the impression of your body against his—your warmth, your weight, the exact curve of your waist where his fingers had fit so perfectly.

He’d much rather have you pinned underneath him on the cold marble floor, your wrists above your head, that flushed face staring up at him in breathless silence. The image wasn’t just tempting, it was consuming.

Instead, he straightened calmly. He smoothed his shirt with a deliberate hand, as if nothing had happened, as if his blood wasn’t simmering just beneath the surface. His expression slipped back into its usual cold neutrality, though his eyes lingered.

"What did I say about apologizing for nothing?" he said sternly, his voice cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.

You froze. The sound of his voice triggered a visible change. Your expression fell into sorrow, your shoulders curling inward like a scolded child, your hands falling limp at your sides. You avoided his gaze, eyes cast downward as if you expected punishment.

"I—yeah. Right. I'll work on it," you murmured, voice small and brittle.

He watched the way your lips trembled. The way your posture folded in on itself. You thought apologizing would save you. That submission would earn mercy.

You were far too weak and innocent for your own good.

And he wanted to be the one to destroy it.

Touch by touch, until your shame melted into heat, until your gasps became moans, and the floor beneath you was scattered with torn, forgotten clothing. He’d peel away your innocence like silk, savoring each layer, each tremble, each moment of surrender.

Ignoring the growing hardness in his pants, Sylus turned his attention to his watch, feigning indifference as the tension coiled like a vice in his abdomen. Every nerve in his body felt wound tight, a hum beneath his skin he was trying very hard not to show.

"Aren’t you supposed to be heading home anyway?" he asked, voice cool and measured, each syllable sharp with veiled command. His gaze flicked to you and then lingered, unwilling to fully detach. You never noticed how much he watched you.

You bit your lip before dragging your tongue across it nervously, a subconscious gesture, but one he immediately clocked. That innocent, uncertain movement stirred something primal in him. It was the kind of unintentional tease that made his jaw tighten. That made him want to reach out and tilt your chin up just to see if you'd tremble under the weight of his full attention.

"Yeah...I was just doing some extra work," you replied, voice quiet, almost hesitant. You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt as if trying to distract yourself from his stare. "Hoping it would warm up a little if I waited. It’s freezing today. I'm not looking forward to walking honestly."

He followed your gaze to the wide expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows. Frost clung to the edges of the glass like white scars. The world outside looked like it had been locked in ice. It was the kind of cold that stole the breath from your lungs, bit into skin, made the city feel even more hollow and harsh.

And yet, you'd chosen that outfit.

His eyes dropped again, deliberately this time. The skirt. Thin, flimsy. Just enough fabric to cover you, but not enough to shield you. No tights. No layers. No intention of warmth. Your legs were bare. The skin flushed from chill and movement.

Why?

You weren’t actually this stupid were you? You were cautious. Quiet. Observant. Which meant this wasn’t accidental. Not a miscalculation.

No, this had to be deliberate. Maybe you weren't as innocent as he had previously assumed?

"Ah...I knocked some stuff down when I fell," you muttered, crouching low to gather the scattered cans, trying to appear unfazed, as if your body hadn’t just been caught by his in a moment of pure vulnerability. Your voice was soft, flustered but casual, an obvious cover. You didn’t want him to see the way your hands trembled slightly, or how your breath still hadn’t quite steadied. But to Sylus, nothing about the moment was casual. He remained frozen where he stood, posture straight and calculated, his eyes locked onto you with a focus that felt less like curiosity and more like predation. He was studying. Dissecting. Memorizing.

He waited for the phrase he’d heard so many times from your lips. That anxious, habitual little “I’m sorry” that you wore like a second skin. Your default reaction. But it never came. Instead, you stayed silent, concentrating on your task. Your lips pressed into a thin line.

That flicker of growth—it struck him harder than it should have.

You were learning. Adapting. Sharpening under pressure like a blade honing itself on stone. And it didn’t ignite pride in him. No, pride was far too tame. What he felt clawing its way through his chest was something darker. Possession. The need to mark what was his before anyone else could lay claim. He was already changing you in subtle ways.

His eyes traveled down, following the subtle tension in your limbs as you reached forward. The way the fabric of your skirt tightened over the swell of your hips made his jaw clench. The hem hit just right. Creased around your thighs. Teasing. Just enough to suggest, not enough to reveal. Until you shifted just a bit further, and the lace revealed itself.

Not much. Just a whisper. A delicate edge of pale fabric tracing along your skin.

Lace underwear. Definitely not silk—he knew better. The thread count and finish marked it as something affordable, not luxury. But that didn’t matter. That wasn’t what caught his attention.

It was the fact that you had worn it at all.

Worn something pretty. Something intimate. Something entirely hidden from the world.

Why?

You didn’t strike him as someone who put thought into seduction. You didn’t wear your body with confidence—you shrank into it, hid behind it. And yet…that lace told a different story. Whether it was for comfort, confidence, or something more unspoken, it was a secret softness tucked under the armor of your survival.

Something no one else was meant to see.

And yet here he was, seeing it. Claiming it in his mind. Making it his.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until his chest ached. The image of you crouched low, vulnerable and unaware, your body wrapped in fabric he now felt a savage urge to tear off seared itself into the hollow of his mind.

The urge to touch you rose inside him like a tidal wave. He imagined gripping you by the waist, hauling you up effortlessly into him. Pin you against the counter just to hear the sound you’d make. The feel of your weight against him. He could already envision the way you’d look pinned against him, breath stuttering, lips parted, eyes wide and unsure—begging without knowing what for.

He ground his teeth. The thoughts were consuming. And entirely uninvited.

No. Not uninvited. Just…unacted upon.

He drew in a breath, a quiet exhale through his nose as he forced the heat back down into the pit of his spine, burying it beneath layers of discipline and ice.

Then, he spoke—voice low, the edges smoothed by control but still thick with gravity.

"How about I take you home today?"

The shift in your expression was immediate. You snapped upright, startled, your eyes wide and flickering with something he didn’t expect.

Hope.

It landed like a blow. Your face opened up, lips parting slightly, shoulders lifting in surprise. For a moment, it looked like you might even smile. But you caught yourself. Reeled it back in like a secret.

Still, the damage was done. He’d seen it.

You looked at him like he was safe. Like his offer meant salvation instead of danger. And the strangest part of it all? That look made something in his chest ache.

You were so damn cute. So reactive.

So completely unguarded.

It made him want to cradle you in his hands. And then use those same hands to crush you with desire.

He envisioned you again...only this time, you were in his bed. That same skirt hiked up around your waist, the lace shredded by his fingers, your thighs parted, eyes glazed and trembling as you whispered his name like a confession.

"I'd really appreciate that...I live a little far. Um... you might not like my neighborhood. It's...old," you said hesitantly, brushing your skirt down as you rose to your feet. Your voice wavered just slightly, betraying the anxiety buried beneath your words. There was something in the way you said it—apologetic, like you were ashamed of this part of your life but knew better than to hide it. You tried to make yourself look more put-together, smoothing the fabric over your thighs as if that alone could shift the image in his mind.

Sylus’s eyes followed your every movement, taking in more than just your body language. He was reading you—dissecting the tone of your voice, the pace of your words, the tight way you held your breath between sentences. The word "old" wasn’t about age. It was a coded confession. He knew exactly what it meant. He’d heard it before from people who came from nothing, who had learned how to make do with what little the world threw them.

It meant you had lived with less for too long.

His jaw ticked slightly as the image built in his mind. He imagined your space, trying to piece it together from the clues you hadn’t meant to give him. He could see the threadbare couch you probably slept on when your bed got too cold. The one lamp with the flickering bulb. The box fan in the window struggling against the summer heat. He imagined you curled up in the corner with a secondhand blanket, your knees drawn up, trying to stay warm while the outside world threatened to bleed in.

He pictured your kitchen. Cramped. One chair missing a leg. A fridge that rattled when it kicked on. Dishes stacked on the counter because the sink wouldn’t drain properly. He imagined you cooking something cheap but warm, something you stretched over a few days, all while wearing that same skirt that had ridden up earlier. That lace underwear hidden underneath. That softness, that sweetness, surrounded by decay.

And it did something to him.

You didn’t belong in a place like that. That life—the struggle, the worry, the scarcity...it didn’t fit someone like you. Not with the way your lips parted when you were flustered, not with the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were nervous. You weren’t hardened. Not yet. And the idea that the city would only further sink its teeth into you made something sharp twist in his chest.

It didn’t suit you. None of it did.

No, you were meant for softness. For warmth. For luxury. He could see it—clear as day—you draped across one of his penthouse chaise lounges, wearing something silk he bought you. Maybe you’d still be shy at first, still fidget with the hem of your skirt, but it would be different. You’d glow. Comfortable. Fed. Protected. His.

His mind fed on the thought, deeper and darker. He imagined you standing barefoot in his kitchen, reaching for a glass in one of his cabinets, his oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders, lace peeking through. You’d look over your shoulder when he walked in, eyes soft, lips parted just for him.

And he’d take care of you.

You’d never have to beg a landlord for hot water again. You’d never worry about bills or broken locks or freezing nights. You’d live where you belonged, someplace warm. Safe and lavish.

He watched you brush imaginary dust from your skirt, still trying to preserve a scrap of dignity, and the thought struck him again with more weight than before.

You didn’t even know what you deserved.

But he was trying not to get ahead of himself. Not when his thoughts had already begun to spiral too far into territory he’d sworn to avoid. He knew better. He always had. He was a man carved from violence and control, a life defined by taking, by silence, by blood. Someone like him wasn’t good for you.

Someone like him would ruin you. Corrupt you. Strip away that softness he’d started to crave.

And no matter how badly he wanted it—how deeply the image of you in his bed, in his life, had begun to root itself—he wasn’t sure how you’d handle him.

So he kept his expression unreadable, the desire clawing beneath his skin tucked away with practiced precision. Without another word, he simply turned and gestured for you to follow him. His movements were precise, clipped, careful not to betray the storm in his chest.

You hesitated for only a second, then fell into step behind him. Your footsteps were light but uncertain, the rhythm of your shoes against the polished floor betraying your nervousness. You trailed behind like a shadow—obedient, unsure—but still close enough that he could feel your presence pressing faintly at his back.

As you made your way toward the private elevator that led to his parking garage, Sylus kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, every muscle in his body straining not to look at you. Not to reach. Not to touch.

Because if he did...

He might not stop.

The car ride was quiet and long, the kind of stretch that gave Sylus too much time to think. Not that he let it show. His hands remained steady on the wheel, gaze fixed on the road as the city slipped by in shadows and glimmers of neon. You sat beside him in silence, arms tucked tightly against yourself, trying not to fidget, though your body language betrayed you. Five minutes in, he noticed the way you subtly curled inward, trying to conserve warmth. Your shoulders trembled ever so slightly.

Without a word, he reached down and adjusted the temperature. The heater clicked on with a low hum, warmth slowly spilling into the cabin. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at you. He simply did it. He’d never used it before—not once. He never needed to. He hadn’t even realized it worked. But for you? He made it work.

A few minutes later, you gave him your address, voice low and mumbled, already thick with exhaustion. He barely acknowledged it, just nodded slightly and continued driving. Not because he needed the directions.

He already knew exactly where you lived.

Of course he did.

He’d had Mephisto tail you every night since that first encounter. Every step you took home, every street you crossed, every time you looked over your shoulder or hugged your arms tighter when the wind picked up—he knew it all. He’d seen the route. Studied the pattern. Memorized the way your silhouette moved beneath the flickering street lamps.

He hadn’t told you.

You’d never asked.

While he hadn’t yet stepped foot inside your apartment, he’d seen enough to picture it. The building—old, cracked, unwelcoming—told him more than words ever could. The peeling paint around the doorframe. The stairwell that looked like it might collapse with one wrong step. The busted callbox out front.

And it made something settle heavy in his gut.

But beside him, you had fallen asleep. Head tilted toward the window, lashes soft against your cheek, lips parted just slightly. Completely unaware.

When he finally pulled into the shadowed lot outside your apartment building, Sylus didn’t move to wake you right away. He simply shifted the car into park and turned slightly in his seat, his eyes tracing the soft lines of your sleeping face in the dim glow of the dashboard. There was a rare stillness to you now—your body slack, your breathing deep and steady, lips parted slightly with each quiet exhale. It was a version of you he rarely got to see: unguarded, untouched by the weight of the day, vulnerable in a way that pulled something tight and possessive in his chest.

He studied your expression, searching it like a map for answers he didn’t know he wanted. You looked so docile like this. So soft. Your hair slightly mussed from the ride, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks, arms curled loosely around your midsection. How could someone who had been through so much still sleep like this—still carry a hint of innocence when everything else around you had tried to beat it out?

His thoughts drifted to the checks. The ones he started giving you after your first week. They weren’t modest by any stretch. The amount was enough to make you freeze when he handed you the envelope the first time, your fingers trembling, eyes welling with tears you had tried to blink away. You had thanked him far too many times, voice barely steady.

But since then, he’d noticed something.

No new clothes. No styled hair. No flashy purchases or even a change in your worn-out shoes. You were still the same girl—practical, quiet, unassuming. And that only deepened the mystery. What were you spending it on? Rent, obviously. Maybe food. But beyond that…? Debt perhaps?

You hadn’t changed a thing about your appearance. Not even for vanity’s sake.

His fingers tapped slowly on the steering wheel, restless with curiosity.

You looked so peaceful. Like nothing in the world could touch you in that moment. The sight of it made his throat tighten.

He wondered when he would get to see you like this again.

You're awoken by a gentle shaking at your shoulder. Disoriented, your eyes blink open slowly, only to meet the cool interior of Sylus’s car and the low hum of the engine winding down. The warmth of the heater still lingers on your cheeks, and you sit up, blinking the sleep from your eyes.

Sylus is watching you, his face unreadable, but there’s something oddly soft in the way he looks at you—like he’s memorizing the exact shape of your sleepy expression.

"Ah, thank you. Goodnight," you murmur, still dazed, rubbing your eyes and reaching for the door handle.

"Goodnight," he responds evenly, reaching forward to unlock the passenger side with a click. The sound startles you a little, only now realizing the lock had been engaged from his side the entire time. Your hand lingers on the handle for a second longer, your thoughts slow, muddled. You almost ask about the child safety lock—why it was on in the first place—but you’re too tired to form the question.

Instead, you step out into the cold. The temperature hits you instantly, sharp and biting, and you hug your coat tighter around your shoulders. The street is dark, quiet, the usual chill of the N109 Zone sinking into your bones. You fumble with your pocket, fingers searching for the familiar jingle of your keys.

Keys...keys...

Your heart skips.

Where are your keys?

You pat your coat, your skirt, even dig into your bag, your movements growing frantic.

Nothing.

Panic starts to bloom in your chest as you realize—they’re not on you.

Shit.

Your stomach sinks. There's no avoiding it…you’ll have to ask Sylus. You must have left your keys back at Onychinus’s base during your frantic cleaning and recovery from that near fall. You’d been too flustered. Too distracted.

Defeated, your shoulders slumping, you turn around and hurry back to the car, your footsteps crunching against the gravel with each rushed step. The wind bites at your face as you approach. Sylus, thankfully, hasn’t driven off. He’s still parked in the same spot, one hand on the wheel, the other idly scrolling through something on his phone, bathed in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

You tap nervously on the passenger window, hugging your arms to your chest. Almost immediately, his gaze flicks up and he rolls it down with a smooth whirr, red eyes pinning you in place.

"My keys...I think I left them back at Onychinus," you say quickly, cheeks already burning with embarrassment. "This might be a stupid question, but...do you know how to pick a lock?"

So...that’s how Sylus, without a single word of instruction, plucked a bobby pin from your hair with deft fingers and picked your lock like it was second nature. It took him less than a minute. You stood by stunned, arms crossed against the cold, watching the door click open like it was nothing.

You were amazed, partly by his skill, but mostly by the way he never hesitated. Like helping you break into your own home was just another item on his to-do list. You felt a strange, pressing urge to thank him. He didn’t have to do any of this. You were just an employee. A cleaner. One he had only met just a few weeks ago.

So it felt right to do something.

You nervously glanced at him, then gestured toward the open door. "Would you like to come in? Just for a minute. I—I'd like to give you something. A treat. For helping."

He nodded kindly, and followed you in.

The inside of your apartment was exactly what you'd feared he might judge: dingy, too small, and colder than it should’ve been. There were cracks in the paint and the floor creaked when you stepped inside. But Sylus didn’t comment. The only thing that gave away his discomfort was the way he had to crouch slightly to pass through the doorway, tall enough that the frame brushed his shoulders.

You hurried to the small kitchen, pulling out a container from the fridge and placing it carefully in the microwave.

"This is my mom’s recipe," you said over your shoulder, fumbling with the buttons. "She gave it to me before she...left."

The quiet stretch between you filled with something unspoken as the microwave hummed.

He didn’t press for details. But you could feel his attention lingering. Not just on your words, but on you—your hands, your nervous movements, the way your voice faltered at the mention of your mother.

Then, softly, he spoke. "You talk about her like she’s still alive. Like maybe there’s still a part of you waiting for her to come back."

You froze, startled—not by the words themselves, but by how gently he said them. Like he saw past what you said and into the truth underneath.

"She left without a word," you murmured. "But I guess...yeah. I still cook this like she's coming home."

You really did not want to talk about this anymore, and Sylus seemed to pick up on that instantly. His eyes flicked to the microwave, then back to you, his expression unreadable as always. Without missing a beat, he changed the subject, his voice shifting into something lighter.

"How does it feel to have your boss step foot inside your own home?"

The question caught you off guard, and you let out a nervous little laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. "I don’t normally have guests... much less my employer, but it’s been a lot less nerve-wracking than I thought it’d be."

You avoided his gaze, pretending to busy yourself with the food as the microwave dinged softly behind you. Your hands moved on autopilot, but your mind stayed tangled in the oddness of the moment. Sylus—here, in your crumbling kitchen, ducking under your doorframe, accepting a homemade dish with quiet interest. There was something surreal about it. Like the roles between you had been suspended, just for a night.

And stranger still, you didn’t hate it.

“Good. I’d hate to find out I’m the most intimidating thing in a room with a flickering lightbulb and a sink from the last century.”

This made you laugh. A real, unfiltered laugh—the kind that caught in your chest and spilled out before you could stop it. It was sharp and sudden, and a little louder than you meant it to be, but you didn’t care. It felt good. You hadn’t done that in a while.

You wiped your eyes, cheeks warm, the sound still lingering in the air as your gaze drifted to Sylus. He was staring. Not blankly. Not like he was studying you. But almost...softly. Like your laugh had surprised him.

Suddenly self-conscious, you tucked your hair behind your ear and looked away. "Ah...it wasn’t that funny, I guess. I’m—"

"Sorry?" he finished for you, his tone edged with irony but his eyes still locked on your face.

You sucked in a breath, caught red-handed, but it melted quickly into another quiet laugh. "Yeah, yeah…I know."

A beat of silence passes, and then he speaks again, but his voice is lower.

"Don't apologize for that. I like when I hear those kinds of sounds from you. They're pretty."

You aren't sure if you heard him right. Your face heats up instantly, the words echoing in your ears like they’ve carved their way in. "Huh?" you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be, gaze darting anywhere but his.

The air in the room feels heavier now—charged. The warmth from the microwave, the hum of the light overhead, even the distant sound of the city outside—all of it fades into background noise.

He chuckles under his breath, low and unhurried. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me, sweetie."

You stiffen slightly as he moves, rising from the chair he’d been leaning on with effortless grace. He crosses the small space between you, the closeness making your breath catch. You tilt your head up just enough to see his face in the dim, amber lighting—his eyes sharp, but glittering with something unreadable.

"In fact," he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to graze against your spine, "I'm wondering what other sounds come out of that pretty mouth of yours."

The distance between you vanishes with every word, and you feel it—not just in your chest, but everywhere.

A slow burn, threatening to catch fire.

"Sylus..." you breathe, your voice barely audible. His expression has shifted—serious, intense, like he’s bracing himself against something dangerous that’s already clawing its way to the surface. It makes your stomach twist with nerves, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin like a trapped bird.

He lowers himself suddenly, dropping to one knee in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. The motion is fluid, almost graceful, but the way his gaze locks with yours—sharp, possessive, hungry—makes your breath stutter. It’s like he’s trying to memorize you. Or maybe unravel you.

"I knew it was a mistake coming in here," he mutters, his voice taut, eyes unblinking. "Now I have to ask. How much?"

Your brows furrow, confusion flickering in your expression. "F-for...?"

"A taste," he says flatly. The word lands like a spark in dry brush—no hesitation, no shame, only a simmering edge of something dark and consuming.

You freeze in place. The air feels electric, like it's grown too thick to breathe.

"Do...you mean—"

"Yes." His voice was low, but certain, as if the question itself had been gnawing at him long before you asked it aloud. "To taste you."

Your lips part, but no words come out. Your breath catches in your throat, heart lurching. Was he serious? The look in his eyes was anything but playful. This wasn’t a joke, it couldn’t be. His expression was molten intensity, carved from restraint, as if he’d spent weeks biting it back until now.

You blink, stunned. You’ve never been looked at like this. Not with hunger, not with reverence, not with the trembling edge of control threatening to unravel.

Everything in your body screams to move, to react, but you're locked in place, caught in the gravity of something you can't name but feel all the way to your bones.

"Do you want your paycheck early?" he asks, voice softer now, almost coaxing, though there’s a rawness behind it. It sounds like he’s bargaining more with himself than with you.

You shake your head, words tumbling out. "N-no, it’s fine, I—"

"Fuck it," he cuts in sharply, the words punched out of him like he can’t hold them back anymore. He’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling with restraint that looks like it’s about to shatter. "Do you want three times your paycheck? Just a taste. I promise."

The room feels like it’s spinning. Tension coils so tightly in your chest you feel like it might snap your ribs apart. The look in his eyes is unrelenting—dark, desperate, determined. And still, somehow, controlled. Just barely.

Before you can even find your voice, he reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out an envelope, thick and heavy, and tosses it onto your nightstand with a quiet but deafening thud.

You stare at it.

Cash. Stacked high, crisp, bound with a strip of paper.

Three thousand dollars.

Enough to pay off everything.

Your rent, your utilities, the credit card bills you’ve been dodging, the mounting stack of final notices tucked inside your kitchen drawer. The broken heater you’ve been hoping would last just a little longer. Even groceries for the rest of the month—maybe two. Gone. All of it, gone. Just like that.

Three thousand dollars was more than relief—it was oxygen. It was the first exhale after being held underwater too long. It was a full night of sleep. It was a moment of silence after endless noise.

And yet, it sat there on the nightstand like a loaded weapon, wrapped in clean paper and cold temptation. A gleaming symbol of power—and surrender.

And all for a taste.

Your heart is racing now, thudding so loud in your chest you can barely think over it. Your mouth feels dry. Your limbs are frozen. You’re not sure what terrifies you more—the offer, or how much you want to take it.

He hasn’t moved.

He’s just watching you, waiting, like a wolf crouched at the edge of a line you didn't know you were drawing.

"It'll feel good. I won't hurt you," he says, his voice dropping to something low and coaxing—soothing like warm velvet, but beneath it, a thrumming urgency that vibrates in the stillness between you. There’s a tremor in his restraint, a sharp tension in the way his fingers flex and release at his sides, like he’s physically holding himself back from reaching for you.

You swallow hard, your breath stuttering in your throat as the atmosphere in the room thickens. The heat in his gaze scorches, pressing against your skin like a physical touch. Your pulse skitters against your ribs, every nerve raw and acutely aware of how close he is.

"I don't know..."

