#betrothal contract | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tonycries · 2 months ago

Text

Cruel Summer - G.S.

Synopsis. The five times Gojo Satoru would rather díe than marry you, his (infuriatingly pretty, oh-so-irresistible) arranged fiancée - and the one time he comes back from déath to.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, arranged marriage AU, enemies-to-Iovers, 5 + 1 things, PINING, Geto and Shoko cameos, matíng press, big D, tummy buIges, GOJO’S POWERS, creampíes, maIe squírting, oraI (fem rec.), face-sítting, he’s FÉRAL, fíngering, chokíng, spítting, p talking, down bad Gojo, slight exhíbitíonism, making him PÚSSYDRÚNK, those Gege sketches, slight spoiIers, HAPPY ENDING, swéaring, pet names.

Word count. 11.5k

A/N. Oh y’all don’t know how those Gege drawings had me, I just had to…

“I’m never marrying you.”

“I’d rather marry a special grade curse than you.”

“Huh- I’m much hotter than a fuc-”

SLAM!

That sharp, pointed noise of a ceramic teacup hitting the winding table you were seated at had almost become ritual at this point. The first few jabs of an argument escaping the mouths of both you and the other heir being a signal for at least one of the grim elders to interrupt before either of you could ruin a four-hundred-year-old contract.

And with a stubborn huff, you’re leaning back into your seat on the tatami mat to appraise the boy opposite you.

Everything from his cropped, snowy bangs to the way his summer-blue eyes blazed into you. Honestly, if you closed your ears every time he spoke, he could almost be- nope, he was sticking his tongue out at you now.

The ever-mature Gojo Satoru; new head of the ancient Gojo clan, freshly-enrolled student at Tokyo Jujutsu High.

And your soon-to-be husband.

All cooped up in this traditional meeting room, one where generations of matches had been made and very rarely broken.

A coming-of-age ceremony, where the two of you had officially been declared leaders - and an engagement.

Your engagement.

It was a business transaction of sorts. One that didn’t require any input from either marrying parties, according to the council of elders who sat upon either side of the table and stroked their beards in smug success.

You’d heard that several clans had physically fought over this chance, before the Gojo clan ultimately chose you. And you knew why - you were one of the very few that had something to lose.

The chance to attend Tokyo Jujutsu High.

In short, play sorcerer all you want for three years, and in return they’d be free to enforce an old betrothal alliance between your two clans and demand a powerful new heir to jujutsu society - a win-win.

Though- looking at your reluctant fiancé, still donned in his dark silk robes from his ceremony, you wonder if you really should have just run away as your friends from Kyoto had urged you to.

And one look at Gojo’s scrunched-up face told you he might just be thinking the same thing. Delicate features marred. Pouty lips nothing of the whispered legends you’d heard of the young prodigy—a monster. A blessing. The strongest.

He sounded very much his age as he echoes, “I’m never marrying you.”

You open your mouth- “And I-”

“-will be part of young Satoru’s high school journey!” Your father puts a hand on your shoulder, lightly squeezing. Becoming part of the Gojo clan was just as big of an opportunity for him as it was for you. Apparently. “We’re sure the young couple will get over their pre-wedding jitters by the time they’re back from graduation to continue their duties- right?”

A tap on your figure, that was your cue to answer.

Instead, you just turn your face towards Gojo, look him serenely in the eyes, the sweetest practiced smile on your face- and flip him off. Pre-wedding jitters your ass.

The gasps that cloud the stuffy summer meeting chamber atmosphere were almost comical. As if you’d just sprung out of your seat and made an attempt on the poor, sheltered heir’s life. Out of the corner of your vision, you think you see one member of the council clutch his heart and faint-

“Pffft–!” That slight snigger rips through the air in sheer contrast, and every pair of eyes in the room peaks curiously over at the way Gojo muffles a slight chuckle.

Your eyes widen, you think you liked him better like this.

Almost as if he’d just sensed your thoughts, he’s schooling his face into one of a steady lack of emotion, lightly clearing his throat.

Though, you catch the pointed tips of his ears scorching cherry-red.

“Where is the ring, boy.” Gojo’s father was a stern man, and his commanding voice was just as cut-throat. Seated right beside his son in a mirror image of you and your own father, he didn’t have to be loud to make Gojo’s spine stiffen almost unnoticeably still.

Ramrod-straight, silent- the younger version of the former head stuffs one hand between the fabrics of his yukata.

And you weren’t sure what sort of ring might be bestowed on you by the famed Gojo clan - you didn’t allow yourself to imagine it. Perhaps a clean silver to match their emblem? Perhaps studded with sapphires for their new head’s irises?

Whatever it may have been, you don’t get to find out.

Because in that moment, Gojo Satoru flashes you with the obnoxious plastic pink of a ring pop. The very same kind you’d sneak out of your estate to buy from that little corner shop down the road, fifty yen maximum.

“Satoru.”

Make that twenty yen.

“What?” His voice almost lilts into a whine as he responds to his father - trying oh-so-hard to pretend nothing was wrong, and this was totally the silver heirloom engagement ring of his family. Just…smelling slightly of artificial strawberry.

Gojo senior pinches his nosebridge, “I swear to- if you are not serious about that damn- school-”

“It’s alright!” Your fiancé seems just as bewildered at your interruption as you are, and you narrow your eyes enough to tell him that if he messed up your chances at going to Jujutsu High then his blood would be on your hands. Strongest or not. Reaching out your left arm, “I don’t mind, truly.”

And while the rest of the chamber murmurs, Gojo leans over the table to slip his mocking engagement ring onto your finger. To be married. To be his.

Holding your hand in his larger, slightly roughened ones, “I’d rather die than marry you.” He’s crouching to whisper in a heated pant, each syllable sticking to your skin. Only mostly meaning it.

And you whisper back into his furiously pink ear—“And I’d rather marry a special grade curse.”

Gojo Satoru met you in the summer, like one of those heat-induced fever dreams.

Okay, perhaps that wasn’t the best comparison- but in his defense, penning flowery literature was never his best subject after he nearly caused a clan rift by comparing Zenin Jinichi to a bullfrog.

It was a compliment, really!

But you were a whirlwind, one that left his world tilted and his skin sizzling with heat in the aftermath- in a bad way, of course! You were a bad fever dream - a pretty one, sure, dressed in your most decadent cerulean robes and a withering glare - but still one of those you think back to even months later.

Even nearly a year later when he’s sixteen and had insisted on walking up the ancient stone steps of Tokyo Jujutsu High without his entourage of attendants and elders.

“Hello hello—” Gojo’s running his pale fingers through even paler, short hair to free it of pinkish cherry blossom petals. Looming around the naturally green gardens of campus, “Where is- oh!”

Just as soon as he was about to tug his opaque, round sunglasses off to inspect whether it would impress his fellow students- that lady working at the store said so, so it must be, he bought twenty-five! Gojo spots a figure leaned against one of the ancient oaks by the dorms.

That velvety blue of the dress code was one that he could recognize anywhere after so many years of yearning for it.

And before he can stop himself, he’s sprinting towards the dark blob as fast as his lanky legs could take him. Calling out, “Yoohooo–! Your one and only favorite classmate is here~”

“Ieri–!”

“Wait-”

“You-”

So caught up in both your excitements to meet your new classmate - one of Utahime’s friends who happened to be your age - you two didn’t notice the one, single thing that you two couldn’t deny. Right by your side.

Your betrothed.

You snarl, stopping short. “What are you doing here-” And he does, too, hands haughtily planted on either side of his slender hips as he leans in close.

Snapping at you, the brief glimpse of his electric blue eyes sends goosebumps down your body. “I could ask the same from you. Couldn’t resist my charms so you had to follow me, hm~?”

“I’m here to learn, obviously. Why are you here- to get exorcised?”

“Take that back! I’m here to learn, too.”

You knew that it was part of your betrothal contract that the two of you would attend Tokyo Jujutsu High, you knew that the two of you would end up seeing each other one way or the other. And you already knew your clan stowed that stupid pink ring away deeply at the bottom of your suitcase (where you’d hopefully never have to see it ever again).

But you still raise a brow at the flashy designer stamping on his shades. “…Really?”

And Gojo could’ve taken disgust- hell, he would have even welcomed anger.

But that genuine, wondering confusion in your tone as you swept your eyes up n’ down his defensive stature made him flush- “H-how dare you- duel me. Right here, right now.”

“Haaah? You would duel your future wife?”

“Scared?”

“No, just wondering why you didn’t ask sooner.”

Scoffing, both of you dart your heads in unison to the girl with the shortly-cut hair that was following your argument like the fiercest of tennis matches. Immediately turning ashen-faced at your attention, and damn near devastated when Gojo happily keens. “Bob girl! Can you keep score of-”

“No.” She deadpans.

Frankly, you wondered just how she managed to sound as if she’s seen every horror there was to see in the world already. Possibly because she already had, right there, but Shoko doesn’t spend her time answering your unspoken question.

Too busy digging in her jacket pocket for-

“Cigarettes!” Gojo squeals, never having seen someone his age take a puffed-out drag of one so close-up before. The clan always detested anything that would ‘stain the purities of the body’- and right now, Ieri Shoko looked like she couldn’t handle sitting there one more second longer if she didn’t have one.

He points a lengthy finger your way, accusatory. “I blame you for this- somehow- you must have corrupted her with your ways and made her feel all strange like you did me.”

You roll your eyes, “Yeah? I blame you for our marriage-”

And he’s uttering for the second time, “Oh yeah? Well, I’m never marrying-”

But just as Gojo was about to whirl on his feet and flick out a few cursed tendrils of energy like he’d taught himself. He was thinking of calling this one ‘Blue’ after that shade of your robes the first time you met, and the way you were about to be it’s first-

A deep voice cuts off his train of traitorous thoughts- “Yeah- mhm, I’ve gotta go. My new classmates are here.”

A new-comer.

And the black-haired boy looks as if he’d no sooner flip his cellphone closed to end his ongoing call and pretend he never walked out of the dorms than join whatever mess he’d just walked in on.

Amethyst eyes slowly swivelling underneath his tied-back bangs to look at a fuming Gojo…to an equally-matched you…to Shoko, already chain-smoking her fifth cigarette away by now.

“Actually…could you stay on the line for a bit longer, momma.”

“It’s legal if it’s personal property, isn’t it?”

You groan, “It’s not your personal-”

He quickly taps the polished handle- “Now it is.”

“That’s…” You’re squinting your eyes, as if it will somewhat blur and spare you the sight of Gojo Satoru attempting to steal that shiny red moped parked at the outer edge of campus. If anything happened, you didn’t want to go through the hassle of getting called in as a witness, at least.

Shoko puts you out of your misery as the one voice of reason, “Yeah, that’s a lie.”

Geto cups a hand over his gaze to fight off the breaking rays of sunset, voice amused. “Well, I don’t see any cameras here.”

“Perfect—!” Gojo sings, clapping his hands together as he stares over his ridiculously gaudy glasses. It was nearing the end of first year, early December wind your fifth uninvited guest as the four of you chose to stay over in the dorms for your first high school holidays. “The key’s still here so we can sneak out, buy me the best birthday cake in Tokyo- no, in all of Japan, and sneak back in right before grump ol’ Yaga-”

“Sneak off from who-”

And, there, was aforementioned grumpy ol’ Yaga.

Running at full speed toward your deviant little group from the top of Jujutsu High’s stairway. Which, considering the tough, rocky path, wasn’t too fast at all- but the four of you just bolt.

Faster than you’ve seen anyone move during any cursed mission, if you’re being quite honest.