"I know I’m coming off strong," he says again, a note of frustration edging his voice—but it’s not aimed at you. It’s aimed at himself. His eyes don’t waver, locked on you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the ground. "Every second. I see you and I can’t breathe. If I do it now, if I can just touch you, just once, maybe I can finally get it out of my head."

You don't say anything for a bit. Your lips part, but the words are stuck—thick and tangled in your throat. Your heart is hammering, each beat echoing against your ribs like it’s trying to shake loose the answer you can’t seem to give. It’s not that you don’t want to speak—it’s that you’re overwhelmed. The offer. The money. The tension so tight between your bodies it feels like it could snap. The way he looks at you, like he’s barely holding himself back. Like he’s one breath away from devouring you.

Finally, you manage to whisper, "I don’t believe you…three thousand for a...taste? Why not ask to go all the way...?"

Sylus exhales through his nose, slow and measured, but there’s a weight in that breath. "Because I know you can’t handle that," he says, his voice low but firm. There’s no smugness in it. And yet, beneath the calm surface, there’s a tremble—barely perceptible but unmistakable. He’s not unaffected by this. Not even close.

"It would hurt you," he continues, eyes narrowing slightly, his jaw tight. "I don’t want that. You think I haven’t thought about it? That I haven’t imagined it in every possible way? I have. Every day. But I’m trying to be better than that."

He pauses, and the room stretches out around his silence, dense and vibrating. His eyes stay locked on yours, unblinking. "This...this is my compromise with myself. To not be greedy and just take you."

You’re frozen, your skin hot, your pulse crashing through your veins. The intensity of his words, the weight of his restraint—it’s almost more intimate than if he’d touched you. There’s something terrifying in how controlled he’s being. How much he's holding back.

You swallow, throat tight, and glance back at the envelope on the nightstand.

The money is still there. Staring back at you like a second pair of eyes in the room. It’s more than just a bundle of cash, it’s a symbol. Of his temptation. Of your need. Of the space where control and desire blur.

It’s real. Heavy. Life-altering.

Your head is spinning. You know in your heart this is a terrible idea—you should say no, shouldn't be entertaining any of this. Every moral fiber in your body is screaming to get up, walk away, salvage whatever shred of dignity you have left. But your brain, more practical, more battered by life, is screaming even louder: you'd be stupid to say no.

You stare down at the floor, the stained edges of your cheap rug blurring in your vision. You can’t make sense of it. Why would someone like him want to do this? To you? Of all people? You weren’t glamorous, weren't the kind of girl who got attention from men like him. So why was he here, offering money, lowering himself to his knees, saying he wanted to...bury his head between your legs?

Your heart hammers as the silence thickens, every second a pressure cooker of conflicting thoughts and desperate what-ifs.

"Is the amount the issue? I can give more. It’s no issue," he suddenly interrupts, his voice firm but almost...breathless. The words slice through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, yanking you back to reality. Back to the weight of the moment—and the intensity in his gaze that hasn't faltered once.

"No...I just don't do things like this," you whine, covering your face in shame. Your voice trembles, not just from embarrassment, but from the sheer weight of the moment pressing down on you. Is this really what it had come to? Trading your body for cash? For survival? The idea claws at your insides, a slow burn of humiliation rising in your chest. And worse still, the fear gnaws louder—if you said no, would he fire you? Would he rescind the only lifeline you’ve been given in weeks? This strange, fragile opportunity he’d extended might vanish, and with it, the fragile thread holding your life together.

You weren't sure what to think, and that scared you most of all. Because a part of you, a small, shaky part you didn’t want to acknowledge, wasn’t completely horrified. Not at him.

"I can tell," he says quietly, his voice low and steady. He reaches out and gently moves your fingers away from your face, his touch feather-light, surprisingly careful. It’s not the grasp of someone impatient or predatory—it’s...something else. Something worse, maybe. His eyes meet yours, searching with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. You can’t read him.

"You don’t have to do anything. Just lay there," he murmurs.

His words are soft, almost comforting, but the promise woven into them is anything but. You feel that pressure behind every syllable he speaks, like the tension that’s been building between you has finally reached its breaking point.

He suddenly moves much closer to you, and instinctively, your body reacts—you back away, your breath hitching in your throat. The room feels smaller now, his presence taking up all the space like a storm cloud pressing in. You manage to slip past him, heart racing, but your escape is short-lived. The backs of your legs bump against the edge of your bed, halting your retreat with a jolt.

"Are you scared, kitten?" Sylus asks, his voice velvet-soft but unmistakably firm. He steps forward with unsettling calm, each stride deliberate, controlled, like a predator circling prey that it already knows won’t run far. You stumble backward and fall onto the mattress, your palms bracing behind you, eyes wide.

He's over you in an instant—towering, his body blocking out the low light in the room. His hands brace on either side of your waist, caging you in without touching you. You can feel his warmth, the restrained energy radiating from his skin. Your breath quickens as you look up at him, throat tight, heart hammering a wild rhythm against your ribs.

"Do you think I'm going to hurt you?" he asks, his gaze locked onto yours with unnerving intensity. His voice holds no menace, only quiet certainty, like he’s stating a fact he already knows the answer to.

You shake your head, voice barely a whisper. "N-no, but...are you going to...force me?"

A low chuckle escapes his lips, dark, amused, and disturbingly composed. "If I wanted to force you," he murmurs, his tone like a blade wrapped in silk, "you wouldn't be asking that question. It would be obvious."

One of his hands slides down your side slowly, deliberately, before gliding up your leg. His fingers graze bare skin, teasingly light as they slip beneath your skirt. The contact sends a jolt through you, your muscles tensing—not entirely from fear, but from something hotter, more primal, curling in your stomach.

His touch lingers just long enough to test your reaction, to feel the tremble in your thighs. He’s watching you like he’s memorizing every micro-expression, every hitched breath, every second of hesitation.

"But you would be a fool to turn down my offer," he says, voice lower now, more dangerous. The calmness in him is unsettling, like he’s already decided how this ends and is simply waiting for you to catch up. "And we both know this."

The way he says it—so certain, so assured—doesn’t feel like a question. It feels like inevitability. Like a fuse already lit, burning closer and closer to whatever explosion he’s been holding back.

You can barely think past the rush of blood in your ears, past the heat that’s rising to your cheeks, to your chest. Your thoughts spiral, second-guessing every feeling that bubbles up inside you. It’s too much. Too fast. Too intense.

He's right...right? This is your best chance to pay off your debt. And he's not even asking for more than a taste. Just a taste. You should just...say yes...right? You try to convince yourself it’s nothing—but deep down, you know that’s a lie. Nothing about this is simple. Nothing about Sylus has ever been.

Your mind is a whirlwind of panic and pressure, too tangled to form a coherent answer. Thoughts crash into each other—fear, doubt, curiosity, need. Before you can gather your thoughts, your breath catches—"I-I...ah!"

Sylus lowers his head and begins kissing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The contact sends a jolt through your body like white-hot electricity, sparking every nerve as it travels down your spine. Your entire body tenses at the sensation, and then melts a second later. Your stomach tightens, breath stuttering as a sharp, unfamiliar heat coils low in your belly, twisting into a knot of want and confusion.

He doesn’t rush. No, he’s slow, achingly slow. He savors every inch of skin, every flinch and tremble, as though he’s memorizing the map of your reactions. Each kiss is soft, but deliberate, searing a path into you that lingers long after his lips have moved on. It’s excruciating in the most maddening way, the kind of teasing that blurs the line between pleasure and torture.

You let out a breathy, broken whine, your fingers clenching in the bedsheets like they’re the only thing grounding you. He continues, lips trailing with devotion, worship, obsession. His control is terrifying—and thrilling. It’s as if he owns you already, and he’s just now getting to unwrap his prize.

"You sound beautiful, sweetie" Sylus murmurs, voice low, rough, vibrating with restrained hunger. It sends another shock of heat through you. He sounds almost pained, like holding himself back is costing him something.

He pauses just long enough to lift his gaze to yours, locking eyes with you in the low light. His mouth still hovers against your skin, warm breath tickling. "Just let me make you feel good."

The words hit like a drug, warm and dizzying, wrapping around your spine and sinking into your thoughts, your bones. His voice pulls you deeper, makes it harder to hold onto doubt. Harder to breathe. You still don't know if you should say yes. You don’t even know what you want anymore.

Sylus's fingers slide up under your skirt further, his touch firm and insistent as they wrap over the hem of your panties. "Ah! Wait—" you start to protest, but his grip tightens, cutting you off. His eyes are filled with a primal hunger, a look that sends a shiver down your spine.

"I'll make it six times your paycheck," he growls, his voice low and commanding. "Lay back and keep still." You can feel the urgency in his tone, the barely restrained desire that threatens to consume him. The cold air hits your now exposed cunt as he roughly pulls off your panties, leaving you vulnerable and at his mercy.

He can't wait for a clear answer anymore. His darkened gaze drinks in the sight of your glistening arousal.

You gasped, a soft "A-ah! Sylus...okay..." escaping your lips as your body reacted instinctively—your thighs tensing, a flush spreading across your cheeks, and a warm ache building deep inside.

You cover your face in heated shame as Sylus pries your thighs apart, his strength leaving no room for resistance. You gasp as he leaves a sudden, hot wet streak of saliva trailing up your inner folds with his tongue, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure mixed with embarrassment through your body. Your lower half feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending alight with anticipation.

"S-stop...!"

You struggle in his grip, trying to back away from the wet sensation, but his hold on you is unyielding. He drags you back into position, lowering his head between your pussy once more. His warm breath teases your sensitive flesh as he begins intricate circles around your swollen bud, his tongue a masterful instrument of pleasure. "Mghn..." you moan, your hands gripping his hair subconsciously, torn between the urge to push him away and the desire to pull him closer, to deepen the exquisite torture of his touch.

"You taste even better than I imagined," Sylus coos, his voice a low, throaty murmur that vibrates against your most sensitive spots. He gives your throbbing clit a break, instead pushing his tongue deeper inside your cunt, exploring your depths with a skill that leaves you breathless. "Ahh!" You nearly arch off the bed, the intensity of the sensation overwhelming.

Only Sylus's steady and strong hands keep you in place, grounding you as waves of pleasure crash over you. You've never felt anything like this before, the vibrations of his voice adding to the aching pleasure that builds with each tortuous stroke of his tongue pushing in and out of your walls. "Don't...talk like that. Just hurry...mghn!" you manage to gasp out, your voice a mix of desperation and shame, urging him to bring you to the edge and over. Sylus truly had no shame with how blunt he often came across. You had often admired that about him.

In this situation though? It was mortifying.

A deep chuckle rumbles in Sylus's chest, a sound that vibrates through you, sending shivers down your spine. He pauses, looking up briefly to gaze into your eyes, studying your distraught and shameful expression with a mix of amusement and hunger. "As you wish, kitten," he murmurs, his voice laced with a promise of pleasure. He moves his tongue back to circle your clit, his touch both teasing and demanding.

As he begins to suck lightly, you let out a sound so primal and filthy that it surprises even you. Your whole body tenses, your core building with a tense pressure that threatens to explode. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and vulnerability that leaves you gasping and clutching the sheets, desperate for release.

"Hah...hah...hah..."

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat as Sylus licks and devours your pussy with an insatiable hunger. He switches between sucking your clit and licking in between your folds, his tongue relentless in its movements. Each stroke, each suck, builds the tension inside you, pushing you closer to the edge. You can feel the pressure coiling tighter, your body trembling with anticipation. The room fills with the sounds of your desperate pants and his wet, hungry licks, a symphony of raw, unfiltered desire.

You manage to crack open your eyes, catching a glimpse of Sylus's flushed and heated face, his expression one of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He's clearly enjoying himself, his eyes dark with desire and his breath coming in ragged gasps. When you try to quiet your moans by biting down on your lip, he only sucks on your clit harder, drawing out the pleasure until you're practically screaming.

Your legs lock around his head, but he doesn't seem to mind, his focus entirely on the task at hand. Suddenly, he looks up, his eyes narrowed and intense as he locks his gaze with yours. You're a moaning, writhing mess, your body trembling on the edge of release. The last thing you need is to cum with him looking at you like that, his gaze searing into your soul. But it's clear he has no intention of looking away, his stare unyielding and demanding, as if he's determined to watch you unravel completely.

"Fuck! Sylus!" The words tear from your throat, a desperate cry that echoes through the room. But it's too late, the pressure has built to a crescendo, and with one final, powerful suck, it explodes. Your whole body tenses and shivers as a crash of aching pleasure overfills your lower half, waves of ecstasy washing over you, leaving you breathless and trembling.

Your face tears up and you gasp for breath as you ride out the intense orgasm. Sylus watches, his eyes locked on yours, as you unravel on his tongue. He laps up your juices, his movements slow and deliberate, savoring every drop. You twitch and jerk on his mouth, your body convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure, each one sending new waves of sensation coursing through you. He doesn't let up, his tongue continuing to tease and explore, drawing out the feeling until you're a quivering, spent mess, completely at his mercy.

Eventually, the sensations of Sylus's tongue continuing to lick your oversensitive bud become too much, the pleasure bordering on pain. You plead with him to stop, your voice breaking as you burst into tears, overwhelmed by the intensity of the experience. Sylus pauses, his tongue stilling as he licks his mouth, his face softening with a mix of satisfaction and tenderness. He's breathless, his chest heaving as he leans closer to your face. Through your tears and sobs, you can barely see him, but you feel him lean in, his lips capturing yours in a firm, passionate kiss. It's strong and demanding, leaving you helpless to do anything except lean into it. He pries open your mouth with his tongue, exploring and claiming. He pauses between each breath to speak.

"Everything you do...is so damn cute. Even when you're crying... God...what am I supposed to do with you?"

He doesn’t ask; he takes, yet not without a strange reverence, like he’s claiming something that was always his to begin with. Your body responds before your mind can catch up. Instinct, surrender, exhaustion, maybe all three. You lean into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, powerless against the storm he’s become.

Everything becomes a blur after that. Your senses dull, body limp from exhaustion, nerves frayed to the point of collapse. Your eyes begin to feel unbearably heavy, each blink slower than the last. You vaguely register movement—his hands, still careful despite the storm that had just passed, adjusting your position on the bed, guiding your head to the pillow.

You think you hear him murmur something near your ear. It’s low, almost regretful. “I think I’ve just made things worse for myself.” Or maybe you imagined it. You can’t be sure.

There’s the faint rustle of fabric, the cool sensation of a cloth against your skin. You open your eyes just enough to catch the shape of him cleaning you with surprising gentleness. Another flutter of vision: a fresh pair of underwear, slipped back into place with care. Then, a sudden weight is placed on the bed beside you. A second envelope of cash.

And then…nothing. He’s gone. The room is quiet again.

Your eyes finally close, this time for good.

When you wake up the next morning, for a split second, you almost believe you dreamed the whole thing. A strange haze clings to your thoughts, like your mind is desperately trying to rewrite reality into something softer. But the two thick envelopes of cash sitting ominously on your nightstand and bed say otherwise.

You sit up slowly, the ache in your body making it clear last night wasn’t just a vivid fantasy. Shame floods your chest as the memories return in jagged pieces. You grip your hair, curling forward on the bed.

"Shit, shit, shit…" you whisper harshly to yourself, your stomach twisting into knots. How were you supposed to go back to work and face him after that? Could you even look him in the eye? Should you even bother showing up again? Or was it better to disappear, let this whole thing vanish behind you like a nightmare?

You try to steady your breathing, to ground yourself, but your thoughts are a chaotic mess. As you sit there, overwhelmed, something shifts in your periphery. You glance toward your front door.

Boxes.

Taped, sealed boxes. You blink, confused. You hadn’t ordered anything. You hadn’t expected anything. Yet there they were—stacked neatly by the door like they belonged.

A strange chill rolls down your spine.

What the hell is this?

The first was a box of winter clothes. Not just any clothes—thick, soft-lined wool leggings, a heavy coat with a fur-lined hood, warm gloves that fit your fingers perfectly, thermal socks, and a sturdy pair of boots that looked brand new. The fabric was clearly expensive, designed for someone who actually had to walk in freezing weather. All of it in muted, neutral tones—deep gray, soft beige, dark burgundy, as if selected not just for practicality, but to suit you.

The second box held a phone.

Your breath hitched. A brand new, high-end smartphone. Sleek, lightweight, and already powered on. The screen displayed nothing but a single message: a contact preloaded into the device. Just one name.

Sylus.

You swallowed hard. You had only mentioned in passing that you didn’t own a phone, something about saving up for one eventually, tossed out in conversation and barely remembered. But he had remembered. Not only that, he had acted on it. Gone out of his way to give you something you hadn’t even asked for. He'd even noticed you didn't have proper winter clothes.

Your heart pounded, warmth blooming in your chest so abruptly it startled you. Was this guilt? Remorse for how things had gone last night? Did he feel bad for pushing you past your limits? Or…was this something else?

You didn’t know. But whatever the reason, gratitude surged through your veins like a wave.

You had to thank him. But you were too nervous to text him.

The idea of crafting a message was too much. So instead, you threw yourself into getting ready, tugging on the new winter clothes he’d sent. The coat fit like it was tailored for you, hugging your body in a way that made you feel both secure and...oddly seen. The boots were warm and sturdy. Even the gloves made your hands feel less forgotten by the cold.

You rushed to work without checking the time. Your heart beat like a drum in your chest the entire way, thoughts looping back to last night. That moment—those moments—had unraveled something deep in you. Something that had never been touched before. Even now, thinking about it made your cheeks burn. The heat crawled up your neck as flashes of memory danced behind your eyes.

It had felt good. Too good. Even if it had been unexpected and confusing, the way he’d touched you, spoken to you, looked at you—it all stayed with you. And now...your debts were gone. Cleared. Just like that.

Because of him.

You owed him more than money could ever measure. Even if the circumstances had been a little strange. You had to say something. Anything. You felt awful for blacking out on him so suddenly, for never even thanking him properly.

As you stepped into the elevator, thoughts still tangled and storming inside you, the soft chime of the top floor arriving pulled you from your haze. The doors slid open.

You entered the suite, heart pounding, nerves buzzing, a mixture of anticipation and unease swirling in your chest like a storm barely held at bay. Your palms were clammy inside your gloves, your breath caught somewhere between hope and dread. But the moment you stepped inside and spotted Sylus, your face instinctively lit up, a flicker of relief sparking in your chest.

He had his back to you, seated with an almost lazy confidence on one of the sleek leather couches that made the massive living room feel even more expansive. You took a breath, readying yourself, rehearsing the words you'd been building up the courage to say.

"Sylus...I just wanted to say I—"

And then you stopped cold.

A voice—low, smooth, unmistakably feminine—slipped through the air like smoke.

Your eyes shifted. Next to him on the couch sat a woman. A vision. Slender and poised, legs elegantly crossed, a cigarette balanced with casual grace between long, painted fingers. Her dark hair fell in effortless waves, and her eyes, smoky, lined to perfection, scanned the room like she owned it. She looked like she stepped out of a magazine spread or a high-society gala. Everything about her screamed power, ease, control.

And Sylus…

He wasn’t the man you usually saw—sharp, unreadable, and cold. No, this version of him was relaxed. Too relaxed. His posture loose, one arm slung along the back of the couch, the other resting on her thigh like it belonged there. They laughed together, the sound low and intimate. It was a touch that spoke of familiarity, not formality. Not business. Personal.

The air thickened around you.

They both turned as the door clicked shut behind you.

And you froze in place.

All the breath you’d been holding escaped you in a shallow, silent gasp.

Your fingers gripped the sleeves of your coat tightly, a useless attempt to hold onto something solid as the ground beneath your feet shifted. For a single, endless heartbeat, all you could hear was the blood rushing past your ears.

"Oh? Who's this, Sylus?" the woman asked, her tone light and teasing, yet unmistakably edged with curiosity. She tilted her head, dark lashes framing her amused eyes as she took another slow drag of her cigarette. Smoke curled around her like perfume, adding a haze to the air as she studied you from across the room, her gaze settling on you like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

Sylus didn’t even spare you a glance. His voice, when he spoke, was flat, indifferent, practically clinical. "Just the housekeeper. We got a new supply of rags for you, since the others were torn or bleached. The kitchen floor needs scrubbing today."

Just the housekeeper.

The phrase echoed in your head, each syllable heavier than the last. You stood there, frozen, trying to pretend those words hadn’t hit you like a slap to the face. Trying to pretend the tight knot in your chest was anything but what it was.

He turned back to the woman without pause, without a flicker of acknowledgment that you might have had something to say. His fingers remained lazily draped on her thigh, his posture relaxed, comfortable in a way you’d never seen before. He chuckled at something she whispered in his ear, his lips curling in a way that made your stomach twist with something sharp and bitter.

Your heart dropped, heavy and cold, like it had been cut loose and left to sink. Your arms felt numb. Your breath felt caught in your throat.

You didn’t even fully understand why it stung this much. Maybe it was the sudden switch from last night’s intensity to this cold dismissal. Maybe it was the look in his eyes when he’d touched you, compared to the easy comfort he now gave so freely to someone else.

You had just gotten the stark reminder that you were nothing but the help. A background character in his real life.

You managed to speak without choking. "Oh...yeah. I’ll get right on that," you mumbled, your voice tight and fragile, like it might crack if pushed any further. You turned away before either of them could see your expression.

The hallway felt darker as you walked away, the soft echo of their laughter following you like a ghost. It clung to you, taunting, curling around your shoulders like smoke.

Just the housekeeper, huh?

All of that—every touch, every look, every whispered word—had just been for his own amusement. For him to get off. A way to toy with you, distract himself, maybe pass some time. Nothing more. The money, the clothes, the phone—it had all been out of pity. A rich man’s guilt dressed up as generosity.

Of course. He was the leader of Onychinus. A man of unshakable power and influence. What had you honestly expected? That someone like him would look at someone like you and see something worth wanting? That he had good intentions with you? Of course it had meant nothing. He got what he wanted and you got the money.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

You were stupid to overthink it otherwise.

You were nothing but a desperate girl from the N109 Zone—barely scraping by, barely surviving. You weren’t beautiful like that woman on the couch. You weren’t polished, or confident, or powerful. You were a speck in his world. A faceless, voiceless shadow.

Stupid. So, so stupid. You felt utter shame now. Felt used.

The self-loathing came in waves, sharp and consuming as you scrubbed at the kitchen floor, harder than you needed to. Each movement was angry, bitter, punishing. Scrub, rinse, repeat. The pain in your knees didn’t matter. The sting in your fingers didn’t matter. The tears threatening to fall, those didn’t matter either.

Because this was your place.

Not in his lap. Not in his bed. Not in his thoughts.

Here. On your hands and knees. Scrubbing. Silent. Invisible.

You were a nobody. Lowlife scum. Best to remember that.

Best to know your place.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space.h e’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look. 

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that… a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering. Curiosity. Science.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue. 

You knew it was time. Ten years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young. And hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?” 

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring DJ and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just… optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just… considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes—determined, dangerous, hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she wouldn’t let you walk out of her apartment looking like a clown. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked… beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing the edge of your coat. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines. 

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel… bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did… maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says—far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too—I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins. 

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him—when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be… you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead—realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a “you really fumbled the bag” look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is… just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just... tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment—God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him—this man, this brilliant, ridiculous, loyal boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home. Like every unanswered question finally getting its answer.

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

You pretend to stumble into the spot beside him, a radiant smile on your face.

"Hello, Mister." You giggle. He's got scars carved onto his face, but it doesn't take away from his beauty. He looks at you, and your gasp is genuine. His eyes are so dark, you can almost see your full reflection in them. His eyes roam over you, taking in your exposed cleavage and his lips quirk up at the little silver heart he sees dangling between your breasts.

"Can I help you?" He asks.