Shoko running, phone in hand with a suspiciously blinking camera light that meant she was recording the entire ordeal. Geto urgently twisting his fingers into what you’d learned was his summoning technique - he’d meant to call his Rainbow Dragon for a rapid escape, but ended up manifesting the massive, sleek form of his Giant Catfish who scooped him up into the murky depths of its mouth and slithered away.

And Gojo?

Oh, Gojo was letting out the most impressive high pitched squeal before he’s slamming something hard, and helmet-shaped on top of your head.

“Wh- hey!” Before you can even register it, two massive hands are grabbing onto your waist to sit you down on the cushioned back of the moped. Backwards. “Wrong way-”

“I don’t know how to drive!”

Your feet hitting the side, your back hitting Gojo’s larger one, it takes only a singular split-second for him to jam that lil’ key and speed off down the stony path of the campus. With Professor Yaga yelling from behind and you yelping, “Gojo I’m gonna kill you-”

“My bad, I meant to grab Yaga.” He’s grumbling at you from the front, the roll of his eyes practically carrying on the whipping wind.

“Yaga would’ve known how to seat a kidnapee-”

“You want to touch me?”

“…No”

“Scared?”

Your wide eyes watch the disorienting way the lush nature of the Jujutsu High passes by, as if you were stuck in a kaleidoscope. “No.”

He only hums, finally getting used to controlling the vehicle enough that he was mostly sure he wouldn’t crash into every upcoming tree. “Prove it~”

Wordlessly, Gojo slows down enough that you won’t be part of his definitely-opportune traffic accident as you shift your body ‘round. The faux leather cover creaking! once you rover your palms onto his shoulders for balance- “There.”

“Ever seen anyone hold onto the driver like this? Ya prude-”

“Fine-” You’re cutting him off- cutting yourself off by clinging your hands in a neat knot around Gojo’s firm core. And through the flashing shard of the side-view mirrors, you catch the way his ears burn. “You better not get an erection.”

Okay, only partly sure he wouldn’t crash into an oncoming tree.

The deep timbre of his voice cracks- “H-hey!” You knew how to push his buttons just so. “Gods- why’d it have to be you?”

“And why’d it have to be you.”

The part he doesn’t say out loud is that it would’ve been stranger if it was anyone else.

Not that you needed to hear it- of course not, you were still his infuriating, bold- stubborn fiancée who was forced onto him, after all.

Yet, to Gojo who’s held close by you, and to you who was clinging onto him for dear life as the haven of Jujutsu High melts into the bustling city, he doesn’t think he’s had a more peaceful birthday.

It takes fifteen minutes for the two of you to ride to that cozy convenience store on the outskirts of Tokyo, and what felt like hours (but in reality was five minutes) to give up on convincing the elderly clerk that you both were totally not a couple out for an after-school joyride.

And then - as if the universe was directing its very own prank at your expense - only three for Gojo to grow impatient and throw a tantrum swerving the moped to and fro until you finally tore open that packet of sparklers bought as birthday celebrations.

Honestly, what else did you expect from a man who organized his own surprise birthday party?

“Cake? Check. These things? Check. Happy birthday to me~” He’s tipping the starlit firework upside down to draw bands of gold in the darkening air. “Must be in the top seventeen birthdays I’ve ever had-”

You scoff, your breath emitted as a small cloud. “You’ve only had seventeen.”

“It just dropped down to eighteenth thanks to you-” And you swear you see the strongest outline a dick in the air with his sparkler, you swear he purposefully made it bigger than the one you’d drawn. “And nineteenth if we get arrested for the moped.”

In response, you draw the biggest dick. One with his face.

You were parked on the side of a lazy road, only the occasional car and Gojo’s wonderment breaking the tense silence - perhaps the most civil one you’ve had in years.

It was odd being out with Gojo Satoru. No sniping over your betrothal, and if he tried hard enough- he could pretend that there was none. That there might be. But for now, the two of you were just two classmates sneaking out to ransack your local stores, “If we do get arrested, I’m blaming you.”

He nods, dramatically. Bumping his broad deltoid against yours, “As husband, that would be my duty.”

“So…” You’re blinking, your own sparkler’s ashy ends drooping onto the ground. There was no doubt on your mind that Geto would not have mercy on the two of you for finishing about half of these sticks. But you had something else on your mind right now, “You’re saying you don’t mind-”

“Wait. wait, no, that’s not what I meant. O-of course I mind!” And Gojo doesn’t give you the time to call out the way his breath gasps- the way his voice shakes, the way he’s flushing. Furious, “Never- in my right mind- would I marry you.”

A ring of gold from the dying sunlight wraps around your irises and irritates him so much when you finally look away to rustle your hand inside the numerous shopping bags.

Airily musing, “Then, I guess as my not-ever-husband you wouldn’t want your not-ever-wife to gift you this-”

“I take it back, I’m marrying you.”

If the elders of your clan knew that all it took for Gojo Satoru to accept the betrothal would be a packet of extra, extra-caramelized popcorn then they would have had the two of you married off by yesterday.

“Make no mistake, this was meant for me.” It wasn’t. You did eye this particular brand too long before swiping it off the shelf and paying when he wasn’t looking. You did think of nothing but the plastic ring burning a hole deeply inside your skirt pocket. And the way he’d whined and thrown himself on the floor of the nearby theatre on your last outing to the city, when Geto refused to buy him caramel popcorn.

So you’d bought it- to shut him up and spare your poor throbbing temples, if anything. Of course.

But you can’t help the words that tumble out of your mouth at the glowing expression gracing his features. “But- here- happy…birthday. I’m not getting you anything for the next ten years.”

He’s silent.

Pondering.

And he can’t think of anything more flat than a little ‘thank you.’

The red, red metallic bag with enough sugar content to put anyone but Gojo Satoru into a coma sits carefully where you’d plopped it into his arms. And he looks at it with the sort of twinkle in his eyes that you’d never seen before. “Well…If I brought Yaga instead of you, he wouldn’t have bought me this.”

“I take it back-”

“Thank you.” Almost as if realizing those awful, treacherous two words himself, he backtracks with a sputter. Strange, he should bug Shoko into doing some sort of heart check-up on him soon. “W-we’re married for as long as I eat these. And after that? Divorce, sweetheart.”

Pretending to wipe your forehead in relief, “Thank goodness-”

“Oi-”

“What-”

And with your grumblings and partially-filled bags in tow, he’s fastening the singular helmet on you - so fast that you think he might’ve just taken advantage of his powers to do so.

Just to watch you strangle out in what was definite annoyance as he pets the plastic top as if you were a child. Smack, smack!

“I’d be a good husband- not that you’d ever know.” Gojo sticks his tongue out at you, vrrrrr—ing the moped engine so that your snarky reply gets drowned out. “And next time I am bringing Yaga instead.”

He takes back those words soon enough when Yaga catches the two of you right at the gates of Jujutsu High. Trying to race back away on his brand-new moped.

“So- you see” Long, white lashes flutter rapidly, “Take pity on your poor, sheltered student. The Gojo elders really didn’t teach me-”

“I should’ve set the mission sooner so that I could be rid of-”

Geto pipes up above Professor Yaga’s booming lecture, a hand raised in every ounce of solemn discipline that his best friend didn’t show. Another mission. Constant. “In my defense, it was his idea.”

Valentine’s day. Also the early first day of second year; and it only brought about more missions, a couple more students as first-years, and a slightly-longer haired thorn at your side betrothed. And, apparently, this - three annoying, grating voices muffling through the gaps of your dorm’s front door.

“I call shots on not answering to that.” Utahime pipes up where she was sprawled out on your bed and knitting her brows at your interrupted girl time. It’s not often that she gets time off from Kyoto to bother her only friends in Tokyo.

Snickering at Shoko’s absent-minded ‘ditto’ and Haibara’s- why was he even here, anyway - “I could! But maybe you should do it, he is your fiancé!”

Utahime cackles, face twisting from mirth to disgust when she inspects that plastic ring from where she’d dug it up from your drawer. “On Valentine’s day, too- oh I would rather die if I were you.”

It takes you a few moments to realize that all three occupants of your bedroom were staring at you for an answer. Pointing at yourself, “M-me?” Facing Haibara, “And why do you know that- you’ve been here for a day.”

He smiles, dazzling. “Ah, Gojo-senpai was telling us- it was why Nanami was trying to call home and leave.”

“Oooo, you heard the man.” Shoko presses a few buttons on her phone, and you hear the suspicious beep–! of the camera starting. Only incriminating herself further when she’s raising it upwards and flapping her hands forwards to urge you to open the door.

You groan, “Next time, we are not having girl’s night in my roo- wait.” And it had never caused you any trouble to leave and enter your dorm, it had never taken you more than a gentle push to open your door. So why was it that it just refused to open right now- “What the-”

It’s as if the door was locked from the outside somehow.

Shoko leans in further with her recording camera as you prod, as you turn your shoulder to hit the wooden pane and shove-

“Why- isn’t this-” You’re hissing through grit teeth, feet planting firmly on the surface and cracking open the bedroom door inch by inch. Gasping, “-open-ing–!”

And the sight before you was one you’d remembered for years.

Not just because smack-dab front n’ center to your vision was a pathetically kneeling Gojo Satoru, cowering in front of your looming teacher- but because of what was actually blocking your entryway.

It wasn’t some lock on the outside as you’d suspected, it wasn’t a large desk or anything of the sort. It was a massive, heaping pile of buttons.

Gold with bits of purple. So many that it was almost as tall as your door.

“What. The. Hell.” Your deadpan voice cuts Gojo off in the midst of some complaint to Yaga about ‘why is it named the Vessel Mission anyway, that’s stupid.’ And three sets of eyes snap to you as they finally register your entrance.

“Ah…” Geto’s the first one to break the silence of your impromptu staring match, even though Gojo was pointedly staring away. Eyes twitching the longer his best friend stared at the mountain of buttons on your doorstep, he looked exhausted. “Satoru, care to explain?”

He’s gulping, “You see, this all has a very reasonable explanation and a very reasonable line of thinking-”

“It’s all Satoru’s fault-”

“What-”

“Of course, it is.” Yaga rubs his aching temples, as he often seemed to do whenever he was around his group of second-years for just a minute too long. The older man turns to you with a weary, tired expression - and you make note of his dark circles, “This is the fifth pile of second buttons I cleaned from your door today- this hour.”

Ah, that explained it.

And it feels like your brain had just short-circuited, “Oh…wait- second buttons-?” Nevermind how he’d come across so many. Bought, most likely.

“I told you the elders taught me nothing-” Gojo squawks, scrambling onto his feet. He’s flailing his hands about, it was not his fault he didn’t know that second button meant…a confession. Or the fact that Geto hadn’t bothered to tell him and only watched with an easy smile as he made a fool of himself. “It was a prank- a prank! And his idea- he helped! I was going to block your door with buttons-”

“-second buttons.”

“-and make you all huffy and puffy that way you get-”

“-on Valentine’s day.” You’re finishing off, arms crossed. Carefully scrutinizing up at him- he hadn’t come across a growth spurt since last semester, he’d rammed into one at full speed. You shudder, in disgust, surely. “Did the elder’s hypnotize you or is there something you’re not telling me…”

And he hates it.

He hates how you look right through him in a way that induces some sort of heart condition in him- and Gojo would know, he’s visited every doctor in Tokyo just because of it. They all laughed.

One even wrote up his letter of resignation.

Sputtering, ears pink in anger- and Gojo was glad that his pale hair had grown out just enough to cover it. Strangely. “Y-you wish, ex-wife.”

You’re swatting the back of his soft locks, and Geto doesn’t note how Gojo seemed to have put down limitless so you could swat him.

“Dickhead.”

“Delinquent.”

“Blind mouse-”

Gasping, he clutches onto the frame of his shades. “Oh, now I really don’t wanna marry you-”

Yaga’s had enough.

“Enough!”

One of the veins near the side of his forehead nearly pops, and you step back with a wince at the oncoming scream- Gojo shuffling behind as if he was bravely offering you up for sacrifice.

“Enough- enough with the- the confessions-” Yaga spears a finger straight at Gojo’s directions and speaks over his protests. “-and the flirting! Flirt after the mission-” Then at you, and you could hear your friends cackling from either side. “Detention for everyone!”

Dammit- another line on your divorce document.

You didn’t get to ‘flirt’ after that Star Plasma mission - not that you would, but still.

In fact, you didn’t get to do all that much after tasting death so close to your little haven at Tokyo Jujutsu High.

And life goes on, sometimes leaving those behind.

And other times honing others who choose to stay and snap-

“It’s Suguru.”

“I know.”

The defection of Geto Suguru. The murder of his parents. His mother.

Your voice was more empty than he’d ever heard it- and he wanted you to scream at him, he wanted you to sob. Anything and everything other than the trained, stable tone that clashed against everything he was feeling right now.

But you only stare out into the yolky yellow tint beaming over the sprawling grounds. Sat on the flat, stone staircase of campus with your knees hugged to your chest- and he was close enough on the steps to hear your low mutter. “I’ll be leaving, too.”

Gojo’s head snaps to you- “What?”

“It’s my clan.” You’re swallowing, refusing to look at him directly. And that in and of itself almost hurt as much as when you did- and, for perhaps the first time, he’d rather have his heart race in those strange little palpitations. Right now, it was just heavy. “And yours. They don’t think it’s safe for a ‘future Gojo bride’ to be so close to danger.”

“Then we won’t marry.” He’s declaring, snowy brows set stubbornly.

“I know.” You lilt your head back to watch the sluggishly swimming clouds above, likely the last time you will from here. The council will be here tomorrow, and with them, your departure. You had that silly pink ring on your little finger, he notices. “I’m leaving.”

“I already said we won’t-”

“No, dickhead. I’m leaving.”

Widened, quivering blue peripherals lock onto you- and Gojo’s rosy lips part into a soft oh!

He knew what you meant- hell, when he first wanted to enroll in this damn school, he’d threatened to leave the clan over and over until they’d finally relented. And suddenly he’s hit with the loss of his little group - no more missions, no more convenience store runs, no more you.

You were to graduate in a year, with only half the students left in both your grade and the one below. Nanami wasn’t even going to become a sorcerer anymore, not after Haibara.

And he knew - he just felt - that you won’t be there for it. That you might never be.

How he wished to run, too.

“Utahime’s friends with that one special grade sorcerer- Yuki Tsukumo. I’m leaving with her today to continue training my own way.” You’re continuing, hands flexing in your lap. “And leaving the clan. Officially.”

Huffing, “What? Gonna leave your poor husband at the altar—?”

“Like I’ve always wanted to.”

“Without even a kiss for the bride?” And he doesn’t know why he says it. Even more, he doesn’t know why he holds the line of your gaze and can’t bear to look away, even as his heart starts up that familiarly strange ba-dump–! rattling his chest.

The tips of his ears tinging the very same blood-red as the sun now, Gojo thinks he can hear his eardrums whistling once you lean in. Once you close your eyes. And once you press your lips to his plush, soft ones for a mere single second.

“There-” You’re murmuring, trying to sound stern even though the waver in your voice gives you away. “Now you’ve been deflowered and can’t complain. You’re an absolute curse, you know that?”

And, suddenly, he gets it.

Oh, so that was why all those cardiologists he visited laughed at him for about a year straight.

He gets it.

Chuckling bitterly, of course. Of course, he has to understand now. Of course, he loses every shred of sun just as soon as he closes his hands- because for what reason should a weapon crave normalcy? Crave sealed fate? For what right should he demand that you stay here to bind you to him?

His mouth quivers, head turning so that you won’t see the wet glitter of his eyes in the dying daybreak. “So now I’m a special grade and a curse? Does that make me the special grade curse you want to marry?”

Your flip phone buzzes, and he already knows it’s time. Standing up, “You had the curse part down pat even before you were a special grade. Probably why your bride’s running off, Satoru.”

It was the fifth and last time that Gojo Satoru would be declaring that stupid sentiment. Smile only half-true. It was a cruel summer.

But he always was good at waiting.

Gojo tugs on that cold second button of his uniform, calling out in place of a goodbye. “Good thing we won’t be getting married, sweetheart~”

Itadori Yuji has spied on his teacher’s phone before.

He didn’t mean to–he swears it! And was it even that much of an invasion of privacy if he simply glanced over at the glaring lockscreen wallpaper? Surely, it wouldn’t have been as bad as if he had peered over Gojo’s shoulder when he actually unlocked his phone…

…Okay maybe he had seen a snapshot of the older man’s home screen as well, but like he said- it was an accident. Flickering his curious eyes over as he opened up his catalogue of movies during their training together.

But what wasn’t an accident was just how vividly he remembered each wallpaper.

On his lockscreen; taken from the inside of what looked like one of Tokyo Jujutsu High’s dorms, with a massive pile of toppling buttons in the center and a much younger Gojo Satoru (and someone who looked faintly like Kenjaku?) kneeled on the floor. Clearly being punished.

Yet, what was most interesting was the scowling, arms-crossed figure of another student he was staring up at. Unable to tear his eyes away, even through his shades.

It was you.

That familiar face also featured in Gojo’s home screen - a more blurry photo, this time, as if it was still in motion. Of his teacher in the process of scrambling onto a shiny red moped, keys turning, with you stowed away in the backseat - yelling and sat backwards.

And Itadori tried not to think much of it, but he saw you in the small framed photograph that Principal Yaga pretended not to have on his desk, yet, polished every day.

He saw you in the postcards that Professor Shoko pinned up on the packed bulletin board of her infirmary, amongst diagrams of dissections and slaughter. He saw you in the brief, blurry facetime that the other teacher, Utahime, from Kyoto was on during parts of the exchange event.

And he saw you at the foot of Gojo Satoru’s bed, after he’d won.

Older, more mature now - but inevitably you.

Itadori could tell, even in the forlorn way you were slumped over the side of the mattress in Shoko’s clinic, body half-seated on a chair like you’d been there all night.

“You…” He’s breathing, making you stir against his will.

You blinky your teary eyes up in groggy confusion, fingers instinctively tightening on the large, callused fingerpads of Gojo’s digits. “Huh? Oh, you must be Yuji. And Megumi, and Nobara.”

Itadori was just about to open his mouth and answer that no, he was actually just Yuji- when a disgruntled voice behind him makes him realize he isn’t alone. “We apologize for the trouble, we can come back later if you-”

“Oh, no no.” You wave Fushiguro’s words off as the three enter - well, as Fushiguro enters and Kugisaki shoves Itadori inside. “I’m sure he’d want everyone here when he wakes.”

Gojo had won in Shinjuku, but Satoru was still sleeping.

Famed eyes closed. Bundled in the arms of bandages and reverse cursed energy ‘round his toned middle, he was breathing in slow unison with the beep! of the nearby heart monitor. Alive.

You really did have Shoko to thank later.

And Itadori knew that as a student he should be more invested in how his unconscious teacher was doing, but he just couldn’t help but keep sneaking glances over and over. Wondering just who you really were-

“So, is the wedding going to be anytime soon?”

Fushiguro speaks, and the rest of the trio gapes. How dare he ask something like that from a sorcerer so lovely. And wait- why were you chuckling? “Oh right-” Nodding down at Gojo’s large form, of course, he told his honorary son everything. “I am his fiancée.”

“His what-”

“How much did he pay you-”

“Kugisaki, don’t be rude-”

Fushiguro nods, “No, she’s right.”

“Unfortunately, only this.” You’re scrunching your nose as you answer Kugisaki’s question- pulling out a tiny chain from underneath your uniform with an aged, faded pink plastic ring pop.

And she responds like she’d been personally wronged, dragging her hands carefully down her eye-patched face. “Ohhh- I knew it- not only is he a deadbeat teacher, he’s a deadbeat husband, too.”

“To be fair I did leave him. Of sorts.” You wave a hand airily, already having heard from Ijichi about the fate of the higher-ups. The clans. Over the younger girl’s ‘understandable!’ “I just landed in Tokyo today, I wish I could’ve come sooner but- ah, well.”

“B-but…” Everyone looks at Itadori as he stammers out, cheeks burning a slight rouge once your hand drifts over Gojo’s exposed core. Whispering in one breath, “How did he get a wife so pretty…”

“Hey- that’s my wife you’re talking about.”

You could recognize that smug, simpering tone anywhere. You’d be able to pick it out from a crowd of thousands.

Laughing- as he’s tackled into a hug by an overeager Itadori, and the falsely reluctant rest.

It was quite strange to see Gojo Satoru like this - not just laid barren and sprawled over some hospital bed, but without any of his usual blindfolds and sunglasses. Just like when you’d met. And he always was so honest with his eyes.

And he was back.

And you were back - after ten years.

Which is why Itadori and Kugisaki have to fight the urge to look away at the expression settling over Gojo’s serene face. Wondering how you - his fiancée, of all things - would react. Winning against the King of Curses was quite the accomplishment, even for the strongest.

Would you cry? Would you throw your hands over him as they just did? Should they actually get up and leave the room-

“You- you complete idiot.” Gojo half-wonders whether your strength could rival Sukuna himself once you strike down a punch to his scarred shoulder. Yelling, glaring- crushing him into a hug.

Your voice is suspiciously thick once you’re gurgling out into the pale crook of his neck, “I thought you said you’d rather die than marry me.”

And they don’t know what they’re more surprised about- the way that Gojo had the audacity to say those words to you, or the way that Gojo had the audacity to listen to those very words and laugh. Head thrown back, “Sweetheart, I’d come back from death just to marry you.”

Pulling away, you take the longest look at your betrothed that you think you ever have.

Everything from his longer, still-snowy hair, tickling the tips of sparkling sapphire eyes. Slightly slicked back to reveal shyly red-dusted ears, and a cute lil’ dimple at the edge of his boyish grin.

He was still the same Gojo you’d left behind - even though he was taller, stronger. So much bigger that you could feel the flex of his deltoids underneath your palms, and the ripple of his beefy forearms looped around your waist.

He was still Gojo. Always beautiful.

SLAM!

“O-oh.” You’re jolting at the sudden closing of the clinic door, clearly his students had left the two of you to some privacy, and you’re almost embarrassed. “We’re an awful example.”

“When have we ever been a good example?”

“Well, I could say that about you-”

He only tugs you closer, breathing out as if the first breath he’d taken in a while since Shinjuku. Since you’d been gone. “I missed my wife.” And the two of you knew you should alert Shoko by now, but you only stay still- with you nearly in his bed by now.

For what felt like hours. Years.

“Yeah? Well, I- I missed you, too. I thought I lost you.” You wince, “I’m sorry for departing so suddenly.”

It was sincere - but the feeling of Gojo’s smirk pressing up against the side of your thumping pulse almost makes you reconsider it. “I know how you can make it up to me, wifey~”

Scoffing, he was really ramming up the ‘marriage’ part of your relationship by now. “Nothing with buttons or mopeds or-”

“No no-” Lurching back slightly, the plush, puckered fringes of his lips lean in oh-so-closely. Until you could practically taste the saccharine sugar of his heated breath, “You know, I never got to kiss the bride.”

Oh.

Then he’s kissing you- and you’re kissing him. And it’s all that you’ve ever wanted with the sharp, pointed ends of Gojo’s canines digging into your bottom lip to drag you back.