You lean in to whisper in his ear, making sure he catches a good smell of you. His mouth waters when your scent fills his nose. You're clean, untouched by drugs, your blood packing a delicious amount of iron. Healthy. Decadent.

"My friends dared me to grab a stranger and make out with him in the bathroom, are you game?"

His nose wrinkles at the word 'bathroom.' Not a favourable place to take a sip of you.

"Boring." He replies, "Come upstairs with me into a private lounge, I'll show you an even better time."

You simmer with delight, "Are you sure? I'm not sure if I know you that well."

"I'm Billy. There. You know me."

You smile sweetly, "Hi Billy, I'm Alina." You say, giving him a fake name.

He smiles and slides off his stool, taking your hand in his and tugging you along. He hears some girls cheer off in the distance and roll his eyes.

He tugs you up to a small room, couches in a circle around a strippers pole. The lights pulse red, painting him in a beautiful light, you admit to yourself. He's absolutely gorgeous, as they're designed to be. Maybe you really could enjoy yourself a little, before you impale him with the stake concealed in your heel.

He watches as you climb the stairs to the centre stage of the room excitedly.

"Never been on a pole before." You murmur, giving a little twirl.

He's amazed at the effortless way you move, like water. You kneel on the little stage, coming down at face level with him.

"You'd make a lovely exotic dancer." He compliments. You smile at his praise. He picks you up easily. You remember to gasp in surprise at his strength. He places you onto one of the couches before pushing your legs open to look at your clothed pussy.

You whine and move your hands to cover yourself. Not wanting to give this parasite more of you than you were willing.

"Thought we were gonna make out?" You mumble.

He smiles, lowering himself to kiss your knee.

"We are going to make out." He says, cool mouth moving down your inner thigh. You gasp at the amazing pleasure, you know that's the vampire magnetism you're feeling, making you want him more and more.

"You asked me to kiss you. But you didn't specify where." He taunts, kissing over your fingers that were covering your heat from his view.

Your arousal permeates the air, he smiles, knowing he's almost got you. He tugs at your hands, and you move them easily. He tugs at the scrap of lace between your legs.

"Relax, and let me make out with that sweet pussy."

~

He lifts his head from your heat, mouth slick with your wetness. He'd made you cum twice on his tongue so far. You knew that making you cum was just the appetizer for him. The pleasure pulsing through your veins would make you taste that much better.

You usually didn't let things get this far, accustomed to eliminating them as soon as they put their hands on you. Something about him though, made you really want to know what his tongue felt like. And after feeling his skilled tongue, you were glad to have given him the chance.

He crawls his way up your body, kissing the top of your breasts. You sigh, running your hands through his short cropped hair, preparing yourself for his bite. You know that the minute your blood hits his tongue, the taste of it will temporarily stun him.

You moan his name, and he grunts at the lovely sound.

He feels his teeth elongate, and he bites into you swiftly. The taste of your blood is absolutely divine. Better than the finest wines. He moans loudly at the flavour.

His senses warn him a microsecond before it happens. He catches your wrist as you try to stab him in the back. Your other hand swings to push him away, but he catches that one too. He's faster and more alert than any other vampire you've staked before. He lifts his head from your neck slowly. Your blood glistening on his lips.

"Damn." He murmurs, licking his lips. He can't get enough of the taste. Your blood is intoxicating to him. He's never had someone that tastes as good as you. He's not sure he ever will again.

"Why'd you have to go and do that, little huntress? We were having such a great time." He leans forward to lick the blood trickling from your wound. He moans.

Your heart is pounding in your chest. You know you're about to die. It was bound to happen some time in your line of work.

You struggle in his arms, your naked pussy rubbing against his jeans.

He pins your arms to your sides and leans his body back to look at you. Your desire is gone, replaced with a burning hate.

"Fuck you." You spit at him.

He gives you a toothy grin, tilting his head to the side.

"Well, if you insist."

~

He's fucked you till you're passed out. You lay, curled into his side, naked in the small lounge. It didn't take much convincing to let him violate you willingly. Your pleasure outruling every logical thought in your head.

He buries his nose in your hair to catch more of that heady scent. It made sense that you were a hunter, with a taste like that, he could understand how every vampire you'd come across before had been killed so easily.

You stir awake, your eyes widening as you realise where you are and what you did. You push away from him and you wobble to your feet. He takes satisfaction in watching the way you struggle to hold yourself up.

"Hello, morsel." He greets as you finally turn to look at him.

His naked body on full display for you, legs spread wide to showcase his cock.

"Why didn't you kill me?" You ask, tugging on your dress.

"Because I'm going to have you again." He tells you confidently.

You scoff at his words, tugging on your shoes. You're going to have to either tell them you killed him, or tell them he got away. You rack your mind for the best excuse.

"If I see you again, I'm gonna kill you." You warn him.

He laughs, getting to his feet and walking to you. You hold your ground confidently.

"The next time I see you, I'm going to fuck you so hard you forget your fucking name." His hand moves to brush a strand from your face. "And then I'm going to bite you, so carefully, that you'll cum just from the feeling, huntress."

You gasp, as you feel your nipples stiffen in excitement. You don't understand why this bloodsucker has got you feeling this way.

"And after that, I'm going to take you home with me, and lick that sweet cunt until you only remember my name."

You shiver with delight, backing away from him. Heading toward the door. You yank it open.

"Oh, and Alina?"

You pause and look back.

"If another man touches you, I'm going to make you watch as I rip his heart out and eat it in front of you."

You let out a shocked gasp before you dart out the door.

He laughs.

.

.

.

The noise is sharp, the sound of the pebble hitting the window makes you flinch. You wait patiently, searching the dark window for shadows among shadows, hoping to see movement.

You’re not even sure that it’s him, waving when you see the outline of a figure in the window, to catch his attention. It fills you with dread in a moment when you suddenly feel like there are more than one person’s eyes on you.

You swallow, wrapping your arms around yourself and moving to a more secluded spot, so that if there’s anyone looking out, they won’t see you from behind the trees.

What were you going to say to him? Why were you bothering him with your burdens in the first place?

You knew the answer- you wanted a friend, you wanted comfort from someone who you hope would never judge you.

He comes around the tree, sleep still lingering in his expression as he says your name in question. You don’t say anything, moving away from him, towards the cemetery. When he doesn’t move, you pause, turning back to him and tilting your head as an indication to follow.

You don’t talk the entire way there, walking beside him, eyes squinting at the ground in hopes that you do not come across any roots or rocks that may trip you.

He’s quiet too, patient, waiting for you to tell him what’s wrong, but you don’t say a word, not until you’re at the spot where you first kissed him, at the feet of the stone angel.

“I’ve done something awful.” You finally breathe to him, turning to gauge the expression on his face.

Billy sighs, stepping forward to grip your arms, before pulling you into his chest.

The hug is deliciously warm, you press your nose into the column of his neck, chasing the heat of his skin.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure we can fix it.” He attempts to soothe.

You shake your head, tears soaking into his shirt.

“It’s too late. I’ll probably be cast out tomorrow.” You whisper.

“You know I would never let that happen.” Billy replies confidently, his hand smoothing over your shoulder, the other cupping the back of your head to hold you close.

Your lips tremble, breaths mingling.

“I don't think there's any fixing this.”

He leans in, till your foreheads are pressed together, your eyes close involuntarily.

“I would do anything for you.” He responds, a twist in your chest when he says the words.

You withdraw from him, taking two steps away so that you can find the strength to tell him of your indiscretions. 

“I was in the library, and Frank- he- he saw my candlelight and… I let my desires get the best of me.”

“Did he take you?” Billy asks calmly.

You blink, surprised at his words, never having considering that possibility.

“N-no, he-” You clear your throat, looking down, “He used his fingers.”

You expect anger, or words of spite to be strewn at you, you're not expecting his next question.

“Did you come?”

“W-what?” You inquire, unsure of what he's asking.

His chuckle makes you feel like a squirrel you once saw, caught in a cage.

“That little cunt, when you rub it just right, for just long enough, can make you feel… like your spirit is coming out of your body. Transcending.”

You turn to look at him.

“Coming.” You say, requiring confirmation on the word.

Billy nods, approaching you.

“How many times did you come on Frank's fingers?”

“Twice,” You answer without thinking, “Is that relevant?”

He inclines his head again, deep in thought.

“It tells me how messy your cunt probably is right now.”

You feel the air grow colder around you. Your eyes widen at Billy’s approaching form, the heel of your shoe scraping on the concrete as you take a step back.

“W-what?” You ask, horrified.

He shakes his head, as if you're failing to see a point that he's trying to make. Your lower back bumps the stone pedestal holding the statue of the angel.

“We need to clean up the evidence of your sins.”

“What evidence?” You stutter, as his large body gets right into your space. His eyes hold no reflection, his tongue, darts out of his mouth to wet his bottom lip.

He crushes his body to yours, his hands reaching down, to grip your hips, and the next thing you know is that you’re being lifted.

You gasp as he sits you right at the feet of the angel, her stone skirts surrounding you, with just enough leverage to keep you in place. You glance up in apology, her face hidden from you, even though you know she's probably looking down in your direction. All you can make out in the darkness, is the outline of her wings, and the slope of her nose.

Billy, now kneeling at eye level with your hips, pushes your skirts up forcefully, doesn’t stop to listen to any of your whispered protests until he’s got his eyes between your bare thighs.

“By the mercy of the saints- where are your undergarments?” He hisses.

You whine, having only just realised that you’ve lost them, perhaps they’ve been left behind at the library, or maybe they’re sitting in one of Frank’s pockets.

“I don’t know.” You answer pitifully, looking down at Billy, who studies you with the countenance of a hungry man.

A muscle in his jaw tics, studying you, eyes roaming your body. He grips your ankle, lifting your leg until it's draped over his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, pet, there’s still time to absolve you of your sins.” With those words, he dips his head, and presses his tongue to your aching cunt.

You shudder, fighting hard to deny the evidence that this is in fact happening. You grip your skirts with one hand, the other holding on to the stone angel for dear life.

You whisper his name in shock, gasping when he begins to slowly lick you. 

There’s no urgency to the movement of his tongue, a juxtaposition in his actions, compared to the force he used to get you in this position.

You try to roll your hips, to urge him on, but he pinches your thigh in warning, soothing it with his thumb when you give in to his silent demands.

“Billy please.” You whimper, hoping to appeal to his more forgiving nature.

“Is that how you begged Frank? While you were riding his hand like a whore?”

The words are like a bucket of icy water being poured on you.

“No.” You gasp, unable to discern if you were being truthful or not.

He hums, resuming his slow torture, unwilling to go any faster, simply drinking in your essence while you try not to writhe.

“I would have you naked here if I could, your body bare to me in the moonlight would ease my displeasure.”

What was he displeased about? You mind asks stupidly.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

“I’m not upset with you, I am upset with Frank, that he would allow you to be caught in such a position.”

“My fault.” You whine, as his tongue descends on you.

He shakes his head, and you let out a shattered cry at the delicious sensation it elicits. 

A low chuckle leaves him, the speed of his tongue increases, eager to hear more of your little sounds. 

“P-please,” you whine, “I'll be good, I'll do anything you ask, just please.”

“Greedy little thing.” He answers between kisses, and you can only gasp, head falling back to bump the statue of the angel, one of your hands gripping a tuft of Billy’s hair for dear life.

He doesn't relent, making you feel so so good, and you think he might be right- that you are greedy- why else would you encourage the affections of more than one man on the same night?

“I'm coming.” You gasp, feeling your thighs shake, your insides igniting with fire as it warns of something painfully blissful.

He hums in agreement between your thighs, tongue drawing over that oversensitive bundle of nerves until it's too much for you to take.

A sharp sound leaves your mouth, the sensation of being touched all over overcomes you. You feel your nipples tighten beneath your clothes in response, increasing the blissful feeling swarming your body.

He licks you slowly through it, till it hurts and you try to push him away. He refuses to move, tongue pressing against your entrance, taking in everything you have to offer.

“Stop.” You whine, “Hurts.”

He looks up at you, drawing back with an expression that displays defiance.

“If I had it my way,” he murmurs, wiping at the wetness on his chin and rising to a stand, “I would restrain you and taste you for hours.” 

Your mouth drops open, arousal flooding your body once more, even as you shake your head to deny him.

Billy reaches out, gripping your jaw to tilt your head up to look at him.

“No? You think that would stop me?”

“I think someone would.” You challenge softly, referencing the person that he always claims prevents him from going further with you.

The corner of his mouth lifts in amusement.

“You have no idea what you're in for.” He answers cryptically, before stepping back, extending his hand for you to take.

He walks you back to your dormitory, and pulls you into his body to kiss you messily one last time before he lets you leave, with a promise that if anything happens, he would protect you.

You’re quiet as you step into your dorm, heart racing at the way you feel- safe- with Billy to protect you, he would make sure you would be taken care of.

Still, it hurts at the very thought of possibly having to leave all that you know behind, your friends, and the people under your care that have felt a little like family at times. 

Then you think of Frank, frowning at the way you left things with him, wishing that you could fix them now, but you know the hour is late, and you would just have to wait for tomorrow.

The dormitories are dark, the lanterns on the wall have flickered out at some point, a normal occurrence in this climate of wind and rain. 

From a small child, you’d memorised the bumps and cracks in the stone walls, using it as guidance when the lights had gone out. You knew your pathway in the dark by the feeling alone, the only difference now is that your room was all the way at the end, where you’d never dared to step in your childhood lest the former Mother Superior heard you.

Movement is second nature, your steps are quiet, almost imperceptible to your own ears. You can hear the rushing of your own blood in your head more than your own footsteps.

Which is why your eyes widen in shock when someone's door swings open and your name is whispered.

You turn in surprise, seeing Sister Ann, a candle in her hand as she looks at you expectantly.

You smile at her waving her goodnight before turning away in an effort to dismiss her before she can make any more sound.

Instead, you groan internally when you hear her door close quietly, the light of her candle growing brighter as she approaches.

“It’s so late, Mother, let me help you to your room.” She offers.

You smile at her in thanks.

When you make it to your room, she steps in as well, igniting the candles on your table.

“Thank you, Ann, you should get some rest, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Ann nods, focused on lighting another candle. You turn away, to tug your habit off your head, reaching for a brush to smooth through your hair.

“Can I?” She asks quietly.

You turn, smiling at her as you extend the boar bristle hairbrush in her direction.

She’s gentle, and you spare a second to wonder what her motive might be, before closing your eyes to enjoy the feeling of her hands working through your hair.

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding, Mother, I just wanted some company for a little.”

You swallow, heart aching for her, and the sad undertone of her voice. You knew that Ann had been especially fond of Sister Deidre, their rooms had been right beside each other, and you wonder how deep their bond must have been, trying to imagine losing someone so dear to you.

“Can’t sleep?” You ask.

She sucks in a breath.

“No, I keep having nightmares.” 

You reach back, taking her hand in yours for a moment.

“It’ll be alright, Ann, I promise. We’ll find a way to get through these hardships together.”

Ann’s grip is tight on your fingers, before she speaks again.

“There’s something you should know.” She whispers, and you feel your body fill with dread at her grievous tone.

You’re almost afraid to ask.

“...Yes?”

.

.

After all, it was the second thing that Gojo Satoru had drilled into his mind from the very moment he first met you.

The first being that he’s loved you ever since. 

Which - retrospectively speaking - might’ve been an incredibly bold declaration coming from the scrawny, fidgeting six-year-old you happened to catch sneaking in and stealing lilac blooms from the royal garden all those years ago.

He remembers how you’d giggled, looking positively like a little blossom in all those gauzy layers of gown. Piping up from under the lilac tree he was latched onto, “My father says that’s not allowed.”

Gojo had fallen then - literally, startling about six feet from the branch he’d been straddling and straight into a scratchy pile of leaves with a dull thud! Back hurting, head spinning, it was a wonder that he hadn’t sprained anything, but right then and there he remembers thinking he was in heaven.

Because here was a pretty lil’ angel his age ogling down at him, speaking in a regal accent so different from his. “My father says that’s not allowed either.”

Your grin beamed down on him and warmed his skin even more scorchingly than the balmy rays of sunlight filtering in through the leaves. And for the first time ever in his life, Gojo Satoru had stuttered. 

“Yer- yer father sounds stupid.” He had spit out, chubby cheeks puffing out the more you stared at him. What? He was sure he looked ridiculous with all those stray sticks and leaves stuck in his cloudy locks, but did you really have to look at him like…that? 

“My father…” Your lips curled even further, as if you knew something he didn’t. “-the king.”

Oh.

Oh. 

And it’s only then that Gojo notices the thin, silver tiara on your head, a delicate wreath of jeweled flowers that twinkled almost as bright as your eyes. It reflected specks of light into his gaze almost mockingly.

Idiot- it felt like someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over him that chilled him to the very bone. 

Even at the tender- well, wise and sensible age of six, Gojo had heard from the adults in town all about the torture chambers and p-prisons that the royal palace was home to. 

Just why did he feel the need to escape from his mother at the market to bring her a batch of those wispy, amethyst flowers anyway? 

Sure, they were her favorite but- the royal family would have his head before even she did. And he didn’t even get to butter her up with the lilacs!

“Forgive me!” Gojo had squeaked out in a cry so shrill that you hurriedly took a step back, eyes widening once the interesting boy in front of you dropped to his hands and knees. “Ah- I mean uh- forgive me, your highness- your princessness.” Drooping into a bow so low that his soft tufts of hair brushed the warm ground. Words tumbling out a mile a minute, “It was an accident- I must’ve been um sleepwalking and I pinky-promise won’t do it again-”

“Those lilacs haven’t bloomed yet, y’know?” You’re cutting him off smoothly, and Gojo remembers feeling a pang of irritation- let him recite his apologies before you throw him in a cell, dammit! Right before flooding with confusion, eyes snapping up to meet yours hesitantly. 

Pointing at a pretty white gazebo, overlooking the lake only a few meters away, you’d shrugged your shoulders. “The garden staff puts the best ones in a bouquet over there.”

At which, he’d replied with an exceptionally eloquent, “Huh?”

“Well, what my father doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

It’s only after hours upon hours of picking every lilac flower in sight and chatting about all the worldly topics a pair of six-year-olds knew that you were dragged away by one of your worried attendants. 

And he almost felt…sad about it. Weird. 

The yolky setting sun that day cast shadows for Gojo to hide himself in behind one of the gazebo pillars as he peeked at your retreating back. In-step with an older woman muttering about “losing her job oh- the king will banish her.” 

And if there was one thing that he would never forget - well, amongst everything else - it was the way his heart banged selfishly against his ribcage with a repeated turn around turn around turn around-

You did. And you’d smiled, and Gojo hasn’t been able to step away from your side since.

Well, he had to - to go home that evening and proudly proclaim to his thoroughly cross mother how he’ll become a knight, that is. 

Honestly, even the colossal lilac bouquet did little to deter her scoldings about running off. But despite how bad it was - and the fact that he was sentenced to be confined to his room for a whole month - it didn’t matter.

Gojo visited you the next day, too. 

And the day after that, and the day after that- and again and again no matter how many times you’d teased him about coming so often to see you. Because you were right there no matter what royal duties or lessons dictated, waiting in the lilac garden for him. 

Every day.

When Gojo was eighteen he’d applied for a position in the royal guard, breezing through the demonstrations of physical strength because of course, he did. He’d been training for his very day for years.

And it showed - oh, how it showed. 

It showed in the way he stood almost a head above every other man lined up there, veering numerous inches above six feet. All sculptured, Herculean muscles and arms toned from years spent climbing the palace orchards with you. The strongest. 

He considered himself exceedingly humble, too, of course. 

Humble enough to not brag outright in your face once Gojo had climbed the treacherous way into being your personal knight before the age of twenty. 

“Hah, I can tell your father- erm, his majesty all about where you sneak off to now.” Gojo snickered, flicking your forehead in a way that a princess simply shouldn’t be treated. “Perhaps I’ll bargain titles with him- tell the courts about the way you climb trees, and ride horses and-”

“Snitch”

“Harlot.”

“Knave.”

“Hobgoblin.”

“Satoru.” You’d deadpanned up at as six foot four inches of white-haired nuisance clinging onto whimpers out a dramatic ouch, that one hurt. Desperately trying to keep the smile off of your face, “You’re with me each and every single time.”

Well, was. 

It seemed like the king was to be putting a stop to that very, very soon. With your looming- he gulps to keep the leaden ball of tears away from his throat, your engagement. 

“Toru—” Your voice snaps him out of his hazy little reverie, and he finds himself straightening his back into a respectful posture outside of the throne room. Warily eyeing the way you bound up to him, “What did my father want to talk to you about so suddenly?”

“Ah…” Gojo’s throat feels hoarse. Parched. The smile plastering onto his face wobbly, “Just- just security measures for the visitor we’re going to have, your royal highness.”

Your brows quirk upwards, pretty lips falling open just enough for him to realize you were about to comment on his use of that. That title. 

“Now if you pardon this knight, ma’am-” Gojo pipes up before you can bludgeon him with questions, striding down the luxurious hallway to his newly-assigned post at the royal treasury. Far, far away from your chambers. “-I have been called by Knight Commander Yaga to my-”

“Satoru- wait.”

He should’ve known better than to have thought he could escape you - not when even his own heart didn’t want to.

Lurching up in an almost-nauseating swoop the moment your voice echoes from behind, hitting his glinting armor. “You…are you okay—? You haven’t called me any of those silly formal titles since we first met.” Words practically dripping with concern, fuck- he was sure your face was furrowing. And if it was up to him he would kiss away every tense crevice. 

But no, that was not his place. 

His place was to stand rooted to the spot, face turning only a half-degree to grace you with a soft bow. Gojo knew it wasn’t the epitome of respect, but a singular look in your face right now and he would break.

“I am in perfect condition to carry out my duties, ma’am.” He’s nodding, voice oh-so-brittle in his throat for how hardened it thundered.

“That’s not what I mean.” Stubborn.

Gojo turns back to the winding corridor in front of him, “Then if that is all, I shall be on my way. I hope you have a good day, ma’am.”

“Satoru.”

And if his cheeks were cold and encrusted with a few streaks of salty tears when he reached the treasury, Gojo was only grateful that his fellow knight Ijichi was too afraid of him to say anything.

.

.

.

Gojo Satoru was avoiding you - marching the other way if he glimpsed you, running around the palace for menial tasks, he wasn’t even your personal guard anymore, for goodness’ sake! Your best friend was ignoring you and you weren’t sure why. 

Was it because you had to skip out on your daily walks in the lilac garden to greet the visiting Zenin royals? 

No, he was always so understanding of the royal responsibilities that you couldn’t skive off. Besides, his strange attitude had sparked up even before Prince Naoya and his family arrived at your kingdom - ever since that meeting with your father.

You were dying to ask the king what exactly was talked about that day, a meeting so confidential that he didn’t even have the royal advisor transcripting it. But your father was always so busy with the older Zenin couple these days, cooped up in office rooms surrounded to the brim with official documents. 

And that left you with…him.

Naoya Zenin. A prince if there was ever any, who couldn’t talk about anything but that. 

“So…um.” Your eyes dart around the palace gardens, you always did love it here - that comforting smell of flowers wafting in clouds around you. But right now you felt anything but comforted. “How are you liking the garden, Prince Naoya?”

He shakes his brown-tipped locks, eyes narrowing. “Rather plebian for a royal palace, if I do say so myself.”

“R-right…” You’re sputtering in an unlady-like fashion, “We do have orchards too if you wanted to-”

“Of course, the gardens in my palace are much bigger-” He’s waving a gloved hand loftily, nose crinkling into a sneer at the bustling gardeners planting beautiful white blossoms everywhere. Honestly, you were informed there was a grand ball soon - but wasn’t this a bit much? “And we teach the help to stay out of sight.”

“Well, I think they’re really nice.” You’re huffing, brows marrying together. 

He scoffs, “Nice- or useful?”

“Both.”You fight the urge to just storm off then and there - it wouldn’t do good to start a war between the two most powerful kingdoms right now. 

“Ah yes yes- nice.” Naoya repeats airily, words warbling as if he was biting back a laugh. “Suppose the low-borns are tolerable if they’re nice.”

A vision of Gojo - tiny and trembling into a bow in front of you - flashed through your mind, and you find your pretty heels digging hard into the dark soil. That was it.

“Perhaps.” Your voice comes out dangerously even, dangerously. Naoya only raises his brows in faint interest, “Yet, even the least tolerable tch- ‘low-born’ would be more tolerable than a pompous, arrogant-”

“There you are, your highnesses!” 

Satoru. 

You would recognize that low, lilting baritone amongst a thousand others. And before you can turn around to face your best friend that had been missing for days, he plows on, “A little gift- from this lowborn.”

Thud!

Before you can even blink, pale hands reach out to unceremoniously dump a radiant yellow flower crown on Naoya’s blond bangs. And you swear Gojo pushed down on his head harder than necessary.

The first thing you register is the warm wall of muscles pushing up against your back, lecherously counting every ladder of washboard abs and Gojo’s plush pecs in your mind. Mindlessly, you’re leaning back even closer, savoring the way his breath hitches. Harlot. 

The second thing you’re realizing is that Naoya Zenin - for the first time in twenty-something years - had gone quiet. Very, very quiet. Suspiciously so. 

You force your words into some semblance of levelness, “Are you…are you alright, Prince Naoya?”

But Naoya didn’t speak - you didn’t know if he was even breathing. Long face growing greyer and greyer by the second, he doesn’t answer you.

No, instead he’s pointing a trembling finger behind you. “You there…you- what shrub have you placed upon my royal head?”

“Laburnum.” Comes the answer - and just as soon comes a drawling, strangled squawk.

Your first instinct is to look towards the shimmering lake not too far away from you, eyes searching for any trace of those familiar ducks- before gasping in surprise and looking back to the prince. Mouth ajar, still making those undignified noises. 

Him? 

“You- you will-” He hisses, so furious that you have to take a step back - right into Gojo’s waiting arms - to avoid his flecks of spit. “-you will pay for this.”

In only a split-second, Naoya had thrown the flower crown onto the ground and wheezed his way up the flowery pathway back to the castle. What a sight it was.

But nothing compared to the way that Gojo comes into your line of sight and preens. One hand tapping at his cheek in thought, the other held behind his back. “Whoops- I forgot that the king specifically informed me that our honored guest was allergic to laburnum flowers. Guess, low-borns aren’t of good memory. Right, my princess?”

“Satoru- you- you ass.” You’re yelping through fits of laughter, not caring for the way the rest of the gardening staff smiles knowingly. “What if that bastard gets deathly sick? The blame would be on you.”

He rolls his summer blue eyes, “Proudly.”

“I should send you to the gallows for this.”

Gasping in faux shock, “Most salacious indeed!”

And for the first time in so long, it feels normal. 

The breezing heat of Gojo’s body against yours feels normal, and you couldn’t bring yourself to think too deeply about it. Too enchanted by the sheer lack of armor - all billowy white poet shirt and flattering cotton pants. 

“Y-yeah well-” Shit- why was your skin burning this way? The sun wasn’t even at peak temperature for today. Absentmindedly, you’re playing with one of his silk lapels, “Thank goodness we’re losing him in a few days, I asked mother and she said the Zenin’s are only visiting until the fast-approaching ball.” 

“Princess-” It all comes out in a rush, “-that ball. The reason for it is actually-”

“Your highness! The queen is asking for a conference with you!” The curious voices of your maidservants drag you away from Gojo’s arms, into a much less scandalous position.

And yet, with only a nod behind - you still stay standing in front of him. You stay.

“Right…” Gojo’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a deep gulp. Shadowy gaze darting away, “I should get back to my duties, ma’am. Suguru has been abusing his position as head gardener to work me like a mule.”

The way your face crumples with disappointment makes Gojo’s heart feel sliced open. And raw. “Of course. I’ll see you around, Gojo.”

Gojo. Gojo. 

And of course he couldn’t let you walk away - of course he couldn’t let you leave his life just yet. 

So without thinking, without even realizing, he’s clasping a slender hand around your wrist to pull you back. To reel you in. To him. 

Velvety strands of snow-white curtain Gojo’s eyes, and the doughy fingerpads on your skin shiver. Mumbling, “Before- Before you go, my prin- ma’am. I just wanted to give you-” And you don’t know what makes your heart race more - the cherry-red blush painting all over Gojo’s cheeks and up to the very tips of his ears, or the sunny flower crown clasped in a hand pulled from behind his back. “-this.”

Your mouth drops into an awe-struck oh! It was beautiful - trickling blossoms of every shade of yellow entwined gently together. Embedded with celestially dainty buds of an amber so pale it looked almost white, diamonds on a tiara fit for a princess. 

You had a feeling it would be your favorite one.  

All you could think of was Gojo with his staggering hands, and his battle-worn fingers, making something so delicate for you. 

“Is…is this one just as allergy-inducing as the other, Satoru?” You’re breathing, rustled by a breeze so gentle that it almost hurts.  

“No.” Gojo whispers, just as quiet. As if the slightest sign of a raised voice would break whatever saccharinely thick moment this was, “Yellow acacia and yellow carnation. For you, my princess.”

For the way he’d be losing you just as soon as he loses that asshat. 

And even once you’d adorned his crown and been hurried off by a few palace staff, Gojo stared. Even once you were nothing but a speck of royal satin and yellow crowns, he stared. Even once you were gone, and he was left so very alone, he stared. 

Only thanking the heavens above that you always slept through your flower language lessons. 

.

.

.

Over the next few days; wherever you were, Naoya Zenin was to follow. 

And Gojo was sure that it was pushing the young royal closer and closer to a spectacular aneurysm any time that you called specifically for him to accompany you. Blatantly refusing any other knight that came your way.

The pointed third during “romantic” boat rides on the lake, always the guard overseeing dinners, the one to step in with a blunder if your future fiancé got too…opinionated. Gojo was always there. 

It was more like you spent your time trying to make his dutiful façade crack than supposedly entertaining your guest.

Sneaky princess. 

After all - Gojo found himself pacing and arguing out loud with himself any time you did - he was simply doing his job, right? Even if the aforementioned job went against just a few direct orders from the king himself. 

But these were a direct order from the princess. His princess. And Gojo had stopped his procedural traversing and ranting since realizing this. 

Although- the head chef, Nanami’s, veiled threat about turning him into pig feed the next time he heard stomping may have played a slight part in this, as well. 

And it was on such a day that Gojo found himself stationed to guard the inside of the royal drawing room. Spine ramrod straight, eyes flooded with steel while he took in the sight of you and that bastard- Naoya sketching the other in silence. 

It was a dainty, sunlit room, and the hours might have almost been peaceful - if it wasn’t for the split-haired bastard, that is. 

After that flower fiasco and a thorough telling off for misremembering the prince’s allergies, this was meant to make up for a “bonding activity” according to the king; which to him read more like a desperate attempt to push the two of you together before the grand ball tomorrow night. 

Gojo’s chest caves in with a sudden spike of pain, tomorrow night. Your engagement ball, where you will surely be handed off to a man who wouldn’t be worthy of you in a thousand different lives. 

Fuck, had it really been days since already?

It hurt too much, and so he looks towards the prince’s parchment- how insulting. Hundreds of royal art lessons, yet Naoya still couldn’t capture the exact curve of your smile. And those pretty crinkles by your eyes- they were entirely the wrong number! And Gojo’s sure that any fool could see the way your lips-

He was getting ahead of himself. And reminded embarrassingly of the hundreds of sketches of you over the years stowed away underneath his bed alongside a stubby piece of charcoal. 

And he was leaning over the prince in a way that he was sure would get him strung and quartered in the Zenin palace. Or, at least, that’s what Naoya’s daggered glare was telling him. 

With a sheepish smirk, Gojo snatches a glimpse at your artwork. Stifling a laugh at the way you’ve given up on drawing the other man and started engaging in idle scribblings of weasels and hollies. 

“That one looks like him, don’t you think?” He can’t help but whisper from the corner of his mouth, stomach swooping in delight as soon as your eyes light up. 

Tacking on a familiar hairstyle and sneer onto a particularly shoddy caricature of one of the weasels, giggling. “He does.”

Gojo points at another drawing - this time of a bullfrog- honestly, what interests for a princess. “And that’s-”

“That Jinichi.” You’re finishing off for him, carelessly drawing away a few more - quite frankly, Gojo finds everything you do beautiful, but these were appallingly ugly - scribbles of foxes and goats. “That one’s Oji Zenin, and that’s Gakuganji and that’s-”

“Ahem.”

There was only one person who could make the clearing of a throat sound so snobbish. And that was Naoya Zenin. 

Brows raised, feet tapping impatiently on polished marble as he snatches the parchment from your grip. 

Schwing–!

“Toru- no.” 

Gojo doesn’t even realize he’s pulling out his famed, silver sword until you’re stopping him with a hand to his tense bicep. Shit.

Growling through clenched teeth once more at Naoya while he nestles it back into its scabbard with unsteady fingers - only because you asked. 

But the other man doesn’t even flinch - wearing that perfect mask of regal stoicity, though Gojo manages to catch the way his eyes flicker nervously down at the hilt of his sword. Doesn’t show anything other than the tightening of his thin lips as he gazes upon your humorous drawings. 

The impatient tap! tap! tap! of his feet slowing down, stopping - before Naoya throws your paper down onto the floor and stomps. Gojo would’ve almost found it comedic if it hadn’t been for your startled demeanour.

“Excuse me-” He’s hissing, angling his broad body between you and this unseemly sight. Gojo looks dead-on into Naoya’s spit-fire red face, “-but I would have to hope not to remind a young prince of royal etiquette.”

“Excuse me, sir.”

“No need to call me ‘sir’, your highness.”

Naoya looks up, death in his eyes.

Gojo thought this might be the end. The missed trip to the dungeons all those years ago was finally catching up to him, and he would be thrown in today for drawing his weapon on a royal but goddammit- if he wasn’t going to keep you safe from his ire for as long as he breathes and then some.

But - to both you and Gojo’s surprise, and perhaps even Naoya himself - he simply turns swiftly on his heels and walks out of the room. Letting the heavy double-doors SLAM! deafeningly behind him. 

It takes a beat. One. Two. 

He counts every raging ba-dump–! of his heart against this ribcage- before the terse silence shatters with laughter. 

“Toru- To- Satoru—!” You’re wiping away genuine tears, “‘No need to call me sir-’ where did you even come up with that-”

“Fuck! You can laugh but I thought I was headed to the gallows.” He’s exclaiming, and it was quite difficult to act as if your laugh wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d heard in his entire life. “Although- it would have been a killer last line. Wouldn’t it, my princess?”

The two of you stare at each other for one singular ba-dump–! Before bursting into peels of undignified cackles that could make an entire court shiver in scandal. 

“Killer- killer alright-” You’re rolling your watery eyes, “This is just as bad as the time you caught Yaga in his interpretive rain dance routine- I thought you were surely dead then.”

Please, Gojo’s stomach and his heart were hurting - though, for very different reasons. “Not as bad as when you wanted to play dress-up with the sacred royal crown and lost it.”

“Don’t remind me, my father was-” That’s when your tear-lathered lashes flutter, a hand coming up to swat softly against your cheek as if to jolt back your senses. You’re groaning over Gojo’s whine, “-my father. Oh no! What will he say about this?” You almost knock your cushy stool over with how fast you’re teetering into a stand, “I must go apologize to weasel- Naoya right away lest relations with the Zenins-”

“Let me.”

Your brows raise, “What?”

“Let me.” Gojo’s repeating, more firmly this time. Thumb grazing briefly down your knuckles as he pulls you back into your seat. 

Just for a split-second - like he couldn’t even think of letting himself touch such a precious treasure. 

He knows you will argue this, he knows your stupidly selfless self will fight to apologize; which is why before you can say a word, he’s marching hastily out of those same doors and towards the luxurious guest chambers. 

Truthfully, Gojo Satoru didn’t give a fuck about Naoya Zenin - but he’ll be damned if you, his beloved, was cast in a hameful light because of his childish actions. 

He has to do something for you, while he still can. While he still has you. While he can still love you.

The corridors are winding, decadent. He takes a deep breath when nearing the slightly-open gilded door of the Zenin suite, that distinctly nasally tone of Naoya drifting in conversation from within. Shuddering in a deep breath, “Pardon m-”

“-drew me as a weasel!” The prince bursts, fury seeping into every hard syllable of his. Gojo stills where he stands outside, hand on the cool metallic doorknob. “I have never met such a vulgar, unrefined-”

“Oh, do bear it until the engagement Naoya.” The gruff voice of a man responds - and he recognizes it from all the recent chiding at palace staff to be the prince’s cousin, Jinichi Zenin. “After that ya can take your time breaking ‘er in.”

What? 

“A boor telling me to break in a wench.” The younger man scoffs, though he sounds much calmer than just moments before. 

Gojo thinks he could throw up all over the gleaming floors, he thinks he wants to keel over and beg at the king’s feet to keep this from happening to you. He thinks he just might. 

But right now, he can’t bring his feet to move a single inch. Pressing himself up closer against the adjacent patterned wall, sharp ear yearning for more shards of the conversation. 

“They’re all the same anyways.” Says Jinichi, “Just give ‘er something sparkly or flowery and keep her sated. Don’t want another one running off before you can dig your claws into the crown, now, do we?”

And perhaps he’s a hopeless fool for praying that Naoya might say something - anything - else. Wishing for the non-existent good in your soon-to-be fiancé, who only grits out a displeased, “Fine. Only because I want to see her pretty lil’ face when I break her to my will.” There’s the sound of urgent footsteps, “But if father doesn’t give me the throne for my efforts then I’m killing her and you, you brute.”

Stood stock still.

Gojo doesn’t think he could move even if he wanted to - and right now, ice-cold spikes of anger were the only thing latching him rooted to the spot, not even flinching once Naoya closes the door behind him and walks- seeing him. 

His jaw clenches, eyes harrowing. “You.” 

And Naoya had very clearly taken the opportunity to arm himself in his family chamber, because his spindly fingers itch towards the hilt of his dangerously glinting sword. Just seconds away from-

“Please.” 

Gojo drops onto one knee, the tendons of his neck aching with how far downwards he had it bent into a pitiful bow. “I ask his highness to please let the princess go- to call off this impending engagement. I- I will bear the brunt of committing an offense, and will gladly take any punishment that is bestowed upon me. I just please beg of you to-”

“The same hand.”

“What?” Gojo forces himself to look up with tear-filled eyes, to face the prince squarely in his chestnut gaze. His delighted chestnut gaze. 

Pointing towards his right hand, “The same hand you were to raise your sword at me, the same hand you used to put that wretched toxic flower crown on me-” And then his blade, “-I order you to repent.”

The other man breathes, “Repent…”

“Repent.” Naoya stands up taller, perhaps the most self-confident that Gojo has ever seen him. A barbarous curl of his lips starting to form, “Repent, and I shall consider ending my engagement with the princ-”

CRUNCH!

Pain. Blinding pain was all that Gojo could feel, and…relief. 

He couldn’t even register the steady trickle of warm crimson on his skin and onto the floor in rose-like splotches - even though he could see it through bleary eyes. Head still spinning to catch up with the nanosecond events of drawing his sword and slicing a wide gash down his forearm. 

Through half-lidded eyes, he puts back his bloodied blade into the scabbard and looks up at the stricken prince. 

Repentance. 

“So you love her.” Is all that Naoya hisses. And Gojo can’t lie, nor can he muddy your name. 

So he simply waits quietly, silence speaking enough for eons. Waiting for you to be set free. And if he tried, he could even manage a smile-

Sniffing insolently - though, it sounded more like a snicker. “How valiant, for a low-born.” All that is said before he spits furiously at Gojo’s feet and breezes past in a swish of capes - as if nothing ever happened. “I might even invite you to the princess and I’s wedding ceremony.”

.

.

.

In a palace of thousands, it was only Gojo Satoru that could manage to stand out. 

None of the royal jesters could make the court laugh quite as loud. None of the other knights - no matter how muscled, or chivalrous - could make the ladies-in-waiting swoon just as much. And none of the other reputable men could make you seek him out in every chamber, state room, or training ground just like this.  

It was strange not to see even the barest glimpse of Gojo for an entire day, and the palace didn’t quite feel like a home without him.

“I’m telling you, Nobara–” You’re wheezing out in condensed puffs as your eager right-hand attendant continues mercilessly tightening away the undergarments of your ballgown. “Something’s probably happened to him or-”

“-or he’s being locked up for offending some uppity duke.” She’s rolling her honeypool eyes, one of the few who wasn’t afraid to express themselves this way in front of you. Flitting about the opulent dressing room you rarely liked to use, “You know how that eugh- Gojo is.”

“Which is precisely why I’m worried.”

Honestly, you didn’t even care for a grand ball when you didn’t know where your best friend was. Whether he was in the dungeons or…worse. 

But Nobara wasn’t here to hear you ramble about Gojo Satoru - you oftentimes got the impression that he irritated her too much for her own liking - she was here to doll you up in costly pale blue silks and muslins that draped off of you prettier than a painting. 

And you felt dizzy by the time she let you be escorted off towards the emanating music of the ballroom - with an excited goodbye and a reluctant promise to keep an eye out for Gojo. 

Hair done more intricately than you could’ve even imagined, your jewelry caught every light in the room, a bejeweled flower tiara weighing heavily on your head. Adorning your face in a crown that reminded you of the one Gojo had made you only a few days ago. 

It was almost a struggle to keep your face held high as you took the first few steps down the winding imperial staircase. To the ball. 

You have to stop yourself from tilting your head down at the thrumming masses of decadently dressed-up nobles and clinking champagne to check whether Gojo was hidden away somewhere down there. 

Manners. Posture. Eye contact. 

It was all painfully practised, and so was the tightening of your features as your own father started reading off your introduction. He never took on this task - what was happening?

“And now, for the most important guest of all-” Booming voice thundering in your ears almost as loud as your heartbeat was. The king addresses the congregation in the middle of the dancefloor, more ruler than father at this point. “-my daughter, princess of our beloved kingdom. And the queen of the next!”

Your hand stills where it had been helping you balance in your heels down the stairway- what?

Thankfully, your father carries on - or rather, not thankfully, considering what his next words are. 

“Yes, my people, this may come as a surprise to you all.” He chuckles above the deafening murmurs, and you slowly find yourself scurrying onto the raised platform your father’s throne was seated on. “But tonight is not only a simple celebration of our nation, it’s a celebration of love. Of two nations.”

There’s a beat of silence as he reaches out a withered hand to you, and you find yourself wordlessly taking it. 

“F-father, what-” you whisper, but there’s no response. Your skin bristles with goosebumps, and you’re not sure whether it’s from the summer breeze wafting from the gardens, or from the speech’s implications.

Letting yourself be pulled right into the middle of the stage,right into the spotlight - where Naoya Zenin was waiting for you. Dressed in his finest suit of white silk, adorned with layers upon layers of military accolades and velvety medals. 

The bright, blazing light of the chandelier was scorching, and your hands clench in unease. What was happening?

“That is right, my people.” The king drags your hand up to mesh in an entwinement with Naoya’s clammy ones, holding it up for the eager public to see. “After much consideration and forethought, our royal families have decided that today my daughter is the beloved princess of our nation. But tomorrow, she will be the future queen of the Zenin kingdom.”

There’s cheering - but you can’t hear any of it. In fact, the entire world could be falling upon you and you don’t think you would have noticed. 

All you can feel is the queasy churning of your stomach, and the stern whisper of Naoya’s voice against your ear. Fingers tightening around your own, bruisingly. “Dance with me before I break this pretty hand, princess.”

You’re like a ragdoll, being puppeteered in a rigid beeline onto the dance floor. 

If it wasn’t for one of Naoya’s hands bracing onto your waist, you wouldn’t even have realized that the royal orchestra had started up a gorgeous waltz. A slow, romantic melody that you might’ve otherwise loved if you weren’t trapped in the arms of a fiancé you never asked for. 

“Looking pretty out of it there, princess.” The prince sneers after a few practised motions of your dance, making your dazed eyes stray from the swooning crowd and onto his pointed features. 

And despite it all, you can’t help but feel betrayed. You thought that the two of you might have rapport at your obligation, if nothing else. “You- you didn’t even tell me. An entire engagement and you didn’t even bother to-”

“As a husband, I don’t owe my tch- wife anything.” His nose crinkles at your wandering eyes, the way your feet itched ever-closer to the surrounding people rather than the dancefloor. “Wishing it was someone else dancing with you?”

“Yes.” You’re spitting out before you can stop, trying oh-so-hard not to let your face twist into even a semblance of the fury steeped inside of you. “Anyone but a husband that I never wanted and never will want.”

“As if you deserve any bett-”

Your nails dig into one set of his fingers enough to engrave deep craters, almost enough to make him bleed. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on Earth.” 

Naoya seems stunned for a few seconds - but, alas, just when you’re hoping that you’ve shut him up for good, you’re faced with the fact that the universe isn’t that kind to you.

“You mean you would marry the tch- low-born.” He pulls you into an incredibly rough twirl when the music crescendos, pulling you even closer. It’s all you can do to not fight his grip- “I’m not below finishing off his other hand if that’s what it takes to break you.”

“What are you even talking about?”

Each word jagged. “The knight. You love him, don’t act stupid.” 

Raising your chin in defiance, “So what?” And just as much as confusion filled you, as did panic. Because Naoya’s grip was only getting firmer, his moves much harsher. Opening his mouth to spit out- 

“Pardon me, your highnesses.” A deep bass cuts in, startled- you almost give yourself whiplash peering up into those fathomless mahogany eyes. Yaga’s thin brows furrowing into something heavily-set, “May I cut in for a dance with the princess?”

You don’t wait for an answer from Naoya - and neither does Commander Yaga. Swiftly sweeping you into his engulfing embrace as the orchestra changes into something slightly more upbeat. 

Dressed in a thick suit adorned with even more medals than Naoya - ones you knew for sure were real, unlike his. And you couldn’t help but wonder just how good Gojo would look with his own.

“So…” Yaga starts, once more couples join the floor and his words can’t be heard over the shuffling of feet by anyone other than you. His calloused hands let you lead him through a waltz much more mellow than what Naoya had with you. You always did think that the leader of your knights was a gentle giant. “Begging you to forgive my indiscretion, ma’am but ah- trouble in paradise?”

“Trouble in hell, as expected.” You’re shuddering, gaze bouncing off of any flash of sapphire blue around the room. 

The man in front of you nods gravely, “Right right. I might not be a married man, but even I know that times like these often call for a walk in the lilac garden. You know, to- ah, clear your head.”

Quirking a brow, you stare at him. “What?”

And oh, Yaga simply looked like all the gold in the world couldn’t pay him enough for this. 

“Times like these-” He’s emphasizing, boring deeply into your eyes as if to mean every syllable to strike your very core. And it does. You don’t know why, but it does. “-call for a walk in the lilac garden.”

Oh.

“Oh.” 

Yaga’s lips twitch upwards into an almost-smile, and his rumbling voice is soft for the next few words. “Go, your highness.”

So you do.

You’re realizing, with an ache of such gentle appreciation, that the commander had danced you two until you were practically teetering on the massive veranda. Open to the garden; where every prim hedge, bush, and tree was gorgeously decorated until your eyes sparkled. 

Your breath bates…a choice. Head turning back to the luxuries of a royal ball that was none-the-wiser. 