Drinking you in like a man parched- he’s finding life in your mouth. Slipping his tongue in past the spit-glossed crevice of your mouth and uttering a hot pant. “Please-” Manhandling you with his strong, scarred arms up to straddle him on the rickety mattress. “Please.”

And you’ve never heard the strongest beg like this.

Never heard him flutter his droopy lashes and look at you through starved, feral eyes. A translucent bubble of spittle sparkling by the end of his swollen lips, “P-please.”

Never heard him stutter.

Clearly he’s reading something in your sultry eyes because Gojo’s hastily shuffling the two of you down the bedsprings. Head hitting the puff of his pillows, your ass hitting his sharp pelvis.

Your fiancé holds you upright and rubs a clawing hand doooown the back of your spine, toying with the metallic zipper on your sorcerer’s uniform skirt. “Fuck that about hah- not marrying you.” He’s crooning out in a throaty tone, strands of white nearly covering his greedy gaze. “M’ready to consummate our marriage right here, right now.”

“B-but Satoru- you just woke up-”

“So?” There’s something deep n’ dark in his tone that made shivers skitter up your spine. Attempting to clench your thighs together but all it does is make your outer pussy push against the smooth path of his white happy trail. “Your husband’s the strongest, sweetheart.”

And then you’re being roughened up- then your skirt’s bearing the brunt of being almost torn clean off your hips.

Gojo barely even registered his power, not giving two shits if it meant that he got to admire your pale blue panties up close and personal. A firm hand groping your right cheeks help push your clothed pussy up until your slit strikes the edge of his chin, thighs now straddling his pretty, pretty face.

Rosy lips purring over that darkening wet splotch between your legs, “Bon appétit.”

“Shut up and just- oh, fuck!”

He’s flopping the pinkish crown of his tongue out just enough to dab a lil’ dewdrop of spit between your swollen pussylips. And it’s just all that it takes for the first taste of your saccharine pussy to coat his tastebuds-

“O-oh!” He gasps, his hazed peripherals widen. You’re faintly registering the way that the shiny overhead lights of the private room flicker-

Gojo grins as you gape, “Did you just…”

“Guess m’not in control anymore.” He’s snickering, stuffing himself nose-deep into your cunt. And there’s such a primal hunger in him, the way he’s not even caring for your poor, sodden panties before he’s hanging his jaw open and slide-slide-sliiiiding the edge of his mushy tongue up n’ down your folds. “Heh-” A light goes out somewhere down the corridor. “Whoops.

He’s whacking his jawline on the soft inner parts of your thighs and it still isn’t close enough. Tilting his head just so to slip his damp muscle between your ruined fabric.

“Shit- shit, your tongue is sooo big.” You find yourself keening, hips rocking back and forth at a mindless pace. And, truly, you now knew why Gojo talked so much because his tongue was so-very-lengthy, already circlin’ your sticky hole, “Like you better- hck! better like this.”

And the way he looks at you gets you even more drenched, haplessly watching as Gojo opens his throat wide enough to let the cloying droplets of your slick fall down to his maw.

“Oh yeaaaah–?” Gurgling already with the beads of sap that soak the lower half of his face, he’s starin’ you right into your fluttering eyes once he’s tugging your panties to snap! back on your heated core with an index. “Whaddaya gonna do about it?”

Before you can answer - before you can even think, the very tippy-top dome of his fingertip coils slimily down your naked slit. He feels you - so soft n’ warm - for the first time and pants. “Gonna ngh- argue with me from here to make up for it? Hmmm—?”

Almost as if on cue, your pert pussy is letting out the rawest lewd squeeelch at his touch. Bucking wildly, “Are you all talk or what ngh-”

“Looks like you’re all talk.” And you seriously were so wet that it was dripping down Gojo’s handsome chin, rovering a few more solid inches of his index to keep pryin’ your cunt apart with a wet plap!

Then a second inch- and a second finger.

His probing fingers are so big that the gummy channels of your walls have to mold to each size and measurement just to take him. “Look at ya- taking me in sooo well but ya don’t even- sit-” One of his hands claws on your left ass cheek to hold you down where you were hovering your weight, the other sinking in—

You’re squealing at the press of his thick, knobbled middle finger curving against one of your most tender spots. “What if I suffocate-”

“Then suffocate me.”

“You just came back to life.”

“I came back to life just to ngh- see this pretty pussy.” Gojo snarls up at you, tugging you down. Pulling you. Manhandling you. He just wanted to French kiss your pussy until he had that smart mouth of yours stupid. And those silly lil’ panties were a barrier-

Within seconds, he has shreds of your underwear tattered and ripped between his pearly whites.

Looking like a fucking animal once he’s finally sitting you down properly and stuffing himself so deep that you nearly see his pale, straight nosebridge disappear between your folds.

Snaking his tongue to stuff and stuff where two of his fingers were pumping in n’ out in n’ out in n’ out. You were being dually stuffed open, the sting of him stretchin’ you out and swiping the gooey bottom of your core just delicious.

“Don’t mind- haaaa-” Breaths ragged, movements sloppy. Gojo wastes no time in pursuing his delicate lips and spitting, “-dying now that I got ta see her. Now that I got to- hck- taste.”

Hand shaking where he slides it along your thigh, breaths stuttered.

He’s feeling your slick waterfall down with every lap and slash of his tongue, bearing no mercy. Your thighs rendered all jittery and sleek with a sheen of syrup every time he flicked the tip of his tastebuds on top of your clit.

“I’ve been so fucking thirsty- sooooo fucking thirsty.” Gojo whines, and you swear his baritone voice cracks. Hitches. Hips rutting up into the empty air, “You know how long I’ve wanted this- do you have any. Fucking. Idea?”

He sounds genuinely ruined, spitting back into your treacly pussy just to follow the wad dooown the seam of your pussy with his tongue.

A third finger puckers ‘round the edge of your entrance, and you’re whining once Gojo lazily slugs the first pad inside and scrapes the roof of your cunt. “Please- since when- ngh- s-since…”

Giggling, higher-pitched than usual. “Oh, sweetheart- you don’t even wanna know.” You’re whimpering when he’s swatting down the velvety edge of his tongue on your sensitive nub three times before pulling away. Smack-smack-smack. “Spit in my mouth n’ I’ll tell you, h-heh.”

Breathless, “What did you just ask—?”

“Scared?”

And Gojo’s pale brows raise when you’re hunching forwards just enough to grab his clammy cheeks, streaming out a glittery streak of spittle straight into his ajar mouth. “Not if it gets you t-to- shut up-”

You spit in his mouth, and from the slightly-angled turn of your head you catch the way that his throbbing erection twitches.

His fingers thwack so hard your very bones rattle, and Gojo drools the knot of slick straight back through your hole. Letting the jointed bumps of his digits stretch rub your pussy all red and raw from the inside.

“That’s it that’s it.” He’s goading you on, scouring the searchlights of his digits inside of you for that one fragile target. And you’re feeling him poke his fingertips into the nooks n’ crannies near your g-spot, making you see stars. “I’ve wanted you to shut me up- use my ngh- face since I fucking knew what it was. Heh- if you’re not scared-”

“As if I’d be scared-”

“Prove it. Ride me.”

“I am-”

“Not enough.” Within just a single blink of your glassy eyes, Gojo’s raising his non-dominant hand up with enough cursed energy that the neglected ol’ blindfold strewn on the edge of his bed flies into his grasp.

Twisting his thick fingers over the silken fabric, circling it over your neck and immediately hauling you further down- “Ride me. Ride the st-strongest like you own it- h-haaaah- I’m your husband, aren’t I?”

With every word, with every second he’s thrashing four exact strikes of his fingertips scraping your poor g-spot. Slurring out a damp sluuurp every time your sheeny pussylips are gobbling him up.

“Yes- hck! yes.”

Grumbling, sleazy grin just glued to the knobbly tip of your clit. “Yeah- yeah, then use me like I am.”

Kissing right back every time he’s surging his head up and mazing the flexible ends of his tongue muckily. It’s so wet n’ long that you’re damn near feeling the scrape of his tastebuds by your favorite spot, sloppily—“D-don’t think m’gonna last, Satoru.”

Gojo audibly, pornographically moans as you start carnally hastening your tempo.

Cumming on his face- fuck, this was the wettest of his dreams all those long, lonely nights. In response he only latches his strawberry-pink lips against your cunt further, feeling every hot gush flood his throat.

And you were so close that Gojo was drooling- pupils stirrin’ around the whites of your eyes with every circle of his thick tongue, throat cracking with whines every time he’s slushily spearing your pussy with his fingers. Over n’ over.

Rovering alllll around to prick your tenderest areas with- fuck, now four of his fingers.

Your husband spikes the edge of your g-spot, hard. Pulling you down with the corner of his blindfold just to dig his finger in deeper, “W-wanna cummm— ngh- please.”

“Call me husband.” He cockily smiles over the rim of your cunt where he was devouring you like a feast. “Call me- nghh- husband and I’ll let you cum.”

“Please-” Grabbing a fistful of his hair to shove him deeper and hopefully quieten his teasing. “-h-husband.”

Gojo groans like he’s the one cumming, “Ohhhh- again. Louder.”

“Husband-”

“Again.”

“Husband– Toru–!” Pouting stubbornly, “Unless you fucking can’t- oh, fuck.”

Both you and the protesting bedsprings sing out in embarrassing synchronization once he’s shoving you into your high with a soft, sudden zap–! of one jujutsu-coated fingerpad across your g-spot. “Cumming- nghhh- m’cumming m’cumming–!”

And it feels so good you lose your vision to pure white, it feels so good that you can only throw your head back and ride him through each one of your peaks.

Milking the highs of your orgasm in repeated, filthy drags of your hips that knock the top of your glazed slit against his buttony nose. Whack!

“O-ohhh—” Gojo throws his head back at the sheer, sensual motion. It just feels so good having you slickly rovering your pussy over his gaping maw, chasing the heat of his tongue slithering across your clit. Your sweet insides squeeze around his long fingers that Gojo thinks he could just cum right then n’ there.

And he almost does.

Almost- with almost inhuman reflex, he’s sneaking his free hand underneath the covers to plug up his leaking, red-hot orifice. Drivelling out a few creamy cobwebs of pre before he can plop his thumb over it. Close one.

You ogle with a parted mouth as he grits his teeth hard enough that the plane of his neck throbs with a few veins, “Fuh-fuuuck–!”

And if you didn’t know any better, you’d have claimed that sounded like a whine.

A whimper.

But before you can call Gojo out on it, he’s sitting nearly ramrod straight against the cool metallic headboard. Starchy blankets - all drenched and coated at the hem with your trickling sap - all but thrown to the bottom of the bed.

“Don’t worry- hah-” Suddenly, you feel something hot and moist gliiiiide between your puffy core. And it was so thickly curvy that your folds are being smeared apart as much as possible, “Made sure to save the big one for when m’inside, sweetheart.”

Mewling, “Big one?” Pathetically swaying your mouth open the moment he starts suckling on your tongue like some cute candy, “You sure about that?”

“See for yourself, my wife.”

You don’t know what to gape at more.

What Gojo Satoru looks right now - eyes hooded, face flush, ivory tendrils of hair slicked back with sweat, several layers of sickly sweet slick stuck from the tops of his cheeks and gleaming down to his jawline - or the way that his cock looks like right now.

He was completely naked underneath, and you’re mentally counting about nine inches- possible even ten. Ten inches of solid, barreling length scrubbed all red n’ raw with ribbons of precum. Bursting out from the hole at the top of his fat mushroom tip and all the way down to the soft white hairs at his base.

Drenched.

And Gojo gives the left of your ass cheek a good spank when it seems like you won’t be talking any time soon. Too hypnotized. “There there- big, huh?”

You’re huffing, “Y-you wish.”

“No need to liiiie- s’all yours.” Something in him cracks when he bucks up ever-so-slightly to let the shiny bulge of his cocktip scrape down your slit, mixin’ a heady concoction of white pre and slick that makes him salivate. “Look at her- she’s sayin’ she wants more.”

“You’re pussydrunk.” Such loud squelching noises that he jerkily lurches his head closer to listen to, as if his favorite song.

“Hell yeah I am, my wife.” With a raspy chuckle, Gojo slips the circle of his divot just underneath your swollen folds and hisses. “Now- I won. Your husband ngh- won today, why don’tcha gimme my reward, sweetheart?”

Oh-so-ready to make him cry on your tongue, you eagerly start snaking your hand downward.

Fist almost enclosed around the bulky cylinder of his hilt before he stops you right there. V-line hitting your pelvis as he fucks up, up, up-

“Nononono- another time. Right now…” Gojo slouches back, liiiicking that candied glaze of your juices off of his right hand. One by one. Before cushioning it underneath his head and watching you through sexy half-lidded eyes. “How do you want me?”

You hum, pretending to tap your chin in thought. “How you’ve wanted ta- ngh- have me, Toru–”

How he’s dreamed of having you.

Of shoving his thick cock between your pussy folds and fucking that smug smile off of your face while you tried to snap back at him. And his body moves before his brain.

Your back hitting the dampened sheets, your shirt and bra puddling onto the floor.

He doesn’t think he can breathe, he doesn’t even think he can think—especially when he sees that pink plastic ring pop as a pendant on your necklace and leans down to kiss it.

Every ounce of blood sprinting down from his hotly melted mind to balloon up his shaft so hard and cherry-red. Gojo’s tip is practically bawling by the time he’s flipping the two of you over and swiping the hard, aching bulge of it down your cunt.

Your thighs on his shoulders, his pelvis against your ass.

Eyes widening—a mating press. A fucking mating press.

Gojo’s barely even done folding you completely in half before he aligns the round, spheroid edge of his cockhead to crown your sloppy hole and rut. Gasping, he shuts his eyes firmly at the warmth. “Wanted this.”

“O-oh fuck–” Coming your jittery fingers through Gojo’s sweat-splattered hair. He’s just so big that just the feeling of his globular tip makes you see white.

“Wanted this wanted this- wanted this.” Gritting his teeth, furiously. He’s hiking his thighs up so that yours are pushed all the way up to hit your tits, bending you with all his powerful strength. “Have no idea how long- I’ve wanted you like this. Always in this position.”

“Why this one?” It was so filthy - even for him.

“What? Your husband’s the ngh- strongest and you expect him not to put you in a mating press the minute he sees you?”

Spanking the slivery slit of your cunt with one hand, Gojo fucking angles his head and grins at the slight puddle of sap that collects on his wrist.

“So soft n’ sweet-” He bends his knobbly thumb in to twist the button of your clit, licking his pink lips lazily at the way your arousal glitters further soaked. And it wasn’t just that- your husband was just so girthy that he’s tuggin’ your entrance apart to fit his heavy shaft inside. “Oh, always wanted this pretty hole begging f’me.”

Just as he speaks, Gojo slips yet another inch inside and makes your oversaturated pussy keen. “B-bold of you to assume- ngh- I’m the one begging.”

“Ohhh- she’s not?”

“She- fuck!”

Before you can even speak, he’s rolling his sculpted hips and slamming your spit-glued mouth shut. Cooing down with fluttering lashes, “What was thaaaat–?”

You feel a damn sob break at the back of your voicebox at the feeling of his rounded slit lodging against the treacly roof of your cunt. So wet that he’s constantly rubbin’ his veins back and forth on your walls, half-ruts. Half-thrusts. Just to fit in. “Fuh-fuck you!”

And then you’re swearing that Gojo grows harder. Bigger.

The corner of his head swelling up to an even thicker circumference that strikes your soggy cervix with a plop!

He’s bottoming out with a breaking tone, “Who’s fucking who now?”

And now that you’d given him an inch, he was taking a mile.

Fucking you into the rickety clinic bed like he was trying to stop your cute, arguing mouth from shrilling out. Every swab of his bulging cock enough to make your tongue flood with cockdrunken spit, he pounds his entire length into you like he hates you.

Slap!

So hard that the skin on his prominent v-lines stains completely red. And Gojo isn’t even feeling the pain, he’s only spanking hard abs into your front again. And again. And again.

Mouth falling into a sagged oh! as Gojo tilts his head down and watches when your geysering cunt swallows him up from the ruby-red tip to the bulk of his base. Heavy balls just peeking out cheekily.

All the way up until his pure white tufts of hair scratchily massage your clit and make you rut. “There- there.” The flat mountains of his palm come creeping down your tummy to press as he sliiides inside. With a smile, “Inside. Fuck- it’s inside. Can feel me all deep inside, s’like you’re hngh- made for me.”

“S’just s-sooo big, though!” You’re whimpering once he rubs over the callous of his thumb right at the bumpy point of his mushroomy head spearheading in.

Gojo grunts, “And what happened to me being small~”

You clench in response- the only thing you can do. And it’s like the entirety of the chamber tenses with something thick coating each atom of the air.

You just had to clench once and his cursed energy was lapping. Out-of-control.

So powerful that it might just be enough to cause alarm-

“Oh.” As if alerted by something invisible, Gojo raises his free arm towards the door. Lengthy lashes coating with a flicker of blue lightning- before, like nothing ever happened, he’s back to rutting and rutting. In long, methodical strikes of his bashing, bulbous head. Probing deeply into every ridge.

Before you can ask what was the matter, there’s the metallic jiggling of the hospital doorknob. Locked - by his power.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“I-is anything the matter in here?” Someone- you think it might be Ijichi - calls out from the other side. “The cursed levels were just so high that-”

“Listening to the voice of another man when I’m the one fucking you?” Gojo snarls out, two of his battle-hardened fingertips swatting the side of your cheek so that you’ll stop staring at the door.

Not when he was looking at you like that.

And not when he was the one unsticking your left hand from the side of his muscular obliques, gently kissing your ring finger even though he was drilling into you ferally. “Don’t you think of anyone else when- haaah- I’m the one fucking you-” The fangs of his canines bite in to the flesh of your digit, “Not when I’m your husband.”

“Wh-what if he hears—”

The end of your whine is caught up in his mouth, gnawing down on your lower lip and draaagging. “So let him.” He melts his glissading abs down onto your core, making you feel every bump and scar. “Let him- fuck. S’our long overdue honeymoon- and you’re gonna fucking- take- it-”

Mewling, “Fuck- fuck yes. More.”

It’s like those words have him going mad.

Gojo’s slick orifice grovering into the very bottom of your pussy, he tugs back on the blindfold dangling ‘round your neck to arch you further. Letting his zig-zagged veins creep down your g-spot, precisely.

“Yes- fuck. Your husband.” Repeating and repeating every time he hits your sweet splotchy areas. “M’your husband” And then he clings onto your clit, then he twists his wrist and lets the pads of his digits buzzzz–! with cursed energy. “Your husband.”

Almost as if he couldn’t believe it.

He’s departing his breath out in a scalding breeze every time you squeeze. Bodily shoving apart the inner parts of your legs with his large, flexing shoulders.

“Please- please please-” You’re wailing out utterly raw, the top of your throat feeling like it was clogging up after every ba-thump–! of his sweetly leaking cock probin’ every space inside your cunt. Swelling up so big that it was almost hard for you to clench- “Feels so ngh- good–”

“Yeaaaah–? Your husband’s makin’ you feel all good, huh?” The strongest couldn’t even give a shit about the way your screams were reaching a fever pitch.

Faster, sloppier.

Fingers starting to stain with a bright syrupy coating of your slick, he doesn’t even mean to- but he can’t help the way that the air touching his skin crackles with energy. Drawing out hearts on your perked clit like a lil’ bullet vibrator.

“Go on- say it.” He outlines a very obvious ‘S’ on top of your rugged nub that makes you quiver like a leaf underneath him. And then an ‘A’, a ‘T’, ‘O-R-U.’ Coaxing out your tiny whimpers, “Say my name—”

“Toru- hck! Satoru.”

He twitches, syllables taking on a shaky manner. “O-oh right, that’s my name.” Chuckling, fuck- did he forget his damn name? Just that drunk on your pussy that he’d rather just be called your husband forever and ever. His flushed face pushes forwards to bite on that blindfold and pull you back down, “Call me your heh- husband again.”

Just uttering those words makes him jolt his mushroomy, flared tip inside you until the ridge hits the door to your womb. His balls on your ass. Bruising.

You almost felt shy as he hastily brings down one of your hands to caress his rippling core. From each washboard ab to scar, sensually. “H-husband. My husband.”

Shit- he needed to make you cum now or he was going to, already feeling a steaming drop of pearly liquid empty out from his balls.

“There- there we- go-” And by now Gojo’s fucking you so hard that he’s starting to scrunch his partially-closed eyelids with the weight of big, sparkly tears of sensitivity. “Whatever my wife wants.” The crowned tip of his shaft red and swollen enough to burst, pushing and pushing. “Anything my wife wants.”

“I’m close-” You’re sobbing, reeling him in so close with a grasp of his tensed back muscles. And it was true, his Six Eyes was showin’ him the way your nerves were sizzling, the way your mouth flooded with spittle.

He counts underneath his breath. Five. Four.

Lips wobbling oh-so-adorably, “Toru, m’gonna cum. Let me cum.”

“Ohhh— s’that what you want, sweetheart?” He rolls his thumb over your overstimulated clit until you scream a yes. “Cum then.” Three. Spitting on the hills of his crowned fingerpads, Gojo makes sure they’re tight with particles of cursed energy. Two. Before spanking down- “Cum, my wife.” One.

You don’t know who cums first.

But to Gojo Satoru it doesn’t even matter- all he needs is to make sure is that you were creaming all over his ravaged cock, and that he was there to pump all his columns of wadded seed inside.

Room lights shattering, somewhere in the distance sounding with a sonic boom! Gojo fucks himself hoarse on your pussy until the expanse of his skin was littered with pure power and lightning.

“O-oh my god s’too mmm–” Your mouth dribbles with sap, gooey walls of your cunt sticking to the sides of his veiny shaft. Every tiny drag of his winding lines makes your high explode- “There’s so- hah- so much of it-”

So much that it was overspilling.

And Gojo can only glide the planes of his digits down the saccharine white sap that leaked from between your legs. Gluing his fingers to the stray gaps of your hole, and they were buzzing. “No wastin’ now.” He bites down on the plush gum of his bottom lip and still can’t hold back his snickers. “Gotta g-give you the ring- and my second button. Then take you out for a- a ride-”

He could almost laugh at the dazed confusion on your face, arching up his spine just so that his cock pummeled into you deep and stayed there.

“A ride and then a real ride. On a moped.” Giggling at his own joke, “Take you to eeeevery sweet convenience store in Tokyo you ngh- missed out on. Tell each one m’your husband and we’re having a summer wedding.” Kissing you softly, “M’thinking theme colours blue.”

That in and of itself is enough to make his drivelling orifice stream out yet another jetstream of cum, wadding up the entrance to your womb with clingy sap.

He finishes off with another lecherous slurp that makes you feel so hot inside that it was almost feverish. “A-and then what? S’this all for you big- ngh- honeymoon idea?”

“And if it is?”

“Should’ve left you at the altar-”

Gojo’s red, raw cock jolts. “Ohhhh- just for that m’gonna fuck you in every hah- convenience store, too. Maybe they’ll hear- doesn’t matter.” Grinning, he hikes up a thigh until he is gyrating just enough to swirl his pummeling length in circles. The plump curve of his balls digging into your ass, eyes glowing with blue in the darkness. “Your husband’s the strongest.”