Then, with a brief hug you bully Yaga into, you run - as much as the delicate heels digging into your feet would allow. Faster. 

If this was any other time, you might’ve felt disappointed at how you weren’t even stopping to admire the beauty of the moonlight-bathed garden. But right now, your heart was only pounding to go faster and faster. 

Nothing else mattered. 

Gojo was leaning on one pillar of the same white gazebo - and he was beautiful. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was a faerie of the night. 

Just a lone, tall silhouette that you could recognize so well; azure eyes twinkling, ivory strands of his hair shimmering with the silvery blue of the moon swimming amongst a dark sky. One he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of until he jolts his head towards the sharp snap! of a twig underneath your rapid feet.

“My…my princess.” He falls onto one knee. 

It all comes out in a whisper - as if Gojo had dreamed of this moment so many repeated times before and wasn’t sure if this was a dream, too.

“Satoru-!”

It wasn’t.

Gojo stands up to embrace you like it’d be the last time he ever would, like you were the one thing connecting him to this life and he was a dying man desperate to breathe. 

Strong arms winding around your waist, you’re pushed against one of the closed-off walls of the gazebo before you can even realize it. Arching off of the cool wooden surface and into his blistering heat. Into every ravenous, panted-out cloud of breath against your ear, “You came.”

He sounded pained. And you were sure you did just as much when you’re whimpering, “You disappeared.”

Gojo lets off a choked-up noise that could’ve been anything from affirmation to blatant shock. Half-lidded eyes boring deeply into yours, he shrugs off the jacket on his non-dominant arm to you with a low bow. 

“May I have this dance, my princess?”

You’re gasping at the sight of starchy white bandages around his other hand, fingers hesitantly falling into Gojo’s heated flesh. “S-Satoru, what happened ah-”

But he drifts you gently into a soundless dance, the distant crickets and swish! of lilac branches your only tune. 

And you never even understood just how much Gojo was a part of your life until he was moving through the exact same steps of waltzing that you’d learned growing up. The exact same once that you used to force him to sit through.

“I thought you were here because you read my letter.” Gojo mutters, lips so close now that they grazed the sensitive shell of your ear. 

You’re having trouble finding your voice, “What letter?” 

“The- the one that I left-” Just for you. His long lashes flutter open in shock, features contorted into something almost devastated. You wonder what made him feel this way. “-the one that I left in your chambers- about the- the prince, and the engagement and-”

“I got prepared for the ball in the dressing room today, I didn’t go to my room.” You’re continuing, voice small. Scared. “Satoru…you knew about the engagement?”

And Gojo’s voice told you everything you needed to know.

You feel your angry flare up hot and red, fists curling into Gojo’s delicate lapels. But that only proves to inch him even closer and make you sound much more breathless than you intended, “You knew about it and- and you didn’t even think to give me a hint that I was being carted off like a prize for some pompous asshat?”

He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, lips still so pink in the night, wobbling. “I…I couldn’t let you be married, I just couldn’t. I would give my life if it meant you get the freedom to choose who you wanted.” Your dance had stalled, and you almost feel disappointed. “But I’m a coward, and this-” Gojo throws his hands across, voice hitching, “-sneaking around, hiding, running away is the only way I could ever-”

“You should have told me. Not just in the letter.” You’re insisting, running your hands through your hair. Suddenly, something strikes you, “That arm- it’s because of Naoya, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t even have the energy to protest, and that only spurs you on even more. “I-I could have talked to my father- maybe the council and we could have made it so that…”

“So that what?” Gojo’s voice hardens as much as it could with you, which wasn’t very much at all. His fists clench and unclench at his sides like it was taking everything in him to not just…“So that you can be the laughingstock of the kingdom when you marry a low-born knight?”

He was right. They would never accept him, no matter how much you did.

You’re rendered speechless, shivering at the way he rubs his wet eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh, I don’t want you- I need you.” And he was so beautiful like this, just centimeters away from you in the escape of the night. “I need you. I need you, I need you- I need you more than the sun above my head, and the air that I breathe, my princess. You have bewitched me, and I am yours. But you cannot be mine-”

You breathe out, “Satoru…”

“-and maybe in another life-”

“Maybe in this one.”

Soft hands rover their way onto the sides of your arms, and Gojo shakes you feebly as if to snap you out of this hypnosis and urge you to run. Eyes wide, yearning. “I have always been yours, body and soul.”

You always have wondered whether there was a method to shut Gojo Satoru up. And, right now, you think you may have found the perfect answer. 

Because his entire towering figure just melts into your touch the very second you press your lips onto Gojo’s plump ones. Soft. Velvety. 

His nostrils flare through a breathy sigh when you tilt your head mere sultry degrees to deepen the kiss. You were addicted to the honey-coated taste of him, the flat drag of his scratchy tastebuds rolling over your loosening maw. 

“Ngh- my princess…” He’s puncturing your kisses with kiss after sloppy kiss, heavy hands wrapping around your body to wrangle you flush against his hardened ones. And you could count every glissade of his washboard abs through that thin poet’s blouse, “I love you.”

You’re not sure if it’s a fragment of your imagination, or- it’s not. 

Gojo manhandles you - and himself - to sit on the opulent gazebo bench with you plopped into his manspread lap, without breaking the kiss for a split-second. Because it hurt to part from your pretty, candied lips, to let those slippery strings of saliva break in the clouded air between you two.

Even if it was to purr out—

“I love you I love you I love you-” The straight edges of his pearly white teeth sinking into your lower lip, groaning from the back of his throat. And your jittery legs shift needily on his warm, meaty thighs, “-I love you.”

“Satoru—” Just about the only thing that you can say right about now, your tone resounds in Gojo’s ears and makes him grunt. Your fingers tangle into his cushy locks, “T-touch me.”

He snickers, one hand clawing onto the crown of your sweat-dampened scalp and wrenching your face away until you’re huffing and puffing cutely for more. “Mmm, how about we use those princess-y manners of yours, hm?”

“Please-”

“Louder.”

“Please.”

“Harlot.” Gojo slides in a looong few digits past those impossibly endless skirts of yours, making your thighs dampen with treacly webs of needy slick. Letting those doughy fingerpads fringe over the covered mound of your pussy, just the very edges. “That was my f-first kiss, y’know?”

He had been hopelessly saving it for you, after all. 

Your eyes roll all the way to the back of your weighted lids as soon as he teases you, mewling. “Was mine too, so we’re even-” Your hips shift in a lazy back n’ forth on top of his heated core, “-just- just want you to touch me.”

“I dunno…” Gojo drawls - drunken. And you feel the edges of his kiss-bitten lips warp around the very tip of your plummy tongue to suck on like his favorite gummy candy, “Wanna kiss my princess just a lil’ bit more.”

Panting, “K-kiss?”

“Mhm.” 

Your eyes shutter in a heady blink, oh-so-cutely ready to crash back into a filthy, filthy French kiss once more, Gojo pulls away-

A noise of disappointment fresh on your lips and just about to spill out, before he lifts you up easily with only a single beefy hand underneath your body. Splaying you out on the sprawling wooden table right beside you, your back hits the ice-cold surface and makes you gasp into the crisp night air.

The lecherous sound of it almost as loud as the sudden clack! of Gojo’s knees collapsing down onto the floor. Your face contorts into a wince because surely it sent a stinging pain up his legs?

“M’quite used to being on my knees for you, my princess.”

But he didn’t seem to care - didn’t even seem to notice when he was much more enamored with the heavenly sight down there.

“These lips-” He smears away your lacy layers upon layers, budging up to nuzzle the soft skin of your inner thighs. And shit- the filmy glaze over his eyes told you that Gojo doesn’t even realize the way his bubblegum pink tongue lolls out over the splotchy spatters of your juices. “-were tellin’ me they feel a little…left out.”

Your mouth waters with a syrupy lamination of saliva as soon as his murked breath strikes your cunt. And the drag of his rumbling bass is so delicious – you couldn’t help but imagine just how it would feel on you.

“Just- just get it on with it-” you’re hissing, fingers latching onto a few thick locks of ivory to drudge him ever-closer. 

“Impatient.”

As if Gojo himself wasn’t impatient. 

As if he wasn’t just leaking out thick wads of drool from the parted sides of his twisted grin at just the thought of tasting you. Sliding the pointed tip of his button nose languidly up the crevice of your puffed-up slit, he breathes you in and feels his cock twitch-

“Oh, princess.” Gojo can’t move, he can’t breathe if it wasn’t around your needy cunt right now. He’s ignoring those shooting bites of pain up the sides of his arm to tug on your useless garments.

Pulling- shit, he always did fucking hate how many layers you royalty had to wear. 

Pulling and pulling until the slow trawl of your undergarments by his nimble fingers wasn’t enough, and he just had to lunge his cottony head over to plummet his pearly whites into your panties and rip—!

A proper, gaping hole where your teary pussy was- and you looked even more gorgeous down there than he could’ve imagined.

Gojo’s face was blank, eyes wide and locked right at your geysering orifice like a man starved. For eons it felt like, until you were bucking up with pure need.

You’re humming in concern, struggling up onto your elbows to stare down at him. “Sa…Toru?”

And at your pretty voice, Gojo twitches. He gasps - full-bodied, like you’d just sent a zillion volts of shock down his sloped spine just by speaking to him. And he was well and fully intent on acting on it-

“Princess…princess princess princess—” Leaking from between his lips like he couldn’t stop, he hits the cute target of your cunt instantaneously with a fat thud of spittle, one. Two. Three, until your entrance was overflooding. He’s drawling the plummy end of his spit-glossed maw across your folds, “Oh, my princess. Just look at you.”

You feel his mess drool off the side of your plumpened pussylips and smear all across your peaked clit with only a simple touch of Gojo’s round-ended thumb. 

Just down-right filthy when he crashes forward to slot the curvaceous nub of his sweltering hot tongue over the brim of your hole. Drawing all over that snug orifice with slow patterns round n’ round-

“Toru–!” It’s the only thing you know at this point. “Toru.”

“Whaaat? Jealous, my princess?” The words clang in your head- and the realization hits you at the same moment Gojo’s thickly viscous swab of spit does on your own tongue. A soft nudge at your slackened chin urging you to swallow-

And he can’t waste a second, can’t spend even a mere moment away from his favorite spot between your legs. Because now that Gojo got a taste, he wants alllll of it.

Stumbling back down in haste to plant so many uncountable smooches on your bawling pussy folds. Skimming his tastebuds just along your quivering hole.

“Shit- shiiiit–” When you’d heard court ladies giggling about this, you didn’t think it would feel this good. Or maybe that’s just because it was Gojo stuffing himself impossibly deeper between your legs. “M-more, Toru–”

Your voice was cracking just as much as his fucking sanity was. 

Trilling out into frenzied shrills when Gojo swerves his eager thumb to pry open your gluey folds even further and give your fattened clit a flick!

You swear you feel Gojo depart his jaw with a giggle when your hips are bucking up pliably off the splintered table and into the bustling hot cavern of his mouth. More. “Easy there, your royal highness-”

“D-don’t call me that–” You’re whimpering, fingers tugging on Gojo’s bangs in some form of retaliation. But, of course it backfires on you just as soon as the force makes your knight moan.

“Wasn’t calling you that.” Gojo rolls his eyes, and your heart races in anticipation when the pointed edge of his chin strikes the drowned ends of your cunt. Lathering his pretty features in all the collective beads of slick raining fountaining out of you. His summer blue eyes flick downwards - and you can’t help but follow. “Was talking to her. Isn’t that right?”

Fuck.

You were fucked. 

And you were losing your mind when Gojo drags you roughly towards the edge of the table with only an ounce of his strength. Mouth making out greedily, heels digging into the fleshy mounds of his back, you can only sob and beg for more more more-

“S’fuckin’ chattier than my girl.” He’s nodding along with every saturated squelch after squelch! resonating in his eardrums - as if it was a full-on conversation with your noisy pussy. “Let’s hope that fiancé of yours doesn’t hah- f-fucking hear.”

But Gojo was acting like he wanted him to.

“Hope the- the king doesn’t find his princess bein’ eaten out by- ngh- a knight.” Barrelling long, slender inches of his index and pointer past your tight ring of mushy muscle. 

Your head throws back when he digs into the velvety depths of your pussy with just a single quirk-

“O-oh my god, Satoru–” You’re gasping in the flowery night air, tummy aching with every pump deeper because he was just so close to where you wanted him. “More- j-just a bit more.”

And yet, he acts like he doesn’t even hear you right now. 

Cupping over one massive palm over his ear and drifting ever-closer, “Wha’s that? C-can’t hear ya, girl- ngh ya gotta be- louder.”

Louder and louder he was getting with the vulgarly fast thrust graced upon your gummy walls. The sound only makes him giggle all drunk on you, “What’s that? Here? That turn you on? Hmmm…”

And just when you’re letting your vision blur with stars- just when you think it couldn’t get any better-

“Mmmm– wan’ another taste-” 

It’s the last thing your ringing ears hear before Gojo’s lurching forwards and burying his nose into your sensitive clit to give your overstuffed entrance a leeengthy lick. Right at the very split-second the globular edges of his digits scratch at that magical spot. 

“W-woah.” Your head snaps up blearily to steal a glimpse at what had Gojo Satoru’s voice so airy n’ cracking in awe. 

Only to see him fluttering his lathered lashes, the slick-gleaming apples of his cheeks blushing. Like some maiden in love. “Got even wetter f’me, your highness.” He’s breathing out, spitting out another voluminous cobweb of drivel and watching the way it sliiides across with the ribbons of slick pouring out of you. “Ohhhh, even b-better than any candy- better than a-any dessert.”  

You yelp when one rugged and grabs a rough handful of your ass and latches his lips even sloppier against your hole. “T-Toru your arm!”

“Oh? This?” He’s glancing down at the bandages as if he’d forgotten they were ever there. “S’nothing for your- hah- personal knight. Doesn’t even hurt, I’d- I’d rather die than let a stupid injury get in the way of what I’ve been dreaming of for aaaages.”

The dual points of pleasure make your toes curl, every part of your body shaking-

Gojo was out of control now. Crazed.

High-pitched bouts of giggles escaping him, muffling around where his candy-glazed cerise lips were latched around your clit and sucking. He makes sure to hold fatal eye contact while he hollows out his scorching cheeks and drags the fleshy nub. 

 “M-making out with your pussy- your pretty, pretty pussy, my princess.” Your heartbeat echoes in rapid staccato with the vicious thud! thud! thud! of his neatly crowned fingertips pecking your g-spot. Each of his puffed-out gruffs making your tongue loosen in a please, “Making you s-so loud, making you feel so good.”

And without even realizing it, he’s rovering the papping brims of his fingers to give your clit a spank. Letting the syrupy beads slide allll the way down his tongue - letting you watch. 

“S’all me.” Gojo slurs out. “Me- me me me me–” Steady rivulets of slick bubbling from the edges of his tongue when his sinful motions get faster. Harder. “Gonna ask who m-made you feel this way n’ it’s me. Your Satoru.”

More ravenous. 

Swirling around slow probes of his sensory tips, it glazes his skin all the way down to his knobbly wrist in a thick coat of sap. Memorizing every gooey ridge and crevice inside your tight channel - shit, Gojo feels his ruddied tip spurt out a jetstream of buttery pre in his pants. 

He thinks he might just burst in his pants if you don’t finish right this second. 

But luckily - or unluckily - for him, you do. Right this very second, after being wrung dry underneath only a few more lapping slashes of his ferocious tongue, tweaking your buttony clit until you cum.

And oh, you’re so pretty when you do.

Your head throwing back with a broken moan of Toru–! It takes every ounce of trained will in his drunken body to not break off from your gooey pussy and watch the way your beautiful face twists. 

Fucked out.

“O-oh, shit–” You’re practically sobbing at this point, wrist aching with just how hard you were pushing Gojo’s readily used face into your fluttering core. Your vision blurs with sparks n’ stars, “-H-how are you so good. Unfair, unfair—”

Babbling away such nonsense with that smart mouth of yours, Gojo thinks he sees utter heaven when your hot juices flood inside his mouth in generous heaps.

Lugging down an open palm underneath his chin to greedily collect the leaking beads that sprinkly in a shiny sheen off of his chin, he finds himself moaning. “Shhh, your knight’s here. Give it t’me– use me, my princess.”

And use him you were. 

Riding out each white-hot peak of your high with slobbering grinds all across Gojo’s beautiful features. Your clit catches on the poking ridges of his mouth and nose and you squeal- “Ngh- b-better when you’re shut up like th-this, Satoru–”

Just for that, he’s spanking your goopy pussy thoroughly. 

All the way until those shots of electricity down your bowed spine are nothing more but prickly tingles, all the way until your thundering ears calm down and you can hear each damp thwack!

All the way until your high has bated and yet, Gojo is still snogging each swollen fold of your pussy like a feast. “M’sensitive–” You sniffle, and he doesn’t even seem to hear you. “Fuh-fuck, Toru, keep doing that n’ m’not gonna let you ngh fuck me.” 

That’s what finally gets his attention. 

You can feel your lips burst with a slight giggle when all it takes is a quick nanosecond for Gojo’s plumpened mouth to jerk away from your cunt with the snap! of wiry slick.

Scrambling onto unsteady feet, he’s teetering over the edge of the wood ever-so-slightly. Muscular body casting a shadow on yours, and you think he’s never looked sexier.

Fawny strands of frosty white curtaining Gojo’s half-lidded eyes, thick thighs pressing against yours shivering; and even from your position homed towards the end of the table, your eyes catch sight of such a massively outlined bulge. 

Staggering. 

One that made your hands ghost down Gojo’s tensed abs, and he’s throwing his perspiration-dampened head with a whine. 

“Need you, Satoru–” You’re managing out, strangled and messy. You’re sure you sound just as yearning as you feel. Fingers tug-tug-tugging impatiently on his gauzy clothes, “Want- you- out of these-” 

And whatever the princess wants, the princess gets. 

It’s as if on command - Gojo’s shedding his billowy shirt like it burned him. And very, very soon were his snug pants to follow, your layers, his sanity-

“Hngh- please.” He’s gruffing out, flinching just as soon as you cup his cheeks to smear away the remaining traces of slick glimmering on top of his blushing skin. Your touch was electric. Tonality painfully hoarse, “Let me fuck you- wanted it for so long. Let me fuck you please.”

Your drenched pussylips stream out a damp spot right across where you could feel his inflated vein poke between your folds. And he felt so…long. “Yes- yes, please.”

Getting the princess to say please?

He’s nodding his head shakily - Gojo could pass out, he could cu- 

Oh, just a few taps of his mushroom tip on the outer edges of your pussy and he spots something creamy topping over your mound like icing. Sweat-slicked brows furrowing, Gojo nudges in even closer to where pooling splotches of cum pours from the strawberry pink divot right in the middle of his head.

He’s cumming and he couldn’t stop. 

Couldn’t do anything but whine at the tender bolts of bliss aching all the way from his toes to his fuzzy head.

“S-Satoru did you just-”

“Shut up.” Oh, you would have his head later for this. “Shut up- shut up and just…”

N’ so he curls a hand at his bulky base and draws out a thick swab at the torrents of seed decorating your cute cunt. Making sure the milky sap formulated a glossy cap on his crownhead, before pushing rigorously in-

“F-f-fuuuuck–” he keens out, a thin line of sweat trekking down the side of his temples. And if he pushed just an inch further, Gojo could feel his hooded eyes well up with fucking tears- “Tight so tight s-sooo hot- so…”

You’re mewling, “Deeper- c-c’mon.”

He was fucking you like he didn’t even realize it - like he was enchanted by each mindless rut pulled from the carnal depths of his hips. 

Two warm hands latch on in a vice-like grip on the delicious curve of your hips, and he’s holding your body still and pushing and pushing and pushing-

“Sh-shit!” Gojo’s voice pitches up embarrassingly high at the end of his slew of swears, buttering up your insides in a muggy few ribbons of pre in response. “But s-so tight- dunno if it’ll even…even fit.”

He sounded hypnotized. 

“Are you- ngh! are you alright, Satoru?” You’re musing out, eyes glassy with a solid combination of lust and utter concern. Before you know it, your hand is reaching out to stroke the ba-dump–! thudding against his pecs.

“No.”

And it takes only the slightest graze of your doughy fingerpads against his flaming hot skin, the slightest touch from you before Gojo rudely swats your hand away and bottoms out-

You don’t even know what you were mad at- were you mad?

You really can’t even remember. Not when the crowned tip of Gojo’s incredible length was planting a sweet peck right into the sponged ends of your cervix, the entirety of his shaft spearheading you so deep that you think he might just be fucking into your lungs. 

So big that he didn’t even have to try to rub the puffy zig-zag of his veins along your sweetest spots, even the most minute gyrations made your toes curl. 

Splitting you apart. Stroking the weepy base of your slit with the hot, rounded sack of his breeder balls so right that it made you putty in his hands.

“Don’t t-touch me, my princess.” Gojo’s nuzzling his tear-stuck cheek against your own, you could feel the warble of his unsteady confessions. “Don’t touch me or I’ll…I’ll cum.”

And when has Gojo Satoru ever lied to you? Well, the upturned jolt of his split-ended tip right into the target of your mushy cervix told you that he wasn’t.

Gojo’s sinking down the edges of his teeth into his wobbly lower lip, he’s forcing his eyes to narrow down n’ obscure his crystal clear image of you to stop himself from cumming. 

“So beautiful, can’t help it–” His breath hitches once he’s pushing apart your trembly thighs and stretching them over the two ends of his broad shoulders. Your ankles pitching down onto the rippling plush of his toned deltoids. “So perfect.”

“S-sweet-talker.” You whisper, mouth as dry as the Sahara with how his thick circumference was stretching out your rubbery walls until they were seering. 

But if Gojo heard then he didn’t snap back - he was too pussydrunken to.

Moving on instinct, on that carnal twinge inside his brain that forced his powerful limbs to lock your ankles with one hand behind his head. To brace an engulfing palm right beside your head and lower himself down, down, down into a-

A mating press. 

Gojo Satoru had you in a fucking mating press.

“So mine.”

And he was pounding all his aching inches into you like it would be the last time. Like he was mazing through your adhesive-like walls and plummeting the leaky end of his cock to knock against your very womb. 

Gojo’s nose crinkles at the sheer warmth you were coating him in, dripping fresh slathers of slick in rings ‘round his hilt. He shivers as it drools down his tight balls, “I’m…I’m really fucking you- ngh! I’m fucking you, my princess.”

“Yes- yes yes yes—” Your mouth parts ajar, and you don’t know what it floods more with - your pathetic whines, or saliva. Coating a treacly river from each curl of your lips, “More. More, Toru.”

Oh.

You might have just broken him with that. 

Even through your fucked-out stupor, you’re gaping at the way that the hand beside your head curls into an unyielding fist. It has to.

Otherwise, Gojo’s plump cockhead would be sugarcoating your sloppy hole in much more than just copious amounts of sticky precum. He would’ve cum.

“M-more?” You hear from above you, your knight’s bulging pecs vibrating with the plea. Oh, was it a plea - strained, shaking. Gojo sounded as if he was two seconds away from simply bursting into crazed laughter, “More…more. My princess wants- fuck! More?”

Fat ends of his fingers lock around the sides of your cheeks and force you into such an unladylike pout. “Say it- say it, little royal.”

“Shit!” Your core arches up into his hardened one, just as Gojo knew it would when angling his hips juuust right to give your bulging g-spot a long, hard swipe. Your throbbing clit scratching against his pale happy trail. “Yes- ngh yes I want more. Want more, Satoru!”

More. 

And more was exactly what you were going to get. More than you could handle.

Your thighs ache with the struggle to stay open when Gojo tightens his lock around your ankles. Gruffing out a tight, “Take it then.”

He was so sexy, the swelling flex of his biceps enough to make your pussy drool and him slip n’ slide pliantly. Jackhammering away rugged pumps that you feel all the way in your leaden throat.

Your most favorite spots are so bruised that they’re almost tender, curling the base of your spine with tendrils of bliss that make you yelp.

“O-ohhh my god—” The side of his neck dampens as you’re leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses that make the man pinning you down shiver. His sculpted abs twinging with every massage down your front, “Just like that, a-always wanted to fuck you, Toru–”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Gojo hiccups, the expression upon his features plain pained. Voice dipping into a whine, “Don’t know what y-you’re doing t’me.”

But now that you were babbling away, you couldn’t stop. Not even when he’s speeding up his vigorous cadence until the globes of your ass are left stinging, “M’serious– I always wanted-”

“Shut up shut up- shut up- my princess.” You don’t think that either of you were even lucid at this point, and every pap! of skin-on-skin is followed by the screeching creak of the table below you. Gojo rolls his eyes down at you fondly, “Gotta m-make you cum so you can shut up.”

Otherwise you were going to drive him wild until there’s no turning back.

Before you can let off a moan - or fervently agree - he thumbs over the perked hood of your clit. Drawing- circles? Hearts? No, his own name. 

A tedious little S-A-T-O-R-U that makes your gushing walls clench oh-so-tightly around his sweltering length. Tummy tightening into something so close to shattering. 

And Gojo was rough. Snickering at the way you whine, spilling out wadded volumes of spittle between your parted lips. He breathes, “Gonna make you cum- g-gonna make my princess cum.” You swear he nods down at your pussy and grins, “G-gotta be a good girl f’me, m’kay? Gonna be a good- girl- and…”

His hips slap sloppily against yours, overworked thumb stuttering on a swooping U over your sensitive nub. And the tension in the air pulls tight, tight, tight like the most delicate of strings, before crashing- “-cum.”

You don’t know who cums first - you or Gojo. 

All you know is that as soon as your mind explodes with bursts of bliss - his poor cock does, as well. 

Head toppling backwards, overfilled pussy slopping out waterfalls of sweet, sweet juices, it’s all you can do not to sob. 

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck fuck-” Your nails rake red, red lines all down his expansive back. Pulling him in even closer until all he can manage are dirty lil’ half-thrusts to pound you through your high. “M’cumming, Toru-”

“Y-yeah?” Gojo’s stuttering wetly, sloppily. Pushing the fat battering of his fountaining orifice into the groove of your g-spot over n’ over n’ over. You didn’t know how anything could feel so good. “N’ who made you cum, hm? Who’s f-fucking this pretty pussy, hm?”

“You-” You’re prattling, “You, Satoru.”

“Fuck.” Gojo gapes in wide-eyed craze, breath hitching when you lean over to drag your tongue over the sappy trickle of drool escaping his rose-red lips. “G-gonna make me cum again, swear-”

And he does.

“Can- can we hold hands while I hck! fuck you through your high, my princess?” He bats his lashes, a delicate blush taking over the tips of Gojo’s ears when you lace your fingers together. 

You can feel the splat! of even more heavy seed hitting the bottom of your pussy, swashing a warm second coating to your elastic walls every time Gojo thrusts. He was so solidly inside. Pinpointing specks of pure white with each swab. 

So full. So much of his voluminous ounces that it’s taken to tipping over from between your pussylips and forming a creamy puddle below you. You’re slipping all over it with every slither of Gojo’s cock.

But neither of you can even think to bring yourselves to be disgusted. To care for etiquette. 

Because Gojo drifts his hand over an invisible line where your tummy was being bloated with his length and his cum- and you find yourself aching for more all over again. 

“This looks…” Gojo starts, syllables scratchy and jagged. He’s practically whimpering - whimpering - at the sight of that lecherous cylindrical bulge being fucked into you. 

You’re dripping with him, and his cock twitches ferally at the thought of you all round and glowing. What a pretty mama you’d make. “...looks like the n-next heir to the throne will be a Gojo, my princess.”

Oh, you liked the thought of that.

And looking at Gojo Satoru now - eyes still not fully focused with how ruined he was, skin blushed the same maidenly shade of red that his slobbering mushroom tip was, pretty smile directed at you and only you in this lilac-scented haze - you didn’t think you wanted it any other way.

But, of course, Gojo would never want it any other way, either. Never. 

He clears his throat, sapphire gaze hardening; the intensity of it sending chills sprinting down your spine. Burning with a fervent I love you I love you I love you.

Massive hands intertwined with yours pull into your line of vision, and Gojo takes his dear time pressing a lingering peck onto each n’ every single one of your knuckles. But particularly on the one above your left ring finger.

This was it. 

“My princess…run away with me?”

.

.

.

“Didya hear ‘bout that Prince Naoya?”

“Oh yes- had his bride stolen away by a knight, I hear. Put a knife to his throat n’ took her away in the dead of night!”

“Hogwash! The boy was a looker, she went quite willingly, see- I always did think that Naoya wasn’t good ‘nough for our princess.”

“Wonder what happened after? That Zenin bunch was quite furious I hear, that bratty prince is still out for blood. But ol’ Naobito and some commander came to the rescue- Somethin’ about corruption and Jinichi…”

“Bah! Who cares about that? S’the biggest royal affair of the century- a handsome knight sweeping away the beloved princess? They’re swoonin’ n’ calling him the Knight of Roses already. All I wanna know is how the young couple is doing!”

Yaga rolls his eyes at other rambunctious customers churning gossip-mill, a pint clutched tightly in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other. 

Honestly, he comes to the pub for once to escape from palace duties - and the palace duties seem to want to escape with him! 

And even after so many months since that engagement party fiasco? News really did trickle down slowly when royal scandals were so often covered.

Oh, whatever. He muses, thumb gliding over the glossy parchment- some new innovation from kingdoms beyond the sea, according to what the eagerly-accompanied writing had said. A…a photograph, you had called it.

And Gojo’s surprisingly intricate drawing of you fiddling with the ah- camera gave him an idea of the machinery, though- most of the sketches were of you. All of them, actually.

Yaga gazes on in slight wonderment at the perfect black and white depiction of your smile, rivalling the one of Gojo Satoru’s beside yours. Beaming, sleeves rolled up and fatigued with a day of hard work, so in love. 

It was oh-so-positively sweet.

The cherry on top? Well, Yaga couldn’t quite decide between the matching bands glinting on each of your left ring-fingers, the glimpse of a pretty lil’ cottage behind you two, and the massive bouquet of undoubtedly deep red roses Gojo was presenting you with.

Or perhaps it was the hand you were resting absent-mindedly on the obviously rounded curve of your tummy.

How fortunate, he tucks away the photograph into his coat with a smile and orders another pint. Knight of Roses, indeed. 

A/N. Yearning is my kink mhm. Hope you have a lovely week <3

planted on the heels of whatever latest trendy shoes you own, you’re riding his cock as if he were your lifeline. god you feel divine— your folds swallowing him into your cunt with such ease and precision, walls clenching down the moment he’s balls deep. he can feel your acrylics scratching at his undercut with one hand while the other holds your body steady down his thigh.

gojo doesn’t think he’s breathing, and frankly, isn’t sure if he wants to. you’re reckless— moaning freely in the emptiness of the establishment and right into the shell of his ear as if your birthright, careless of the thuds of heavy textbooks hitting the floor. there’s a crease in your brows and your jaw hangs slack, glossy lips parted as they release the hymns of your cries,

“—so deep, can feel you in my stomach!”

your tits bounce in clockwise motions. you’d freed yourself from your top sometime between the flirting behind bookshelves and his pikachu drawls dropping down to the floor. the sound of your pussy squelching with every bounce is a memory he wouldn’t forget even on his death bed— cunt so wet he can hardly feel his own dick in you.

the pad of your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and you lean forward to catch it between yours. he’s frozen stiff— the slip of your tongue in his mouth, your overwhelming sweetness invading his senses. he’s moaning pathetically, growing some security in the muffled sounds, so overstimulated by this insatiable pleasure that his arms start to feel weak.

your tongue swipes at his lips before nibbling on the flesh, “—taste so good,” he feels your lips mouthing against his own, and wishes he was able to focus for a split second on what you told him, but the ache in balls are a telltale that this euphoric dream is drawing to an end.

he squints his eyes shut. he tries to focus on the latest chapter of his latest obsession manga and theories he’s conspired. he recalls the sneak of his wrinkly old professor’s ass crack from his early lecture. he thinks back on this auction he’s seen online for retro limited edition video games. did he ever end up submitting that biochem lab assignment due—

“gojo.”

he snaps his eyes open. he didn’t realize he’d clenched his entire facial muscles until the moment he was able to see you again— only releasing those muscles feeling tightness in his cheeks (amongst other places)(read: his cock).

you’ve slowed down your pace. you’ve switched your movements from bounces to grinding. he can feel his tip prodding at your gummy walls. your breath fans his cupid’s bow and he’s only now noticing how close in proximity you both are. he can feel your heartbeat against his chest, and he’s positive you can feel his stomach clenching against your own.

he begins to feel more of your body weight on his, a feeling he definitely wants to get accustomed to, as you shift from your feet to your knees. your hand on his thigh trails upwards past his trail of hair, sliding up past the ridges of his abs, over the planes of his chest and meet at his nape with its other duo. there’s an aroma of vanilla and cherries exuding off you—

heisenburg’s uncertainty principle. star wars mandalorian culture. the roswell ufo incident. fucking neon genesis evangelion’s a cruel angel’s thesis—

“you don’t like me?” you ask him, all doey eyed like. it doesn’t sound like a legitimate question, but his ‘huh’ does draw more into a whine when you intentionally clamp down on his dick. he doesn’t miss the mischievous glint in your eyes.

gojo bites down on his lower lip, fiddling with a loose thread on the carpet. his body releases a shudder at the chills creeping up his spine when you trace a finger down the slope of his neck, “w-what?” he asks weakly, huffing as his toes curl in his socks.

this time, you cock your head just barely to the side, and he watches your gaze trail from his lips to his eyes and back to his lips. despite the agonizingly slow pace, you never stop riding him. his cock is still graced by your warmth, still snatching his soul through his slit. your lashes bat twice before glancing back up at his eyes.

“you don’t like me.” you’re not asking this time, your tone dripping in seduction and like a fool, finds himself swayed. you’re teasing him— he can see it in the way the corner of your lips quirk into your infamous smile. you’ve got him wrapped all around your pretty finger— he knows it and you definitely know it.

as if he was anybody to not like you. your ass cheeks clench when you drive your body forward, gripping on his cock so tight he can feel the wind knocked out his lungs, “no! are you, ngh, crazy— of course i do—”

“because i like you.” it falls short of a whisper, but the vibrations of your words against his lips shoot right to his heart and balls, and he knows his blotchy cheeks are now flushed red for an entirely different reason.

he answers faster than his mind can process, his stomach jumping with butterflies and an oncoming orgasm. your eyes won’t leave his— like a deceiving siren baring deep into his soul and rendering him vulnerable before consuming his entire being. not too far from his reality, hips bucking upwards as desperately as possible to emphasize his immediate answer, “i like you too—”

“you won’t look at me,” gojo hadn’t realized he shied away from your gaze, pouring his entire focus on not spilling both his heart and cum right into you, “talk to me.”

“i-it’s just, um,” he tries to flick his eyes back onto yours, but you’re still staring so intensely behind siren eyes and still rocking your hips. your fluids drip past your cunt and down his sack, before staining the carpet, “i’m a—mmph, nobody and you’re— well, you’re you,” he feels a hot tongue glide over the accumulated sweat on his neck and humps up again, “y’re just so pretty and every time i look at you i get the urge to c-cum but,” your teeth sink into his jugular before nibbling and he whines, throwing his head back, “i want— need you to cum first. . .”

there’s a beat of silence for a while. you’ve even halted your grinding altogether. he prays to god he didn’t mess up the one good thing that’s happened to him in all his twenty one years of living. you’ve even popped his now bruised skin from your lips— hovering right over the mark you left on him. pleasure licks at his limbs feverishly, back arching in hopes to dig even deeper (if possible) in your pussy.

you pull away from his neck and the tip of your nose is back to grazing his own. your usually styled hair is now a mess, your skin dampening from moisture and your lip gloss now swapped for your and his saliva— your overall classic, picture perfect image completely abandoned,

and he doesn’t think you’ve looked any prettier.

“so,” you draw out, freeing a hand from his locks to graze over the throbbing love bite at his neck. gojo sniffs, pushing his foggy glasses back up on his bridge with the back of his hand, and you caress the throbbing flesh, “the problem is when you look huh. . .?”

his neck is suddenly released from blissful torture and he feels his frames coming off his face from no effort of his own. his vision slowly fades and his pupils dilate to accommodate to his now poor quality of sight, “what are you—”

and his breath hitches. he can only make out your shape through your sinful curves but there’s no mistake from your silhouette— your hands, now holding his glasses hostage, press at his chest, “trust me,” you apply firm pressure from your palms to his upper body, and he feels himself sinking into the floor, back meeting the dirty carpet.

trust you? he’d lay his life on the line for a woman like you.

his fingers spread as his palms face the sky, and his breath staggered. the bookshelves, windows and study rooms are all blurry as fuck— which is both off putting and extremely risky since library hours were still valid at this time, but despite it all, it felt as if he could see you clear as day. gojo would usually never put his academics on the line, but he couldn’t deny the thrill of possibly getting caught having sex with the finest girl in school in a public library had his cock twitching incessantly.

god, he is just so happy to be here.

your fingers slide his glasses atop your nose bridge, and your cheeks split into a cheeky smile, hips beginning to roll back into their previous tempo. he feels your hands grabbing his own, before resting them at your hips. he’s a greedy man, and since the opportunity may only come once in his lifetime, he slides his hands further to your ass., and with a gulp, grabs the flesh greedily. damn— it hardly fits in his palms.

there’s a symphony of moans coming from you both when you lift your hips up, and it’s downright disgusting how turned on he gets at your essence trickling down his shaft and past his balls. your pussy lips drool and latch onto his tip tightly, before entirely releasing him and slipping your hand between your thighs. you kneed his nuts, fondling the testicles between your digits expertly and his back arches off the floor, “shouldn’t be an issue anymore, yeah?” you hum.

“y-yeah— oh god, yes,” gojo nods dumbly, toes curling in his socks as you proceed to stroke his cock. his tip is weeping in pre cum blended with your own wetness, and the faster you flick your wrist, the tighter his stomach contracts. he’s lasted quite some time now, considering this being his first time and all, but there’s only so much a man can hold back. his fingernails dig crescent moon shapes into the mounds of your ass as his hips chase after your touch with every stroke. “w-wait, fuck, i’m gonna cum—”

“yeah?” you encourage him, hunching just over his weeping dick, still holding him at his base. you drag his tip in between your lips, back and forth, while your other hand feels him up at his abs. “where do you wanna finish? on my face?” he whines, mindlessly humping and your smirk deepens as you slowly sink down, “on my tits?” gojo shakes his head, and feels drool coming from the corner of his lips. his limbs are on fire and his groin feels like it’s on the verge of explosion, “on my ass?” you’re about halfway down, “or. . . inside?”

“please,” he doesn’t care if he’s begging. snowy lashes bat open as his teary unfocused eyes adjust to the dimmed lights. even your silhouette is sexy, “please lemme cum inside, i-i’ll do anything.”

“hmm, anything?” you purr, knees finally hitting the floor as you straddle him once more. he lets out a guttural groan at the familiar feel of your silky walls entrapping his cock. his mind is fucking hazy and despite never having consuming alcohol, he feels drunk.

“yes,” he pleads, rolling his hips impossibly deeper into you, euphoric pleasure shooting in his bloodstream, “a-anything you want, i swear,” at the sudden intrusion, you let out a loud gasp when his tip bumps into your cervix and drop your body forward, arms giving out.

chest to chest, skin to skin, your lips hover over his as your back dips into an arch, forcing a penetration deeper in your guts. your palms are pressed flat onto the floor at the side of his head, and he can make out his glasses sitting lazily on the ball of your nose. he slides his hands up your sides, kneading at every inch of your flesh, before sliding back down to your ass.

“even my homework? assignments?” you tease breathily, a strangled moan ripping out your throat when his knees push up and fucks into you. your body jerks forward as his feet plant to the floor, hands still gripping on your ass.

when he snaps his hips up, you roll yours down, and the matching intensity sends his brain haywire. he’s desperate for release, forcing your hips down as he nudges his cock languidly into your cunt. his jaw falls slack and he nods again, dumbly, “ngh, for the rest of the s-school year,”

“that easy with you?” you giggle, but is easily interrupted when he leans forward to catch your lips in a messy kiss. there’s a shit ton of saliva involved, some even escapes past your mouths and down your jaws, but he couldn’t care any less—you tasted heavenly. he wishes he had the time to eat your pussy, he’s positive you taste holier down there.

“it’s your world.” gojo moans, snaking his hands from your ass to wrap around your upper body. now caught in his embrace, you let your head fall limply into the crook of his neck as he works his dick in and out of you. he means what he said— it is your world, and he’s nothing more than a happy servant. “i’ll do it all— bring your books to class, rub your feet— i’ll bark if you need me to— just, please, please, please let me cum inside.”

your moans vibrating from his neck run straight to his ears and fuels him further. he’s thrusting relentlessly— there’s no set pace at all, and he’s so close to finishing he’s completely forgotten about wanting you to cum first. he finally understands why everybody obsesses over sex— he never wants to let you go.

your head pushes up from his neck, nosing at his jaw. he feels your hands cradling his hair, and your lips pressing kisses at the corner of his mouth. his heart skips a beat— he revels in the attention you’re giving him, even if it’s just for the moment. he knows he won’t ever be this lucky again, so he might as well enjoy the ride while he’s here.

“you wanna breed my pussy?” you bite your lip, each stroke in your cunt jerking the glasses down the slope of your nose. despite the dense flog clouding the lens, he can feel your eyes on him. he nods desperately, tightening his hold on you, and the new angle has your clit dragging against his pelvis, “mmph— okay, yeah — put a baby in me, freak.”

and so he does. he thrusts as spurts of cum shoots inside your womb. his balls tighten as his hips rut, arms clutching onto your body with every fibre in him. you smell good, feel good, look good— and your cunt milks him dry for whatever he’s worth.

his orgasm feels short of an eternity yet simultaneously a second, his soul having transcended into an outwardly dimension. and it’s only when you scoot your ass upwards, sliding a hand between both warm bodies, that you collect his cum on the pad of your fingers. he blinks hazily, zeroing his focus when he sees you pop your fingers into your mouth.

“mhm,” you hum at the taste. he’s panting heavily, body riding a euphoric high he’s yet to come down from. you don’t seem to mind, leaning forward to catch his lips once again. and he lets you, moaning at the taste of himself on your tongue. when you pull away, there’s a thin string of cum induced saliva pulling at your lips. “‘s my world, right? want my pussy in your mouth.”

and he instantly hardens.

It’s been six days, fourteen hours, and three minutes since you’ve last contacted Rafayel. 

Not that he’s been counting.

Again, he flips his phone around, scrolling through dozens of notifications, and not bothering to read a single one as he fails yet again to find your name among them. A scowl, and he tosses his phone across the couch. Insane doesn’t begin to describe the spiral Rafayel has descended into since you infiltrated the N109 Zone— since he reluctantly agreed to set you up as bait and watched you get taken away. 

Since he made a deal with the devil on your behalf. 

“The Nest, you actually got it? How?” 

“You doubted me, cutie?”

“Doubt?” You snort, rolling your eyes as you yank Rafayel closer by the collar, gaze flickering from his lips, eyes, and back again. Leaning in closer, you wait until Rafayel’s eyes nearly flutter shut before pulling back, snatching the invitation from his hands with a smirk. “Never, fishie.”

Rafayel now wishes you had. Wishes he finally kissed you, wishes he never let you go. At least, not alone. 

The memories and regrets tug at him so violently that he can’t stand it, every “what if” fear blending in with shattered memories of you dying before him in lives past, bloody and heart torn from your chest as he’s doomed to chase after you again and again and again. 

Rafayel stands abruptly, chair falling back with a bang. 

Fuck it, he’s going after you. 

The damned N109 Zone never changes. 

Different venues, different gang names, different “world-ending” weapons. But even after several millennia, the greed and stupidity of humankind remains forever stagnant and forever their greatest weakness. That, and the nauseating smell of gunpowder and whiskey. 

It all makes Rafayel’s stomach roll, and he thumbs at his tie, slacking against his neck before he snatches a glass of champagne from a waiter. Unsurprisingly he does recognize a handful of faces, some from his own gallery exhibitions, others as past targets, or grandchildren of someone he used to know. Not that any of them mattered.

He walked down a hallway filled with Protocores leading up to the banquet hall, and yet strangely enough every last one was bought for an exorbitant amount, even the smallest fragment that barely emitted any kind of energy. What kind of idiot…

Rafayel’s frown deepens, and he shoots down yet another glass, moving from champagne to whiskey as he winces from the burn. 

Then, Rafayel spots you.

You’re alive. 

You’ve alive and you look absolutely fucking gorgeous, prowling across the auction in a cocktail dress, fabric dark enough that it only shimmers a deep red when you dance from spotlight to spotlight. 

Before he even realizes it, he’s running. Trying and failing for it to look as natural as possible,, slamming into a waiter and mumbling out an apology as he rushes to your side, nearly dashing onto the dance floor when the shadows seem to lunge– growing and shifting and laughing in an ancient language Rafayel can barely understand as something else steps out from them. And wraps a clawed hand around your waist.

Another man, infuriatingly tall and reeking of the sky and ashes, his hair bleached the same pale color, leans down to whisper something into your ear as you laugh. Laugh. 

And gods new and old, Rafayel sees red. 

Rafayel’s breath catches, chest tightening with a fury so raw it feels like it might crack him open. The din of laughter and clinking glasses becomes a dull roar in his ears, drowned out by the pounding of his heart. He barely registers the heat raging down his veins, a warning that his restraint is fraying faster than he can piece it together.

An uproar of murmuring steals your attention away from Sylus, and you finally allow your fake smile to drop. Only for your jaw to fall entirely as you see Rafayel standing only a couple of meters away, violent white flames licking against his fingertips as other guests begin to gather. 

What the fuck is he doing here. 

“Rafayel.” Your voice cuts through him, hissing in warning. But the sound of it— alive, steady, and wholly unimpressed— does nothing to soothe him. If anything, it stokes the fire.

Sylus turns slowly, his lips curling into a lazy smile. When his eyes land on Rafayel, something flickers in the depths of his right pupil. “Oh?” he drawls, voice dripping with amusement. “Looks like you picked up a stray, kitten.”

The nickname grates against your nerves, but it’s nothing compared to the way Rafayel reacts. His flames flare brighter, casting eerie shadows across the room as his fists clench. “Take your hand off her.” 

More patrons are beginning to notice. 

Sylus’s grip on your waist doesn’t waver. Instead, he tilts his head, “Her? Oh, you must mean my companion for tonight.” He shifts slightly, leaning down as if to make a point, his hands brushing against the small of your back, right where the silk meets bare skin. “I think you have it mistaken though, she’s the one who practically dragged me here. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and frustration coursing through you. You force yourself to step between them, planting a hand firmly against Rafayel’s chest before he can close the distance. Thankfully, it makes the flames sputter down to a dull glow in his palms. 

“Stop,” you hiss. “What the hell are you doing here, Rafayel?”

His eyes lock onto yours, wild and burning with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. “I came for you,” he snaps as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, congratulations,” you snort, “You found me.” Glancing over your shoulder, you catch the glint of recognition in the eyes of more than a few guests. “And so has everyone else I’ve been trying to avoid.”