You don’t know if you can do anything but scoff through your embarrassment, “A-and real humble, huh?”

“Well…” He tilts his head with a dopey smile, “Did I tell you that was my first time? Been savin’ myself for heh- marriage, my sweetheart.”

Fuck.

“I love you. Isn’t that the worst thing you’ve ever heard?”

Oh- “I love you, too.”

And something in you told you that this was far from over.

Maybe it was the way that Gojo’s cock strikes the back of your cunt with a splosh of sap, slimily mazing through until it feels like he streams out a squirt of something. You’d just made him squirt- or maybe it was the way that he kisses your plastic engagement ring.

Gaze delirious. Ears red. Fucked-out.

“So…what was that they said about a Gojo heir, my wife?”

“The electricity has been suspiciously unstable today.” Shoko wrinkles her nose up at her completely shattered office lightbulb. The sixth today.

Urgently flicking through her notes before she made a break for her most important patient as of late - the strongest.

Or, as she knew him, that damn Gojo with a penchant for tantrums and harboring a hopeless love for his betrothed. Often both at the same time. Speaking of said betrothed, she’d already shared a hasty greeting with you once you’d first arrived here- before you practically ran to the idiot’s room, that is.

Two peas in a pod.

“We have been getting strange him-level readings on cursed energy levels in this area since a few hours ago.” Utahime grumbles, barely out of the hospital herself but already steady at work as one of the new higher-ups.

“That so? Strange.”

“Yeah, and when I asked Ijichi about it he only looked pale and ran like he saw a-”

The two gasp. In unison.

“He finally proposed.”

A/N. Wrote this with a fever (Gojo was just that hot aha).

Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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rangers-arecool · 3 months ago

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Rhun provided a chance to ESCAPE.

Far from the immediate issues of her life, caused by a looming ancient betrothal contract to a Alpha she had never met before. Taking a mission no one else dared to do, during a time when most of the Men from that land were allied under the Dark Lord.

Yet that didn't bother the soft spoken Ranger. The mission had been completed quickly, giving her a chance to let the black Rohan warhorse run back towards Tornhad. For that was where she would be finally meeting the man she were betrothed to.

"Dad, Lord 'Thorn."

There was a rarely seen soft smile on her lips as she swung down from Star's back with ease. But then it faded into her usual neutrality as her attention shifted to checking the stallion over. She had only clocked the Alpha presence near her father yet her back was to them, so didn't know who it was.

Only once Star had been sorted out, did the dark eyed gender-fluid Omega turn.. and then blink in surprise. "You are on of the last people I was expecting, if I'm honest."

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realitybitesyouknowit · 8 months ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Rodolphus Lestrange/Harry Potter Characters: Harry Potter, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, Bellatrix Black Lestrange Additional Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Humor, Rare Pairings Summary:

Lord Lestrange proposes a betrothal contract between his eldest Rodolphus Lestrange and Hadrian James Potter-Black, or Harry. Can this be the chance for Harry to find happiness and love?

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ruinconstellation · 2 years ago

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#a very minor peeve of mine is that when reading fantasy/historical-esque fiction featuring arranged marriages #the writers sometimes refer to a betrothed couple as being 'fiance(e)'. which. 'affianced' might be appropriate but #it has very different connotations (in my mind) because betrothal implies that it was arranged for you and that there's a contract #meanwhile calling someone a fiance sounds very modern to my ears and implies that it was the couple's choice alone #ru rambles #when reading

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smileysuh · 1 year ago

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devil's girl

🌙 starring. Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader I ft. Mingyu & Wonwoo

🔮 preview. “Three hundred years ago, one of your ancestors promised me a descendant as my prophesied betrothed. A girl of her bloodline who would bear my hybrid offspring, children with the power of demons and witches, bodies unrestricted by the laws of heaven or hell. A witch who would be identified by the mark of the Devil, drawn through with three lines.”

tw/cw. foreplay, fingering, oral (f receiving), Cheol is low-key pussy obsessed, overstimulation, 5-inch long demon tongue, invisible demon bondage magic, the demon magic can also vibrate her clit a little, bdsm themes, slight choking, squirting, wet kink, massive cock cheol, pussy stretching, impreg/breeding/cum kink, dirty talk, service dom Cheol, consent is a must, begging, multiple reader orgasms, unprotected sex, hand job, dream/incubi threesome with Mingyu & Wonwoo, double fingering, degradation, dacryphilia, etc… I pet names: (hers) little/my sweet, pretty girl, good girl, whore/slut (1), baby, little love, etc. (his) sir, daddy.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 7.2k

🍭 aus. king of hell!Cheol, witch descendant!y/n, prophesy, arranged marriage, yandere/possessive themes, slight kidnapping, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. I feel like I need the men I write about every time, but when I tell you I need this man biblically, when I tell you I need him to kidnap me and make me the Queen of Hell and knock me up with demon hybrid babies asap-

Prologue:

It was not a fate that she would have ever wished upon any of her descendants, but there was a price to pay for power, a price to pay for life and a line continued. The old crone signed the contract, bound in blood, with the King of Hell, promising one of her own line as his future intended.

She could not foresee when the prophesied witch would be born, all she could promise The Dark King was that the descendant would bear the mark of the Devil. Somewhere in the world, there would be a girl born with a pentagram birthmark, run through with three lines, and that girl, would bear the task of giving children to the King of Hell himself.

The crone did this to solidify her line would survive the witch trials ravaging the country, the contract would ensure demonic protection from death- none of the King’s loyal followers would allow harm to fall upon any woman who could possibly birth the next Queen of Hell.

As the trials continued, not one of the crone’s daughters were harmed. Years went by, with the crone checking every new grandaughter and great-granddaughter for marks. When it became clear that the prophesied girl would not be born in her time on Earth, she urged all her descendants to be fruitful and multiply, in the hopes that, with a large family line, the Demon King would have a harder time finding the contracted child.

Upon her death, the old crone’s family took her words to heart. Not only did the daughters multiply after the witch trials had ended, but they split. Some became nomadic, others found places to settle down and have whole swaths of children. Many of these descendants took upon new names, as women always took the last name of their husbands.

In this way, the old crone hoped to cheat the devil himself, and for a very long time, she was successful in her evasion of him.

one

“This better be important,” Seungcheol groans, shifting on his throne to assess the two low level demons in front of him.

The incubi exchange looks, and finally one steps forward. “Sir, we found her.”

“You found her?” the King repeats. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“The witch,” the second demon says, fumbling as he also moves forward to address Seungcheol. “The one from the prophecy, with the mark.”

The Demon King feels a twitch of something electric, it makes his finger tips jolt, and he begins to strum them along the dark marble arm of his throne. “What are your names?”

“I’m Wonwoo,” says the first incubi, “and this is Mingyu.”

“Well, Wonwoo, Mingyu, the two of you better not be wrong.” Seungcheol stands up. “Where is she?”

“We can give you the details, only…” Mingyu casts an anxious look toward Wonwoo, “we’re pretty sure she was wearing a high level demon ward.”

“What?” The word comes out as a growl, and in the lava fields of hell that stretch as far as the eye can see behind him, there’s a tremor that betrays the King’s rage.

“A demon ward,” Wonwoo repeats. “An heirloom. It’s a necklace. We tried to get her to take it off, but even while dreaming, she was pretty protective over it.”

Seungcheol can’t believe what he’s hearing. It’s been over three hundred years since he’d made a contract with the old crone. Three hundred years of waiting for the ability to sire a line with a witch who would be able to withstand the process. He’d almost given up the hope of ever finding his betrothed, only for two sinful incubi to find her in the dream state. The fact that she’s warded is the cherry on top of this whole fucking thing.

“That bitch,” Seungcheol groans. “The old crone has done everything in her power to make sure our contract would never be fulfilled, and she’s even left warding jewlery.”

If the witch wasn’t in heaven, Seungcheol would pay a visit to her himself to enact his revenge for this final piece of treachery.

You do a service to save an entire line of witches, and this is how they intend to pay back your kindness.

“It’s not the end though,” Wonwoo offers helpfully. “We just have to convince her to take the necklace off, that will break the ward, and you can summon yourself into her room as soon as it’s off.”

“If the two of you do this for me,” Seungcheol notes, “you will be rewarded.”

“We’re just happy we found her for you,” Mingyu says, voice shaky. “It’s been a very long time.”

Too long, in fact.

two

You’re lost in a dreamy haze. Two pairs of lips are on your throat, one man pressed to your front, the other at your back. Hands caress your form, and nothing has felt this real. You’re moaning, eager for the fiery touches.

“We need you to do something for us,” the man in front of you whispers, licking past the shell of your ear and making you shiver.

“Anything,” you blurt out, already reaching for his cock.

A hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. When you meet the stern man’s gaze, you note the darkness in his eyes.

“This is a pretty necklace,” he muses, as the person at your back nips at the chain that encircles your throat.

“It’s a-” you swallow back your lust, trying to form words, “an heirloom.”

“How badly do you want to be fucked, naughty girl?”

“So bad,” you whimper, pressing your thighs together in the hope that you can quench some of your sexual appetite.

“Then you need to promise us that when you wake up, you’ll take this pretty necklace off, only for a while.”

“Huh?” You’re confused, and the man behind you immediately brings his hand to your core, stroking you through your nightie. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel like they’ve asked you to do this before- but your memory is as fuzzy as the vision in front of you, and the men are more than distracting.

“You can do this for us, right?” he presses. “Please?”

“Why do you need me to take my necklace off?” you ask. It had been a parting gift from your mother before you were put up for adoption, and in her note, she’d warned you never to take it off. You can already feel yourself becoming restless at the turn of this dream, what had started so sweet and sexual has turned darker than you’d been ready for.

“It looks like it needs a little… TLC, don’t you think, baby?” One large finger slips into your core, and at the same time, the man in front of you tugs down your dress to access your breast, flicking at the nipple.

“Tell us you’ll do this,” murmurs the one with his mouth on your chest.

Your fingers tangle through his dark curls, keeping him on your breast while he begins to suck on your sensitive bud. It’s practically impossible to say no to them.

“Okay,” you whisper finally, voice shaky. “Just for a little.”

“There’s our good girl,” the one in front growls, adding a hand to his friend’s so he can slip his own finger into your dripping core. They both begin to work you open, and you can’t help the gasps of pleasure that begin to escape you, your grip flying to broad shoulders to keep yourself standing between the two large men. “Now we all get our reward.”

three

You wake up feeling relaxed but needy. You remember ghosted touches as you head for a morning shower, washing your body and remembering strong hands trailing along the same path.

As you do your usual skin routine, your necklace catches your eye in the bathroom mirror, and you’re reminded of the promise you’d made in your dream. Upon inspection, you do think the necklace could use a little refurbishment- you’ve been wearing the chain since childhood, where your commitment to never taking it off had been like life and death.

If you’d had a dream about removing it, if even for a little while, maybe that was your subconscious telling you it’s time to let go of the hold your mother has on you. After all, she gave you up- what do you owe her? What’s the point in still wearing this around?

With a sigh, you reach behind yourself, fiddling with the clasp. There have been a few times you’ve been required to take the necklace off, at hospitals, or the dentist, certain airports- it won’t kill you to remove it for a little while today.

You don’t think much of it as you set the heirloom onto your bathroom counter, in fact, you’re already planning out breakfast. You go to the kitchen, humming to yourself while you open the fridge to look at the contents inside.

As you reach for the orange juice, the hairs on the back of your neck begin to raise, and you feel a powerful energy, as if you’re being watched.