Rafayel doesn’t flinch, his gaze darting briefly to Sylus before returning to you. “I don’t care about them,” he mutters, brows furrowing. “I care about you. I never should have left you, let you go. Come back with me.”

Before you can even respond a deep chuckle cuts through, Sylus stepping forward as he tucks you into his side and reaches around to place a hand on Rafayel’s shoulder. Pinning you between them. “Touching. But you should know better than to interrupt our business, artist.”

Rafayel’s flames reignite instantly, searing white-hot as he shoves Sylus’s hand off his shoulder. “I already told you to get your hands off her,” he growls, stepping forward, entire body radiating heat as he’s mere inches from Sylus’s face.

“Or what?” Sylus taunts smoothly, something in his eye flashing with amusement. “You’ll set this whole place on fire? Very subtle. I can see why you’re such a popular target.”

Target? You linger on it longer than you should've, pieces about Rafayel’s surprising knowledge about the N109 Zone and Sylus’s insistence on resonating as your partner begins to swirl around again. That is, until you physically feel the heat from Rafayel’s flames begin to char into the wooden floorboards. 

“Stop it, both of you!” Snapping, both of their heads whip down to you as you struggle to shove them apart. “You’re drawing attention. Do you want to blow this mission completely?”

“Mission?” Rafayel scoffs, his gaze snapping back to you. “If this was a mission, why would you agree to work with him?” He tilts his chin to Sylus, who simply shrugs, shadows flickering and rising at his back. Shit. 

“Her choice, really,” Sylus interjects, voice dripping with false sincerity. “Not that I blame her. All bark and no bite, aren’t you, puppy?”

Rafayel goes deathly still.

So Sylus allows himself to step closer, chest now pressing up against your bare back, the gesture irritatingly casual. Intimate. “It must be exhausting,” he continues, “Running around, chasing after scraps of attention. Does she even notice? Or is this just another case of unrequited devotion?”

“Say that again,” Rafayel growls, flames licking up his palm.

Sylus grins wider, clearly enjoying every second. Enjoying his reactions. “Oh, I’m sorry, did that strike a nerve? You must be used to following orders by now, so tell me, does she ever let you off leash, or do you only bark when commanded?”

“Sylus,” you snap again, cutting off whatever retort Rafayel has ready. You glance around, realizing the murmuring crowd has turned into a full-fledged audience, their gazes sharp and curious. “You’re both acting like children. The target—”

The sound of shattering glass cuts you off.

You whip your head around, just in time to see a hooded figure perched atop an overturned table. A small, cylindrical case glints in their hand, and your blood turns cold as you feel the overwhelming pulse of an unleashed Aether Core. 

“Run!”

The word barely leaves your mouth before the world explodes.

A deafening boom shatters through the venue, blast wave throwing you backward. The force knocks the air from your lungs, glass and debris raining down like jagged confetti. You hit the ground hard, pain shooting through your side as the heat of the explosion sears your skin.

Through the haze of smoke and ringing in your ears, you catch fragmented images: chandeliers crashing to the floor, tables splintered, and guests scrambling for cover and weapons as gunshots ring out.

Sylus is a blur of movement, his shadows coiling and slashing through the chaos. Rafayel is kneeling beside you, flames erupting instinctively to shield both of you, looking down with wide eyes.

“Get—” you try to shout, but another powerful wave of the protocore squeezes your heart, and your vision blurs as you heave for breath.

The last thing you see is Sylus stepping over Rafayel’s crumpled form, hauling him over one shoulder before beginning to carry you, too.

Then, nothing.

It’s cold. 

The explosion. The Aether Core. Sylus. Rafayel.

A gasp tears from your lips as you jolt awake, your body reacting before your mind catches up. The world spins in protest as you try and sit up, chest heaving like it’s trying to claw back air that’s been ripped away. Spinning, the world is still spinning as control of your body returns to you—pain prickles along your limbs, your skin freezing against the stiff leather beneath you.

Blinking hard, you push up on trembling arms, the faint scent of dust and something metallic clogging your nose. The ache in your skull is relentless, pulse hammering against your temples. You’re not in the banquet hall anymore. There’s no fire, no rubble, no echoing gunshots. 

Instead, shadows claw at the corners of a room you don’t recognize. Empty walls of an office greet you, dark and seemingly abandoned with an unlit fireplace, heavy drapes smothering the windows, and a lavish seating area you’re in the midst of with a couch, coffee table, and—

Someone’s there.

Slumped in a leather chair near the fireplace, head tilted at an unnatural angle, is… “Rafayel.”

You call out to him in a gasp, a raw mix of relief and dread. His head hangs low, chin brushing his chest, his arms seemingly tied behind his back. For one desperate, fleeting moment, you think he’s asleep. But the light catches on something wrong, something warping along his body. 

Shadows.

They slither down his now bare chest and around his legs, dark, writhing tendrils of unnatural energy that pulse and coil, anchoring him to the chair. They’re the only thing keeping his unconscious form upright, taut and unyielding, glowing faintly at the edges with an unmistakably familiar red glow. 

“Relax, he’s not dead.”

The voice is a smooth drawl, and your head whips around to find a heavy desk in the center of the office, and of course, the origin of the voice seated at the head of the desk, arms crossed as he watches you with an amused smirk.

“What did you do, Sylus?”

Your hands instinctively go for your guns but only brush against empty holsters instead. Weaponless, you stumble off the couch, placing yourself between Rafayel and the still-seated man as you glare down at him. 

Sylus doesn’t even flinch. If anything, your anger only seems to amuse him further. 

“We had a chat while you were sleeping.” With a sigh, he rises from his chair, every movement exuding practiced ease as he encircles the desk, making his way to you. A crow circling a corpse. “Turns out you’ve been keeping more from me than I thought. That, and your memory truly is terrible.”

Sylus stops just short of you, tilting his head back as his eyes roam your face, his grin growing sharper, fang peaking out. “Not one but two immortals? You certainly are greedy, aren’t you, kitten?”

Your stomach twists. 

Nothing he’s saying makes sense, but the words cut into your gut regardless. Like a broken promise, like an old wound. “Let him go, Sylus. Now.”

But Sylus doesn’t move. He stands there, tapping a hand to his chin, studying you with a look that makes your heart throb, his right eye beginning to glow a crimson red. Amusement flickers behind his eyes, but there’s something else, too. Something darker.

“Twice,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his gaze slipping briefly to Rafayel’s bound form. “Twice, you’ve cursed those who thought themselves unstoppable. Twice, you’ve bound your heart and soul.” His eyes snap back to yours, glinting with a sharp, cruel edge. “Not that you’d remember.”

Almost like he’s in pain. You stiffen, breath catching in your throat.

“Humans,” Sylus continues, the word dripping with scorn. “So quick to lay claim to what they desire, so insatiably greedy.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, heavy with mockery, hands ghosting down your side as you shiver despite yourself. “And you, sweetie, are no different.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A chuckle, “Of course you don’t.”

Sylus fights the urge to laugh. No wonder the god of the ocean itself followed you around like a lovesick puppy— Sylus was hardly taking it any better, but at least he just had the self-control to hide his obsession.

A strained groan echoes through the room, low and guttural. Your head snaps toward Rafayel, the sight of his head lifting weakly making your heart lurch. His hair is matted with sweat, and when he looks up, his sunset eyes are furious blue, darker than the ocean itself, narrowing to slits as the shadows twist tighter around his body. 

There’s a moment, just a heartbeat, where you see something raw in his gaze. Relief. Desperation. And then, it’s gone, replaced by a scowl that’s as sharp as any blade.

“Well, look who’s awake,” Sylus hums, and you nearly collapse in relief, turning to rush to Rafayel’s side when something stops you halfway. 

Two simple threads of shadow chain you down, dragging you back to Sylus as the other binds your hands behind you, unaffected by your sudden thrashing. In faux comfort, Sylus curls an arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace as the other rests against your ribs, drawing comforting circles against your tattered dress—the once pristine silk only just gifted to you destroyed with gashes and holes from the explosion.

Rafayel’s lip curls, his voice a growl despite the rasp of exhaustion. “Should’ve known a snake would take a deal and twist it. This is your plan? This is what you call a friendly competition?” 

Sylus tilts his head, his smirk turning predatory. “Careful, puppy. You’ll get your turn, I never specified who went first.”

Silence. 

You feel like you’re playing catch-up, each word only adding to the confusion as the tension grows thick enough to choke on.

And then Rafayel laughs. His entire body shakes with it, head thrown back against the chair he’s still bound to, laughing and laughing until he’s all but spitting flames. They erupt from his palms, climbing down the marble floors, vibrant pinks and reds curling into empty air as shadows dance to put them out. 

Sylus doesn’t release you, though his fingers twitch against your ribs as the flames light up the room. His smirk falters just slightly, replaced by something harder to read—a flicker of recognition, perhaps, or respect.

Rafayel’s laughter fades, his head rolling forward again as if it took everything in him to laugh at all. When his eyes meet Sylus’s, they’re cold and dark, an abyss in the ocean.

“You really think this will win her back?” Rafayel spits, tremors of barely-contained fury ripping through him as he struggles against the tendrils that hold him. The shadows only tighten in response. His glare cuts to you, begging. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a liar, a snake. All those ugly cold-blooded beasts do is lie.”

Sylus snorts, hugging you closer as the low scoop back of your dress causes your skin to brush against his chest. “Lie? Are you always this dramatic?” He tilts his head, mocking. “Perhaps you should’ve asked about the rules before we began. Backing out already?”

Flames spark from Rafayel’s body again, this time uncontrolled, swirling in frantic spirals like an inferno around him. His body trembling against the leather. “Release me then! Let me go first, let me show you she doesn’t need you. She’ll remember me.”

“You’re awfully bold for someone tied to a chair.” 

Sylus leans down to graze your neck with his lips, tilting his head like he’s savoring the sight of Rafayel’s frustration as he whispers into your ear just loud enough for him to hear. “Your puppy never stops barking, does he.”

Rafayel takes the bait, fire searing through wood, flickering in and out. “She’s not yours to take,” he seethes, shadows and flames casting violent shadows across the room. “Not yours.”

This is beyond ridiculous. 

You try and jerk away from Sylus, forgetting about the shadowy tendrils also holding you in place. Instead, you settle for pushing Sylus back with your bound arms, glaring at the both of them bickering like feral cats once again. “Both of you, stop! Whatever grudge you have with each other, leave me out of it!”

Sylus chuckles, the sound low and unnerving. “Leave you out of it? Oh, kitten, you’ve always been at the very center. You just don't remember yet.” His hand slips from your ribs to lift your chin, tilting your face toward his as he gazes down at you with something almost… reverent. “But don’t worry, we’ll help you remember everything.”

His words send a pang through you, a strange and unbidden ache that threatens to consume you from the inside out. You’re left suspended between them, chest heaving, mind a whirlwind of confusion and doubt. And yet, somewhere deep inside, you can feel it—an echo of something ancient and unshakable, something you don’t understand. Something they both seem to know.

That alone seems to calm Rafayel, at least, for long enough that Sylus can bind his hands together, unable to conjure any more flames before gagging him with a veil of shadows too. Something that immediately sends the man into a frenzy as he curses and squirms against the restraints. 

“What are– Sylus, release him right now—”

“Relax.” You’re also being hoisted higher up into the air, feet barely touching the floor as your arms strain above your head. “He’s simply upholding his part of the deal. Besides, he’s not the one who deserves to be punished tonight. That, sweetie, would be you.”

But before you can rebuke, a huff of hot breath caresses your neck, Sylus humming against your ear as you shiver involuntarily. “You can’t blame me. After all, you’re quite cruel to curse both of us and then go about forgetting entirely.” 

Sylus drags his hand down your ribs, thumb catching a rip in your dress as he tears it all the way down until his fingers reach the bare plush of your thigh. His grip tightens, and your sudden moan startles you nearly as much as it does the other two, shaking and needy at barely a touch, your body pulled upwards by Sylus’s shadows as you’re now balanced precariously between his hold and the brush of your toes against the floor. 

“Tell me, does it hurt? That part of you that used to belong to us?”

The sensation is so foreign, the warmth and gentleness of his touch such a contrast to the cruelty he's displayed, but your traitorous body welcomes the contrast, leaning into his palm. “What are you talking about?” Your voice is shaky, unconvincing even to yourself. “I don’t—”

“Oh, you don’t remember,” Sylus cuts in, mockery dripping from his words. “But your body does. That’s the funny thing about bonds, darling. They don’t care about your memories. They care about promises. The ones you made. The ones you broke.”

You can feel the heat of Rafayel's gaze on you, watching as Sylus slowly runs his hand up your leg, the heat of his touch deliciously contrasted by the cool iron of his rings, making you shudder as they circle the tender flesh of your inner thigh. You fall forward, pulling against the restraints, unable to resist the urge to push into his touch.

Behind you, Rafayel lets out a muffled roar, thrashing against his binds. His fury burns through the room, flames licking at the air around him, casting wild, flickering light that illuminates the shadows writhing against his skin. Even gagged, his expression a storm of conflict, boring into Sylus with a fire that refuses to be smothered.

“See how desperate he gets?” Sylus laughs, his breath hot against your ear. “Always so loud, so needy. So quick to burn himself, like that’ll make you notice him more.”

Rafayel’s muffled snarl grows louder, and the flames around him surge, threatening to overwhelm the shadows keeping him bound. He jerks forward, the chair groaning under his strength, his entire body trembling with the effort.

Sylus smirks, unbothered, even amused. “Careful, puppy. Else I might think you’re trying to cheat.”

You wrench yourself away from Sylus’s grip as much as the shadows will allow, suddenly aware of how exposed you are with your torn dress.

“Cheat at what?” Thrashing, you try to slip from the restraints, which only has Sylus’s Evol squeezing tighter, pulling your wrists from behind your back to up in the air.  “Let us go, now.”

“Feisty,” Sylus purrs, hand moving from your thigh to your jaw. Squeezing your cheeks between his forefinger and thumb, he wrenches your gaze off Rafayel, forcing your neck to crane up to look him in the eye as he presses up against your back.

“That’s always been your problem, hasn’t it? Always resisting, even when you don’t know why.” His lips quirk into a wicked smile. “In that case, say no.”

And then Sylus’s lips are on yours, warm and insistent.

Your eyes widen, a muffled sound of surprise rising in your throat as the warmth of his kiss spreads across your lips. It’s instinct, the way your body immediately leans into his embrace, desire and confusion tearing at your chest. 

The logical part of you wants to pull away, but oh, something deep inside you sings so sweetly at his touch, making your mind fuzzy and body hot as Sylus tilts your head to the side. The angle has your neck screaming in protest, trapped between Sylus’s possessive grip on your neck and his chest, yet you swear it’s the dichotomy between the pain of his grasp and the devotion of his lips that has you addicted.  

This close, his scent is entirely intoxicating, a heady mix of spices and smoke, breath hot against your mouth, his lips surprisingly soft, gentle against yours. He doesn’t rush, a low, contented noise humming in his chest as you deepen the kiss, already licking against his bottom lip as you crane your neck for more, grinding back against him as best you can with your arms now bound above you. 

You don’t even realize you’re doing it. 

The bond with Sylus purrs in realization, and he has to summon up every ounce of strength and control left to break away, groaning into your skin as his lips trailing along your jaw, down to your neck, teeth grazing every spot that makes you shiver, and yet refusing to sink in. Refusing to mark you as his own. Not yet. 

When Sylus finally pulls back, you're panting, flushed and breathless. An absolute mess. 

"You're fussy, kitten," he murmurs, panting, his large frame practically surrounding you, heaving as you stumble forward under the weight. "But if you want more, you need to answer me."

"I don’t understand.” You’re panting, and fuck, it’s hard to breathe. ”What does this have to do with…"

The hand not busy laying claim to your throat travels down to meet the rip in your dress, brushing across your bare ribs. You feel Sylus smile into the nape of your neck as you moan at the icy burn of his rings caressing the flushed skin of your chest, his hand large enough to cup the entirety of the poor, sensitive flesh. 

That is, until his touch retreats entirely, the searing heat of his presence replaced with an empty chill. 

“Yes or no?” Sylus’s voice is low, rough, and commanding, but there’s a crack in his tone that gives him away. “I need to hear it, kitten. I need to hear you say you want this.”

You groan, head lolling forward, feeling the last shreds of your resolve crumble. It’s almost too much to bear, shadows coiled around you like velvet chains, holding you upright even as your strength falters. 

Why were you even fighting in the first place? The thought slips from your grasp, fleeting as a wisp of smoke. You can barely recall why you’re mad at them, at Sylus, at Rafayel. The failed mission, the target slipping away…it all feels inconsequential now, eclipsed by the molten desire in your chest. Did you not want them both? Did you not dream of this? Did you not die for this? 

The flicker of Sylus’s red eye pierces through the dark, pulling you out of your own thoughts and anchoring you back to this reality as you feel the rumble of his laugh vibrate through your chest even though he’s no longer touching you. You wish he were. 

“Then say it.” You hear him step closer, but still refusing to touch you. “Say you want this, or else it stops.”

And then it’s back.

A violent surge tears through your chest, flashes of color—of memories—fluttering by in a tempest, in an unintelligible inferno as the burning within your heart returns tenfold. Images flash too fast to comprehend, but the feelings linger: love so deep it swallowed you whole, betrayal like a knife twisting in your ribs, desire that turned your world to ash. 

They ripple through you, each thread of memory, each red string of fate tying itself tighter to your soul.

You’re gasping, trying to grip your chest as it feels like your heart is going to burst from your chest, desperate for relief. But Sylus’s Evol makes it impossible to move, snaking down your body instead as it anchors you against the pain attempting to seize your entire being. 

You want them. 

You need them. 

After all, they were always yours.

"Yes."

The word tumbles out, barely audible, a whispered confession that feels like release and surrender all at once.

Control returns to you in waves, your body trembling as if it’s been dragged from the brink of collapse. Your thighs quiver, and even the hold of Sylus’s Evol isn’t enough to stop the shuddering. Everything burns. Gods, everything burns. 

Behind you, Sylus makes a low sound that only makes the shaking worse. It’s raw, guttural—a noise you feel rather than hear. His control is unraveling, and for the first time, you realize he’s as close to breaking as you are.

He’s trembling.

Even with his iron control, even with his Evol wrapping around you like armor, he can’t stop the way his fingers hover just shy of your skin, tracing the curve of your neck, your spine, your waist, like he’s memorizing you. And he’s close—too close. 

His breath is hot against the nape of your neck, and you can feel the tension radiating from him, maintaining that invisible barrier as he replays your ‘yes’ in his mind again and again and again.

“What was that?” His voice is a rough whisper, but the challenge is clear. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Yes!” You nearly yell it this time, humiliation burning across your cheeks, but it’s dwarfed by the heat of your desire. ”I said yes.”

Sylus lets out a broken sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and every reason he’s had to hold back shatters. His Evol ripples, shadows weaving around your body in a dark embrace. Hands fly to your hips, a palm squeezing your thigh as your left leg is lifted completely off the ground. 

Sylus inhales you in greedy mouthfuls, lips dancing down your neck, your shoulder blade, nipping into the skin, reverent and desperate in equal measure. This new position was beyond vulnerable, Sylus forcing your quivering thigh higher and higher until it presses into your chest, the crude slice in your dress providing absolutely no resistance or chance for modesty, allowing everything to be exposed to the chill of the office’s midnight air. 

And to the hungry gaze of the man seated before you. 

"So needy, kitten. Are you finally remembering?” Sylus coos against your ear, but his smirk is fixed on Rafayel, looking directly at him as his free hand trails down between the slits of fabric, toying with the lace band of your panties, long, rough fingers slipping under them in teasing circles. “Beg.”

“What?” You hate the way your voice quivers as Sylus teases your cunt through the thin, already-drenched fabric. “You’re out of your—ah, fucking—mind, Sylus.”

“Quite the opposite. After all, we have an audience to impress.” A sudden slap against your clothed pussy has you moaning, jolting against your restraints, futile, and yet the disturbance is just enough for the left strap of your dress to slip off your shoulder, exposing the swell of your breast just shy of the nipple that was no doubt already hard enough to peek through the sheer silk all on its own. 

“Go on, beg for me.”

You don’t even get a chance to argue, not when Sylus delivers another harsh slap on your clit, soothing it with a cruel swirl, just enough to have you chasing the friction, grinding down against his palm with a choked sob. His middle two fingers tease against your slit, teasing but never breaching as the soaked fabric is stretched around his digits. He’s breaking you, and it’s working. 

"...Please." It comes out in a whine, and you bury your face in his chest as you feel yourself burn in embarrassment. 

A hum and Sylus’s hand leaves your cunt, making you whine at the loss. That is, until it's replaced on your neck, pushing your head up. A squeeze. "I said beg."

The pressure of his hold and the sweet demand of his voice only makes you wetter despite yourself. "Please," you repeat, shaking, each breath cut off just slightly by his thumb. "Please, Sylus, need it."

At first you think the bastard is doing this for himself, but as soon as you finish gasping out the words, his hand moves from your neck to your hair, pulling your head back and forcing you to look across the room. 

Forcing you to look right at Rafayel.

Still bound and gagged, desperate doesn’t begin to describe him. Straining against his bounds, Rafayel’s entire body is shaking, trembling from either need or fury, gripping the leather until his knuckles turn white. Sunset eyes are glassy, blown out with unshed tears as they struggle to focus on everywhere Sylus touches you, the bruises against your neck, the quiver in your leg, the slick dripping down your thighs up to your clothed cunt.

Fuck, he’s hard. Rafayel’s cock strains painfully against his pants, an obvious dark spot tented up against his trousers, rocking against empty air with a muffled sob.

He looks more wrecked than you, and he hasn’t even been touched yet.

And that realization does horrible, terrible things to you. 

“Please. Need you, need it s’bad it hurts. Wanna cum so, so badly, please,” you whine, deliberately sweet, locking eyes with Rafayel as you drag out your moan. “Sylus.”

There’s a click of a belt buckle and you’re being lifted up into the air. Sylus holds you up by the backs of your knees, completely at his mercy as your hands flail against the restraints pulled taut above your head. Your legs are spread wide, hugged tight to his chest as you feel his length, hot and desperate, pressing into your ass. 

"Hold her down."

The shadows pull taut, wrapping around your knees as they allow Sylus’s hands to wander elsewhere, suspending you against him. At the same time, his fingers are hooked against your panties, snapping them against your weeping cunt and giving Rafayel the perfect view as the two men lock eyes.

Rafayel’s reaction is almost immediate, falling forward in the chair, moans stifled against the shadows as he watches Sylus push your panties to the side and then, without warning, thrust two fingers in knuckle-deep. 

"You're so sensitive, aren't you, sweetie? Or is it because he’s watching?" As you cry the man simply drags you flush against his chest, forcing your legs higher as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. And looks Rafayel dead in the eyes. “She’s taking me so well, isn’t she?”

Sylus follows Rafayel’s gaze, unfocused and starving as he watches the two of you, more specifically, where your cunt greedily sucks up Sylus’s fingers, meeting every grind and curl of him deep inside you as you writhe against his chest. 

Rafayel hates it, he hates it, and he hates how turned on he is at the sight.

You’re so easy, walls clenching around his digits, obscene suck following each and every movement as clear evidence even as your words fail you. With another curl of his fingers, Sylus twists his wrist, admiring the glint of your slick dripping down his palm and forearm. So wet, even as he purposefully avoids giving you what you’re seeking, planning to drive you insane before fucking you in any way that matters.

A particularly deep thrust of Sylus’s fingers has him grazing that sweet spot, and your entire body convulses, your cries echoing across the empty room in time to the lewd, wet squelches of Sylus’s ministrations. You're sobbing, struggling to find respite from the sensations as your legs tremble and familiar heat coils in your core embarrassingly fast. 

"Ah, ah," Sylus chides, and his touch disappears, leaving you empty and unsatisfied as your head lolls back against his shoulder. It takes all of your willpower not to beg him to keep going, but the look on his face makes it clear you're not allowed.

"I need—”

"You need," his grip is firm, "To learn patience. Aren’t you forgetting something? If you cum so quickly, do you really think you’ll be able to handle the both of us?"

Sylus says that, and yet he’s not exactly helping. Finally giving attention to your clit, his pace is merciless, the slick sounds of your pussy sucking his fingers in making his cock twitch in his pants.

"Yes. Yes, Sylus, I want ah– wait," you gasp, unable to move, squirming in the air as you look directly at Rafayel, almost in a plea. But that only makes the poor man almost cum at the eye contact. His entire body flushes an erotic pink at the sight of you, pathetic whimpers and unintelligible praises muffled into the shadows.

Sylus smirks, feeling you clench around his fingers, and grinds forward, your protests dissolving into static as you feel his cock grind between your thighs. Fuck, you’re close.

But Sylus isn’t looking down at you, not anymore. He’s rather focused on the poor man looking nearly hypnotized at the show you’re so generously putting on. 

So why not take it further? Sylus directs his Evol down, ripping Rafayel’s shirt and squeezing his thighs as they tease and tighten against his trembling muscles, grinning at the man practically falling apart without so much as a touch. 

"You want a taste, puppy?” 

Sylus smirks, kissing down your neck, finally undoing his Evol gagging Rafayel’s mouth as a pathetic whine echoes across the room alongside every heaving breath. “Ask nicely, and maybe I'll let you. If she cums, she’s all yours."

Rafayel has never wanted to burn a building down so badly before. 

He's a god for fuck's sake—he, the bringer of tempests, the master of tidal waves, and the keeper of fire, unable to even fucking breathe at the sight of you. This is not desire; this is sacrilege. 

But then he hears it. His name. Shattered, trembling, falling from your lips like prayers ripped from a throat too broken to care—Rafayel, Rafayel, Rafayel—your thighs quivering in the air, your body offering to something you don’t fully understand, each syllable searing through him like molten iron, branding him, unmaking him.

Rafayel’s fingers twitch with the need to destroy—burn, drown, something. But when you scream his name once more, cumming around Sylus’s fingers, the god inside him shatters.

"Please," his throat is raw from cursing through the gag, each word tasting like ash and salt on his tongue. "Please, Sylus."

It’s not enough. Sylus tilts his head, amused. Rafayel sucks in a shuddering breath, nearly falling from the chair to his knees as the restraints loosen.

"You want a god to beg?" Rafayel laughs, fury crackling beneath his desperation. "I’ll beg. I’ll kneel. I’ll crawl to her. Please, just let me taste. Don’t make me wait anymore."

“Then crawl.”

You’re only just coming down from your orgasm, bits of Rafayel’s and Sylus’s nth argument flickering through your mind— before you’re suddenly gasping for breath. 

A silent scream rips from your mouth as the restraints above you flicker with every tremor that seizes your body, knees buckling as a searing sensation against your leg bites again.

You didn’t even see Rafayel get off the chair, let alone process when he got on his knees beneath you. 

“Rafayel!” Looking down through tear-lined lashes, you watch the man lick his lips, his only apology a wet, messy kiss to the violet bruise already blooming against your inner thigh. He’s whimpering apologies into your leg, tongue slipping out to meet your quivering skin, collecting your sweat and dripping slick, smearing it higher and higher along your inner thigh. You swear no human tongue is that long.

As if coordinated, the moment Sylus releases your leg from his hold, Rafayel drapes it over his shoulder, your body suspended between them. Your hands writhe helplessly above your head, desperate to lace themselves into the man's hair and pull— closer or further, you do not know. 

Rafayel’s yanking you forward, moaning into your cunt as his lips meet your own swollen ones—too hasty, too depraved to even think of pulling aside your sticky panties. He’s eating through the fabric like a man starved, teeth grazing your clit as his tongue slips under, burying himself between your folds, tongue fucking up into you as his moans and whines are muffled only by your own and the wet squelches of your cunt.

"I— R-Rafayel—Sylus!"

Your head rolls back, falling onto Sylus’s chest as you feel Rafayel moan, the vibrations sending a shockwave up your spine. Your cum is dripping down his chin and chest, and he’s lost in the heat and taste of you, head spinning as he makes out with your pussy, sucking the drenched fabric of your panties, his poor neglected cock straining against his pants, begging for attention. In truth, Rafayel doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his life.

Rafayel presses closer, nose brushing against your clit in sync with the curling and twisting of his tongue as it reaches that spongy abused spot deep inside you, the hot friction enough to send your eyes rocking into the back of your skull. 

Now you’re certain, the way it writhes inside you is most definitely far from human. 

Sylus is more than content to just watch over your shoulder, transfixed. Watch as the god kneels beneath you, head moving in a frenzy, desperate for more, a slave to his own hunger. When you try to writhe away from Rafayel, overstimulated, Sylus merely wraps his burly forearms around your waist and neck to pin you in place, the squeeze of Sylus’s biceps and Rafayel’s kissing to your cunt making you gloriously light-headed. 

Sylus watches your muscles begin to tremor, thighs locking around Rafayel’s head, and he brings his palm down to curl his fingers up into you alongside Rafayel’s tongue. 

“My, just look at you.” Sylus chuckles against your forehead as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, stifling your moans as you bite—hard—down into his sweat-slicked skin. “So needy for the both of us. Do you remember now? Do you realize the only thing your body craves is us, that we will be the only ones ever able to satisfy you?”

"Sylus, oh god, please," you moan, already delirious as you beg. 

Rafayel's head snaps up, panting between your legs, your wetness shining on his chin. He glares at the man above him, his eyes alight before pressing a rough kiss to your clit. 

"I’m your god. Do not speak to him while I'm touching you.” Rafayel’s mouth is back on your cunt, sucking, biting, and he reaches a hand up to rip the remaining fabric of your dress, squeezing your breast. "You're mine, You’re mine too. You were mine first, don’t forget that again." 

Rafayel feels the way you tense around his tongue and Sylus’s fingers and frowns, sucking harder, faster. You are a symphony in their ears, a drug in their veins, and gods, Rafayel has never felt so high.

 "Say it. Say my name,” he whines, drooling against your folds, "you're mine. All mine."

You can barely breathe.

"Say it."

"Yours, Rafayel," you cry out, your entire body shaking, "I'm yours."

"Again," he’s pleading, a growl, and you can feel it inside you, the vibration and the desperation. Ignoring the ringing in his ears, the dizziness in his vision to kiss your clit—missing, placing wet, opened-mouth kisses against your thighs and cunt a few times instead.  "Say it again."

"Yours, always, always," you can feel the tears running down your cheeks, a sob wrenching from your throat as the pressure grows, "yours, Rafayel, I'm yours—"

You’re babbling, so, so fucked out you don’t even recognize the familiar letters Rafayel presses into your clit with every swirl of his tongue—R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y-E-L—spelling his name as if in reminder. In possession. In worship.

The two of you are practically overstimulating yourselves, and Sylus can see the moment your eyes roll back, your lips parting with a moan, and moves his fingers to curl against your g-spot at the same time Rafayel goes back to licking up into your cunt. The god growls at the interruption and nips Sylus’s fingers almost on instinct, causing Sylus to hiss as you jerk in his hold. 

Immediately, Sylus is reaching down, yanking on Rafayel’s hair, forcing his head out from beneath you. “Ah-ah, no biting.”

But, gods, does Rafayel fight it. Whining, Rafayel reluctantly slips his tongue out from your cunt, dazed and addicted, eyes half-lidded as he attempts to find his way back to you, finally forced back onto his heels. 

"The fuck do you think you're doing? Sylus, I swear to the seas I’ll set everything on fire and let it all burn," Rafayel snarls, his body shaking with desire.

Sylus laughs. "Is that how a good boy asks?"

Neither of you misses the full shiver that races down Rafayel’s spine at the pet name. Sylus forces Rafayel’s head to the side with his grip on his hair and the god snaps out of it, smiling with the promise of blood as your cum drips from his canines. 

"I have killed for less."

"I’ll make it worth the effort, puppy. I promise."

Sylus's eyes burn into him, a silent dare. A challenge. Rafayel's gaze shifts back and forth between Sylus and you, his teeth grinding together as his cock strains against his pants. There are only two choices left, and he knows it.

“Will both of you stop fighting and please—” you scream at their stupidity, “Please just fuck me!”

Their hands are on you in an instant.

Sylus drags Rafayel up by the hair, pushing the man back as he stumbles backward onto the couch, you falling on top of him as Sylus bends you over the leather arm. Immediately, you feel the hot press of Sylus against your ass, his body caging you between them as his arms rest on the back of the couch and right beside Rafayel’s head. 

“Make him come, and I’ll fuck you,” Sylus whispers into your ear, guiding your back into a deeper arch until your breasts graze the cold leather. 

He doesn’t even finish talking before you’re pawing at Rafayel’s pants. 

You don’t need the extra motivation, not really, not when you’re already salivating at the sight of Rafayel’s pretty length, heavy and leaking as it snaps up to his abdomen as soon as you shove down his boxers.

Overly eager, you thumb at his slit, collecting the copious amounts of sticky pre-cum dripping onto his stomach as you drag your hand up and down, watching anger fade from Rafayel’s expression entirely as he writhes against the couch. 

You’ve barely even touched him and he’s falling apart. The sheen of sweat makes his muscles stick to the leather as he bucks up into your touch, babbling pleas as he watches you lean down to kiss the tip. "Poor baby. You’re this hard from just watching?"

"Please," Rafayel begs, gasping as your hand squeezes against the base of his pretty cock. "Wanna fuck you. Wanna be inside you. Please."

You hesitate, almost looking over your shoulder at Sylus for permission when you’re lifted up into the air with a yelp. Sylus only needs one arm to hoist you over the arm of the couch, dropping you onto Rafayel’s lap as the both of you moan at the mere contact of skin on skin. 

It should be embarrassing, the fact that you’re so wet that at the first few attempts, Rafayel’s cock merely slides between your thighs, grinding into your clit before trying again, Sylus cooing sweet nothings to the both of you as he purposely slows you down.

One of his large hands begins grinding you onto Rafayel’s length, letting you take him inch by inch, the other moving to stop the man beneath you from squirming, pinning him down. 

"Mhm fuck, Raf, feels so good." Relishing the stretch you finally, finally, get. Greedily sinking faster as you chase the addictive feeling, down until your ass hits his pelvis with a lewd squelch.

"Ah," Rafayel tries to meet you halfway, tries to thrust up into you but can’t so much as move with Sylus’s hand and Evol holding him down yet again. “Sylus, please, let me. Need it, need it so bad.”

The sound of Rafayel moaning Sylus’s name really shouldn’t be that hot, and yet you feel your pussy flutter, Rafayel’s cock twitching violently in you as he groans from the sudden pressure, throbbing in time to your heartbeat. Rolling your hips, you chase the friction of his pelvis against your clit, grinding back and forth as your breathing reduces to small cries of their names. 

"You can do better than that," Sylus scoffs, hand squeezing your hip, pressing down onto your lower abdomen before dragging you all the way off Rafayel’s length and slamming you back down. Again. And again.

Both of you lose your minds a little at that. Your moan is muffled as you collapse down onto Rafayel’s chest, panting, drooling at the pace Sylus is setting for you, still moving your hips as you try to distract yourself by placing messy, opened-mouth kisses up Rafayel’s heaving chest. Biting his nipple just to watch him arch into your mouth with a sob. Wanting, needing more. 

Sylus rocks you forward just a bit more and you scream, the fat head of Rafayel’s cock now ramming into your g-spot, raw and sensitive.

"Please, fuck," Rafayel gasps out, shaking at the change in angle. His jaw hangs deliriously open as he looks down, greedy eyes locked on the way your cunt was swallowing him whole. “Don’t stop, m’close. Please, ah—shit, don’t squeeze me like that— don’t stop.”

Sylus’s low laugh makes your cunt throb, gushing around Rafayel’s cock as the sticky, creamy strands begin to pool where your thighs meet. Still guiding you up and down, Sylus moves to finger at your clit, smiling as the both of you tense up immediately, smacking up once, twice, onto your oversensitive nub. 

“Very well then, make him cum. Poor thing deserves it, right?” Sylus whispers into your ear, spreading two fingers across the glossy mess between your bodies, watching your combined slick drip down his wrist. You watch him withdraw his glistening fingers with a smug, feral grin, immediately leaning down to press the digits into Rafayel’s open mouth. 

Every sound is unrestrained now, Rafayel’s eyes rolling back at the taste of you coating Sylus’s fingers, sucking diligently as his pace speeds up into brutal, frantic thrusts. Rafayel’s hips freely jerk up as he plants his feet into the couch, new leverage letting him ram himself deeper, barely pulling out before rolling his hips back into yours. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, fuuuck."

"Cum, puppy, I know you're close."

You swallow your cries just long enough to lick across Rafayel’s blushing red ear and whisper, "Be a good boy and cum for us, Raf. Come inside me, please?”

It hits him so hard it hurts.

Rafayel cries as he cums, loud, sweet moans garbled against Sylus’s fingers, drooling around him nearly as much as his cock is drooling in you, the sheer heat of his release filling you to the brim as it squirts down your thighs and up his abs in thick rivulets. But he’s still grinding up into you as he cums, fucking his release deeper, arching his muscled back into a gorgeous curve on the soaked leather, and you feel your own orgasm quickly approaching.

"Rafayel, Sylus, wait please, too much, I’m gonna—"

"You can take it, kitten.” Sylus cuts you off, retracting his fingers from Rafayel’s mouth before tapping them against his cheek, smearing the wetness of his digits down his jaw.

Rafayel gets the message, still thrusting, hands squeezing your breasts, waist, down to your ass, spreading your thighs until they shake, all as Sylus keeps moving your hips. The two of them working together as your body shudders, orgasm hitting you without any other warning. 

Sylus hums sweet praises as your head floats in and out of reality, still deliciously stretched around Rafayel’s still-hard cock. The couch dips as Sylus settles in behind you, the heat of his bare skin caressing your back as his hands massage comforting little circles into yours and Rafayel’s hips. 

“Good job, baby.”

Both of you shudder at the praise. 

Sylus’s voice acts as little more than an aphrodisiac, all low and rough with a teasing chuckle, and the way you feel Rafayel twitch inside you makes you think he feels similarly. 

“Hey,” Rafayel’s already embarrassingly close to coming again, your every movement tightening and rocking against his length. He pushes himself up onto his elbows with a whine, nuzzling into your touch with each slow, deep thrust. “You’re taking too long. Hurry up, a deal is a deal, so hurry up already and fuck her.”  

You can’t see it, but the sight of you and Rafayel still subtly grinding against each other, panting and breathless, makes a dark flush spread across Sylus’s cheeks, his own body betraying him as he smiles. One thick arm anchors you to his chest as the other pulls Rafayel up. “So needy, aren’t you?”

You don’t know who he’s talking to— you don’t particularly care. 

Not so long as both of them were inside you within the next five seconds. 

“Shh,” Sylus kisses you quiet, silencing the whines you didn’t even realize you were letting out, "Don't worry, kitten. We're gonna take real good care of you, aren't we, Rafayel?"

Rafayel only nods, eyes half-lidded and teary as he looks down to where you and him are joined. He's still buried to the hilt, throbbing against your walls, and you both moan at the overstimulation from every movement, hissing at the cool air as Sylus slides his hands down to pull you apart, fingers pressing against his cock inside you.

"Just relax, alright? Deep breaths. This'll feel really good soon."

Slow. Torturously slow. Sylus retreats his fingers and replaces them with his weeping tip. And then he’s pushing in alongside Rafayel’s cock— careful, deep grinds of his hips that have you and Rafayel moaning, every heartbeat pulsing against your walls in violent thumps. 

"Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"Breathe, Raf."

"I'll burn you alive."

Sylus laughs at Rafayel's pained whine, and he takes that moment to tighten his arm around your waist, forcing you steady before thrusting in one brutal push. The sheer size of them, the combined pressure, and the very fact that you can feel them both rocking and throbbing against each other is enough to have you losing your mind. 

Dropping his head to kiss your shoulders, Sylus almost looks apologetic as he turns your head to the side, messily licking into your lips as he says, “M’sorry, just a bit more. Just a bit- hah fuck- a bit deeper—” 

Oh fuck, he’s not even in all the way yet.

Rafayel is moaning nonstop now, his hands finding yours and squeezing, the two of you trembling. You're a drooling, overstimulated mess between them, but all you can do is nod, a garbled, “S’okay, keep- keep going.”

That's the last warning you get before Sylus pushes deeper, until you can feel him in your throat, pound after heavy pound that shakes the entire damn couch. Holy fuck, it might break. 

They’re caging you in on either side, rhythmless, bouncing you like little more than a toy, pressing closer as the pressure grows against your walls and around your hips, reminding you of just how small you are to them in every conceivable way and how far they’re willing to go for you. How willing of worship they are. How desperate they are to prove it. 

You can feel everything, so full you can barely breathe, can barely think. Shaky fingers claw down anything you can find, digging into hard planes of muscle, and Rafayel makes a sound against your mouth like it hurts. But he isn't holding back either, the grip on your thighs bruising as he fucks into you, every thrust a sharp shock of pleasure as he and Sylus rock against one another.

The room is filled with the lewd squelch of their cock fucking into your wet cunt, taking turns in deep, uneven tempos, and the heavy, ragged sounds of your breathing.

Sylus suddenly moans, loud and unrestrained against your shoulder, and you look back to see Rafayel’s hand squeezing the pale column of his neck, the slow lick of flames leaving bright red marks against his skin in the shape of Rafayel’s palm. The pain only seems to set Sylus off further, a harsh thrust into your ass forcing you forward and deeper against Rafayel as well, nearly delirious as you’re stuck between their silent competition yet again.

Rafayel’s mouth gasps open in a feverish puff of your name over and over when you already begin clenching, practically milking them back in, pace stuttering as his swollen tip takes turns colliding with Sylus’s own and your cervix. Half-delirious, his palm comes up, pressing right where he could feel both of their cocks making a mess of you inside. 

“Ah! W-what-”

“Mhm, you deserve a reward don’t you cutie?” He’s panting against your mouth while Sylus bites the filthiest of words into the crook of your neck. The lovebites they’ve swathed across your skin will take days, if not weeks to disappear, but you’re far too gone to pay them any mind. “Take it, take our cum then. Right here.”

Rafayel’s palm digs into your lower stomach, hard.

His thrusts are short and frantic now, his face pressed into the crook of your neck as you tighten impossibly around him. The pressure builds until you can't breathe, your body shaking and toes curling as you scream out little ah’s of their names.

"Wanna-" Rafayel can barely finish his sentence, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust, the head of his cock knocking against your cervix. "Wanna fill you up, make sure you never forget. Never forget us again.”

Sylus on the other hand almost looks pained at the idea, and the sudden rush of possessiveness makes his thrusts harsher, rougher, and the sound of his hips colliding with yours fills the room.

“Yes yes yes- hah- want you to cum inside.” Arching between them, grappling pathetically for more. More. “Both of you inside, want it.”

"Careful." Sylus growls, forcing himself to breathe. To think. 

Rafayel only grins, a wicked edge to his fucked-out smile. “It’d be our mark. All ours. Our love, all full of us, our cum. You'd look so good like that, our sweet darling.”

You cry, burying your face in Rafayel's neck, his hair, the smell of him, of Sylus. "Wanna- want—ahh—want it, Sylus, please- want to feel it, want to be both of yours.”

“Don’t.” Sylus can't help but hiss, his cock swell violently inside of you, the telltale heat pooling in his stomach of a dragon marking his territory. He’s so close it’s embarrassing. 

Instead, his mouth finds your throat, sucking more bruises into the side Rafayel hasn’t completely marred. "Do you really want this? Think about it, kitten."

Rafayel laughs, squeezing your face in his hand as a low trill sounds from the back of his throat. “You believe—mhm, fuck—she can think right now?”

Sylus chooses to ignore him. Gently taking your face from Rafayel, he covers your eyes, whispering into your ear, "One more time, kitten. Do you want this?”

“Yes.”

There's no response, but the sudden, painful press of Sylus's bite makes you gasp, the sharp sting a pleasant contrast to the sweet ache spreading throughout your body. A hand pulls against your waist, another flicking cruelly across your nipple, pain and pleasure bleeding into one as you nearly collapse, two sets of hands immediately steading you instead. Rafayel moves to the unoccupied side of your neck, matching Sylus’s marks, the vulgar sounds of their tongues and sucking of teeth between moans fills your ears, just above the slap of their rough thrusts. 

Twin marks, the jaws of a Lemurian and the canines of a dragon, glowing a dull blue and red, claiming your body and soul in a way that their bonds sing. 

Sylus immediately retracts, kissing away the few escaped droplets of blood in apology while Rafayel lets them run, licking up your collarbone as the blood smears across your heartbeat, frantic under his tongue. 

Rafayel's tongue soothes the pain as he kisses the mark, hissing a soft, “ours,” into your neck.

The possessive edge in his voice sends a shockwave through your body, and you can't help but shudder, walls spasming around him and Sylus as the pleasure nearly blinds you, every sense heightened by Sylus’s palm still covering your eyes. 

Without sight, every touch, every shift of their bodies against yours, in yours, is overwhelming. And you’re crying out into the darkness as they tease and drag you up, forcing you closer and closer— 

Fuck, you’re squirting everywhere. Each thrust now punctuated by wet slaps as your hands claw and slip against the drenched muscles of Rafayel’s abs and Sylus’s chest, unable to anchor yourself as you continue to cum. Shaking with it. 

They barely notice, the sudden vice of your cunt sucking them inside as they fuck into you in shallow, desperate little grinds. Anything to get deeper and deeper still, one kissing you as you feel their tongue lick up into you and the other playing with your clit, all three of you quickly losing your minds.

It’s impossibly messy, desperate. Neither of them has any control left, both cumming inside you as you continue to convulse around them, Sylus's hips stuttering as you feel the full, hot press of his release. Rafayel isn't far behind, whining and twitching, filling you up as their combined release gushes around your thighs, staining the leather couch below with dripping pools of it.

The feeling of being so full is enough to prolong your orgasm to the point of pain, and you scream their names as best you can when you can’t feel your tongue anymore, body convulsing.

You're still dizzy when Rafayel finally pulls away, a soft whimper escaping his lips at the feeling.

“So good, so pretty for us cutie, our sweet darling, you did so well." Rafayel’s babbling to himself with a lopsided smile, guiding Sylus’s hand to your navel. "Look, look. She's so full."

Sylus pulls back, heaving, his eyes immediately falling to where Rafayel's hand rests. He can feel it, can feel both of their releases seeping out, but Rafayel is right, your lower stomach is swollen. Not quite enough to show, but definitely enough to make them both moan, and the sound draws your attention back down to earth.

“Again.”

It's the first demand you’ve given in a while, and it’s not what Sylus expected, not with the way you barely seem lucid, but there's a bright flush to your cheeks and an excited glint in your eyes, and it's so fucking hot he can barely breathe. 

What Sylus also didn’t expect was for you to immediately lift yourself off his dick, busy watching your combined spend trickle down your thighs before both you and Rafayel knock Sylus onto his back, looking equal parts feral and furious as the two of you work together to pin him down. 

“You really didn’t think I’d let you get away with everything you pulled in the beginning, did you?” 

You nod, biting into Sylus’s neck as you whisper in faux anger. “This is entirely your fault.”

Sylus could barely manage to hide his smile. 

Who knows if any of you will make it out of this alive. The only lasting truth you know now is that they’ve irreversibly claimed you. That you’ve claimed them. 

Your dragon and your god.