“Goodmorning, sweet girl.”

The sudden voice makes you jump, heart lurching into your throat as you whip around.

There’s a man standing in your kitchen. He’s dressed in all black, with a long silky jacket over top of dress pants and a matching charcoal shirt. His hair is dark too, and he has a smirk on his handsome face.

It only takes you a moment to assess ‘oh, he’s hot’ and one more to decide to throw your juice directly at him.

The man quickly lifts his hand, flicking two fingers. It’s as if the container of orange juice hits some invisible barrier, and it goes flying directly into your sink.

“Don’t be like that,” he tuts, clicking his tongue. “Is that any way to greet a man like me?”

“Who are you?” you ask, mouth going dry as you cower back against the fridge, feeling suddenly very naked in your tiny shorts and crop top.

“An angel,” the man says simply, but the all black outfit is a dead give away that he’s lying.

“Yeah?” you let out a small laugh. “What’s your name then, mister Angel?”

He stares at you for a moment, something dark flashing over his features. When he smiles this time, you notice sharp canines. “Satan.”

Your entire body runs cold. “I don’t…” You lick your lips. “I don’t see any devil horns, or a tail-”

“Would you like to see them?”

“No?”

The man takes a step toward you. “You’re reacting better than I expected, Devil’s girl.”

“Devil’s girl?” you repeat, pressing your back tighter to the fridge in an effort to get away from him as he approaches closer and closer.

“That’s you,” he nods. “That’s what you are. It’s who you were destined to be.”

“I don’t know much about destiny-”

“Why would you?” he shrugs. “It’s been three hundred years since your family agreed to the dept they owe me. In that time, you witches have made it extra hard for me to keep track of all of you. I’m not surprised you don’t know anything about the prophecy, although, I will admit I’m a little disappointed you clearly haven’t stepped into your powers yet. Part of me had been hoping for a bit of a fight.”

“I can still fight you-” you insist, reaching out to grab a weapon from the knife block, brandishing it at the intruder.

He simply laughs, and with the flick of his fingers the knife goes flying out of your hand, landing in the sink next to the juice. “Silly little girl,” he grins. “Power reacts only to power, and though I can see you have power in your veins, it’s clear that no one has unlocked it for you. Don’t worry, I’ll help you get there.”

“Why would I want your help?” You cower back against the fridge, unable to move from where you’re standing. It feels like your feet are weighed down, and you wonder if this is another one of his magic tricks.

The devil puts his hand on the surface next to your head, blocking you into your fate. “Because, silly girl, at the moment, I’m your fiance, and soon, I’ll be your husband.”

“What?” The word comes out as a croak, your heart going a mile a minute in your chest.

“Three hundred years ago, one of your ancestors promised me a descendant as my prophesied betrothed. A girl of her bloodline who would bear my hybrid offspring, children with the power of demons and witches, bodies unrestricted by the laws of Heaven or Hell. A witch who would be identified by the mark of the Devil, drawn through with three lines.”

Realization washes over you. The mark on your ass- the peculiar birthmark, the mark you’ve always been insecure about-

“How…” you swallow thickly. “Why now? How did you find me?”

“I had help. Two incubi found you in your dreams. You were wearing an heirloom with a ward against me, but lucky for us, they convinced you to take off the silly little crone necklace. I couldn’t touch you while you had it on, couldn’t be in the same room as you, but now… I can be here with you, and…” he reaches out a hand, dragging a finger along your collarbone, “I can touch you.”

“And if I say no to all of this?” you ask. “If I say no to marrying a man who’s literally Satan?”

“Then I’ll convince you,” the demon leans close, his hot breath ghosting over your throat. “I can be awfully convincing… also, if it makes you feel better, don’t call me Satan.”

“Then what should I call you?”

“Seungcheol.” There’s a softening in his tone when he says this new name, and as you stare at his handsome face, you realize that is suits him. “And what should I call you, my sweet?”

You whisper your name and Seungcheol repeats it. You can tell he’s enjoying the taste of it on his tongue, and as you share this close proximity with the man who claims you’re his betrothed, you realize your innate attraction to him, despite the circumstance.

“So…” you lick your lips. “What now?”

“Now, little sweet, I take you back to my Kingdom.”

“You mean Hell.”

He grins, and you once again get a view of those sharp teeth. You wonder what they’ll feel like against your skin, and the thought has your body tingling with lust and shame.

“What if I don’t go with you.”

“Like I said, I’m awfully convincing, but on this one, you don’t have a choice.” He lets out a sigh, playing with a strand of your hair. “There are many religions in this world, little sweet, and in many of them, the King of Hell gets his Persephone. Although, in this case, you have no Demeter to protect you. The witch who promised you to me is long since dead, and your family line got muddled and convoluted in the hopes that it would hide you from me. Unfortunately for them, I’m here to collect, and there’s no one in the world who can stop me.”

“But, I mean-” you search for any way to get out of this. “I have a job-”

“Yeah? Tell me about this job.”

You can’t believe he’s humouring you, a slight appearance of interest appearing in his features. “I’m a full time baby sitter, an au pair, the girls are expecting me-”

Seungcheol lets out a low growl from deep in his chest. “So you’re good with children.”

Your mind goes back to what he’d said not minutes ago: ‘A girl of her bloodline who would bear my hybrid offspring, children with the power of demons and witches, bodies unrestricted by the laws of Heaven or Hell.’

Of course the King of Hell has an impreg kink and is turned on by your job as a nanny.

“I can’t go with you,” you insist.

His hand wraps around your throat, thumb teasing your jaw. “It’s not your choice.”

His eyes flare a fiery red colour, and it feels as if the air is sucked out of your lungs. Your hair ruffles, as if you’re in a wind tunnel, and a moment later, you’re no longer standing in your kitchen.

Seungcheol releases your neck, gesturing to the room you’re now in. “This is your new home,” he announces, giving you a moment to take in the black marble floors, scarce furniture, and large bed in the center of the space. There’s a floor to ceiling window that encompasses a whole wall, and through it, you see what can only be decribed as a literal Hellscape.

You can’t help it, you approach the window, mind going blank as you stare out at the fire fields.

Seungcheol is silent as he comes up behind you, pressing two hands to the windowed wall and blocking you in with your back to his chest. You can feel his breath along your throat. “Welcome to Hell, sweet thing. This is all yours now, although, I doubt I’ll let you leave this room too often, not until I know I can trust you.”

It’s funny to hear Satan talking about his ability to trust you- a girl who’s done her best to be good her whole life.

Seungcheol’s lips brush by your ear. “Should we get started, then?”

“Started on what?”

“You know what.” He presses a shockingly soft kiss to your throat, nose nuzzling by your jaw.

“Please, don’t hurt me.”

“I’ll be honest with you, little one, I’m not a nice man. But… I’ll be good to you, if you’re good for me.” One of his hands slips down from the window to grab at your hip, tugging your back flush to his chest. “The way you were good for Mingyu and Wonwoo in your dreams last night.”

The names mean nothing to you, as the men in your wet dream had never given them, although, they must be the incubi he was talking about earlier. The fact that Seungcheol knows about your sinful nightly escapades with two other demons has you feeling shy, your skin heating at his words.

“Even so, demons need consent to enter human bodies,” the King of Hell explains. “Which means, if you withdraw your consent, I’ll be forced to stop. Although… something tells me you’ll consent.”

His hand glides from your hip to your exposed abdomen, and he teases you on what path he’s going to take- up to your breasts, or down to your aching core.

“What…” you swallow back a moan, “What makes you so sure?”

“I can smell your arousal, sweet girl, and there are signs I can see too.” His hand smooths up to your breast, and he squeezes your sensitive flesh, thumb brushing over your hardened nipple. “I think you’re well aware that I’m going to fuck you, in a way you’ve never even dreamed of being fucked before.”

Your breath catches, and you bite at your lower lip to stop a whimper from slipping out of you. Your back arches, pushing your chest more into his large palm.

Seungcheol grins against your throat. “I can see how much you want this, little sweet. Do you want to see how much I want you?”

He grinds his front against your ass, and you can feel his hard cock- fuck, he feels big. You shiver at the realization that your betrothed is packing, and Seungcheol laughs at your reaction.

“Tell me you want this,” he commands.

“I-” You bite your tongue.

His hand wraps around your throat, lips moving to your ear. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” you admit weakly.

“That’s my good girl,” Seungcheol growls. His hand raises from you neck, fingers finding your jaw again. He prompts you to turn your head, meeting his gaze as he leans over your shoulder, looking down at you with a dark expression.

You know what’s coming, and you can’t help yourself as he draws your lips to his own. Your eyes flutter shut, mind going blank as you enjoy the feeling of him. He’s warm, but you suppose you should expect that from the King of Hell.

The kiss deepens all too quickly, and you find yourself turning in his embrace, grabbing at his broad shoulders to pull him even closer.

Seungcheol lets out a growl when your breasts press against his chest, and he leans down, grabbing at the back of your thighs so he can lift you off the marble floor. He presses you back against the window, tongue tasting your own and dominating you as he kisses you like a man who’s waited a hundred years for this- or, strike that, a man who’s waited three hundred years.

There’s a rage in the way he kisses you, rage in the fact that he was forced to wait so long, but behind the rage is something like desperation. His fingers dig into your thighs, his mouth unrelenting against your own.

You’re not sure how long the kiss lasts, but soon, he’s carrying you to the bed. He sets you onto the lavish mattress, tearing at your clothes until you’re naked before him. He towers over you, staring down at your body while you catch your breath.

“Beautiful,” he muses, reaching down to massage your breast, which sends sparks of delight through your entire form. “You were made for me. My sweet. My little queen. My lost witch.”

When he says it like this, something about it feels right.

Something about him feels right, as if your soul has accepted him, even after such a short amount of time.

Then, in the most shocking twist of events, the King of Hell himself gets onto his knees for you. “Come here, my sweet,” Seungcheol says softly, grabbing at your thighs to tug you down the silk sheets toward his face. “It’s time for me to have a taste.”

He leans toward your core, taking in a lewd breath before letting it fan across your skin. Your core throbs at the proximity. Seungcheol grins at your reaction, tongue moving to prod his own fang- which is when you realize, his tongue is like his cock: monstrous.

You suck in a choked gasp, eyes widening. You’d thought he was going easy on you by giving you his mouth first, come to find out his tongue alone is probably as large as most men’s cocks- this must be a Devil thing, but before you can think too hard about it, Seungcheol is licking your slit and your mind goes silent.

A whimper escapes you, your back arching, core pushing closer to his face. Seungcheol lets out a small chuckle, his large hands finding your abdomen to pin you in place. “Stay still and take it, pretty girl,” he warns. “Or there will be… consequences.”

He licks at you again, flicking your clit with as skilled a tongue as you’ve ever had. Your pussy is already throbbing with need, and it takes everything inside of you not to buck toward his face again.

You can feel him watching you when you throw your head back, whimpering at the way he circles your clit. Then he drags his tongue down, dipping it into your wet heat. Your body tenses at the intrusion, mind short cirucuiting as inch after inch of tongue invades you, licking at your walls while Seungcheol groans at your taste.

Fuck- a five inch tongue is definitely a demon thing, but you can’t bring yourself to hate it as he begins to literally tongue fuck you stupid.

Not only does Cheol have the largest tongue you’ve experienced, and a willingness to use it, he’s got an eagerness in the way he eats you out. It’s as if he’s trying to devour you, holding nothing back as he growls and groans his way through working you up to your orgasm.

The feeling bubbling in the pit of your stomach is hot and all consuming, your muscles tensing with effort as you get closer and closer to your peak.

“Fuck- Cheol-” you whimper, unable to hold it in any longer as your hips push toward his face, one of your hands moving down to grab at his hair-

It’s as if hot, invisible handcuffs wrap around your wrists, tugging them up and over your head, pinning you to the bed while you squirm with confusion and lust.

“What did I say about consequences if you didn’t behave yourself?” Seungcheol asks, pulling away from your core and licking his wet lips with that tongue of his.

“I-” you push at the invisible binds on your wrists. “I’m sorry- I was just so close-”

“So close that you lost your manners?” He taps his fingers along your abdomen. “That’s not very queenly of you, my sweet.”

“I’m sorry-” you say again, tears begin to form in your eyes as you feel your orgasm dissipating. “Please-”

“Please, what?”

“Your tongue- I was so close-”

“Do you really deserve it?”

“Yes!”

“You’ll be good for me?”

“Of course, I’ll be so good-”

“If you’re not good for me,” he warns, “you don’t get to cum, remember that.”

“Yes, okay, I understand-” you fight the urge to thrash in his embrace, and it feels like forever that he assesses you before finally bringing his face between your thighs again.

Just as his tongue is about to lap at your pussy, he stops. “Actually, I want to hear you beg for this. Beg for me to let you cum.”

You’re practically delirious, muscles still tight in preparation for your orgasm, and you’ll do anything he says right now. “Please, please, Sir- please let me cum!”

Seungcheol lets out a satisfied growl. “Sir, huh?” He clicks his tongue. “I’ll take that for now, but pretty soon, you’ll be calling me daddy.”

You whimper at his words, core dripping with spit and arousal. “Please-”

He buries his face in your pussy again, holding nothing back. His hands move down to your thighs, squeezing and adding a slight pain that has your entire body tingling. Gasps escape you, escalating in pitch as he drags you closer and closer to your orgasm again-

“Cumming,” you whisper, as the most intense orgasm of your life slams into you.

You do your best not to thrash around, but as Seungcheol obscenely tongue fucks you through your high, it’s the most you can do to stay as still as possible. You push up against the invisible binds on your wrists, gasping and whimpering-

“Fuck, my clit- it’s too sensitive-” you try to tell him, only for Seungcheol to focus more on the sensitive bud.

Your toes curl, a strangled sob escaping you at the stimulus. All you can do is lay there and take the pleasure he’s giving you- you’d thought he was being nice when he’d decided to eat you out, but you see now that maybe there was a bit of sadism in it. He’s clearly enjoying making you cum so hard that you’re beginning to cry, your muscles screaming at you from how tense you are-

“Please, please, please-”

With one final flick at your clit that has you letting out a high pitched squeal, Seungcheol pulls away from your pussy. He blows hot air on your core and you twitch, thighs closing, body shaking in the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Look at you, crying and I haven’t even given you my cock yet,” Seungcheol muses, standing up and staring down at your body.

He pulls off his shirt, and even through your tears, you take a good look at his chiseled form.

Fuck, he’s even more gorgeous with his skin showing. His shoulders are broad, arms all beefy and strong- he’s an absolute unit, but you guess you shouldn’t have expected anything less from the King of Hell.

Then he goes for his pants, pushing them down to reveal the largest cock you’ve ever seen in person.

Your mouth begins to water, fuzzy mind trying to figure out just how many inches this man is about to bury into your wet, twitching pussy.

“Think you can take it, pretty girl?” he asks, wrapping a hand around the base and pumping his hard length.

“Something tells me you’ll make it fit,” you whisper, your core throbbing at the idea.

Seungcheol grins. “We just met, and you already know me so well. Guess that’s part of the whole destined to be together thing. Makes shit easier.”

Instead of getting on top of you, Seungcheol tugs you closer to the foot of the mattress, then, with one twitch of his fingers, the entire bed raises, positioning you exactly where he needs you to be in order for him to fuck you while standing up.

He grabs at your breast, teasing your nipple while you mewl. Your own hand reaches out for his cock, and he allows you to grab him. You wipe your thumb across the angry red tip, smearing precum along his shaft to add lubrication, making it easier to pump his cock slowly while he continues to tease your nipples.

His hand begins to decend, and he teases two fingers along your pussy lips. “I guess I can be nice and stretch you out,” he sighs, slipping the digits into your core.

It’s a kindness you’re not sure you expected from him, and it prompts you to squeeze his cock tighter in your palm while he begins to finger fuck you open, scissoring his digits and testing your inner walls.

“I can’t fucking wait to ruin your perfect little pussy,” Seungcheol groans, fucking you even harder. “You’re squeezing my fingers so fucking well, gonna be a good girl and squeeze my cock even better.”

“Yes, Sir,” you whimper, abdominal muscles tensing as he begins to stroke your gspot.

“Should I give you one more before I give you my cock?” Seungcheol asks, thumb finding your clit and making you cry out. “You’re already wet, baby, but I want you dripping when I finally fuck you stupid.”

You pump is cock faster as he pistons his fingers into your gspot, his thumb unrelenting on your sensitive bud. He works you up to another orgasm with deadly precision, your entire body tensing with pleasure before falling over the edge.

“That’s it,” Seungcheol growls, fingers fucking you through your high. “That’s a good girl, squirting all over my fucking hand-”

No man has ever made you squirt before, and the feeling is intense. You’re gasping, crying from how good it feels, like an overwhelming sense of relief washing over you, a warmth spreading out from your core.

The sound of your squirt is obscene too, gushy, spongy noises filling the room with each pump of Seungcheol’s fingers.

“Sir,” you whimper, “need your cock-”

“Yeah? Is my good girl finally ready to please her King?”

You can only nod, letting go of his cock in favor of grabbing the sheets, needing an anchor for what’s about to come next.

“You know what this means, right?” Seungcheol asks, teasing his tip along your wet pussy lips. “You know I’m going to cum so fucking deep inside of you that you’re going to be dripping for days.”

You nod again, whimpering at the idea.

“You want to be bred though, don’t you, pretty girl? You’re practically begging for it now. What happened to the girl who threw juice at me this morning? All it took was a little cock and you’re dick whipped for you King.”

“All it took was a big cock,” you correct him, skin flushing at the words that have just slipped out of him.

Seungcheol laughs, his canines sparkling in the low light of the room. “Biggest cock you’ve ever had,” he agrees. “Biggest cock you ever will have. After this, you’re mine. Completely. Body and soul.”

In past relationships, you’ve toyed with the idea of forever. It’s been a thought that strikes fear in your heart, but for some reason, looking up at the King of Hell, forever doesn’t scare you anymore.

Something tells you he’s going to take care of you, in a way no one ever has.

It’s clear he’s very protective over you. He believes in soulmates, in destiny, in prophecy- you’re his perfect match, and he’s fully bought into that idea… maybe you’ll buy into it someday too.

“I’m yours,” you agree finally, staring up at the beautiful devil.

He bends over you, pressing his lips to your own. With one hand, he cups your cheek, keeping you close, and with the other, he guides his cock to your pussy again, slowly pushing in.

You gasp against his mouth at the immediate stretch of his cockhead in your tight core, your hands flying to his shoulders.

“I know,” he coos, “I know, but it will feel good in a second, I promise.”

You’re happy he made you squirt, because the wetness coating your pussy makes it easy for him to slowly slide inch after inch into your core. He thrusts shallowly, and the movement helps your body become adjusted to his massive size.

You’re shocked at how big he is- it was one thing to see it, and another thing entirely to feel him- to feel the vein running along the underside of his cock while it drags against your sensitive walls.

Seungcheol’s mouth is hot against your own, his tongue seemingly back to a normal size as he licks at your lips. You think he must be trying to distract you from the intense feeling of being stretched out on his cock, and it’s another kindness you’d never expected from him.

When he’s fully sheathed in your core, you both let out groans of pleasure.

The King of Hell straightens again, looking down at you while his hands graze your form. “Ready, sweet girl?”

You nod, licking your lips. “Yes, please.”

He grabs your hips, holding you steady so he can begin to rut into you.

Your view of him is insane. How is his body so perfect? He’s chiseled in the best of ways, his chest looks downright biteable, his biceps bulging as he holds you down, his abdominal muscles clenching with each thrust-

You’re absolutely delirious for him, your own hands finding your chest to tease your nipples.

Seungcheol’s gaze shifts to where you’re touching yourself, and a smirk appears on his face. “Fuck, baby, that good, huh?”

You can only nod and let out a needy mewling sound, pinching at your nipples and making your back arch while he rails your pussy.

Each drag of his cock along your sensitive inner walls has you seeing stars, and when his hand flattens over your abdomen, you nearly loose it.

“This is how deep I am,” he tells you. “Bet having-” he groans, “Bet having your guts rearranged by the King of Hell wasn’t on your bingo card this year, was it, little love?”

“No, sir,” you shake your head, whimpering at the feeling of pressure on your stomach from his hand. God- why does this feel so good? You can feel him everywhere, he’s all consuming, and that familiar feeling of an oncoming orgasm is building yet again.

“I can feel you tensing up,” Seungcheol notes with a laugh, his thumb moving down to find your clit. “Gonna cum on my cock, aren’t you?”

“Yes, daddy,” you mewl, the title feeling more than natural on your lips.

Seungcheol’s grip on your hip tightens at the word, his thumb applying more pressure to your clit while he fucks you even harder, impaling you on his massive cock with each rough thrust.

“Beg for daddy to let you cum.”

“Please- please, daddy, fuck- I wanna cum so bad, wanna make you feel good-”

“I’m not cumming with you, not yet,” he warns. “As much as I love this position, there’s only one way I want you when I’m filling you with my seed, and that’s on your hands and knees, face buried in the pillows, crying like my good little whore.”

His words have your pussy fluttering around his cock, and it makes his grin widen.

“You like that, huh? Like the idea of being my perfect little cock slut?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Made for me,” he grunts, pinching your clit and making you cry out. “You were fucking made for me. Cum on my cock, baby, show me you deserve it.”

You can’t even fight the command, your body short circuiting, muscles clenching as you follow through with what he wants. Your orgasm hits you like a ton of bricks, pussy clamping down on Seungcheol’s large cock.

He doesn’t stop, he only fucks you harder as you squeal and thrash against the bed- when you reach out to grab his arms, the invisible binds appear again, pinning your hands above you.

Seungcheol laughs, but there’s a groan in the sound too, and you know you’re probably squeezing him like a fucking vice.

“Good girl,” he growls, and it only makes your pussy flutter harder.

The squelching sound returns, and you can’t even find it within yourself to be shy about the way your body is reacting to him, you’re too overwhelmed by the euphoria surging through your being to think cohesively.

“You’re crying again,” Seungcheol notes. “How cute.” His pace slows, and suddenly he’s grabbing at your jaw, hauling you into a sitting position, your face just inches from his own.

His eyes are dark as he looks at you, then his long tongue is lolling out of his mouth, licking away your tears while you struggle and shiver, his cock buried so deep inside of you that you think you might faint.

“Tell me you’re ready for me to breed you,” Seungcheol growls.

“I’m ready for you to breed me,” you say meekly, core throbbing again at the idea.

The King of Hell presses his lips against your own, kissing your breath away while you claw at his shoulders. Then, as suddenly as he’d kissed you, he pulls away, cock slipping from your core and making you whine.

“Onto all fours,” he instructs.

The bed slowly lowers to an acceptable height while you fumble on shaky legs to get into doggy position.

“That’s my good girl,” Seungcheol praises you, the bed dipping as he joins you on his knees behind you. His large hands find your body, skimming along your sides.

Then he grabs the back of your neck, shoving your face down into the mattress.

“Part of me wants to thank you for making this so easy,” he says. “But another part of me thinks you should be the one thanking me for giving you the opportunity to carry the children of the King of Hell.”

“Thank you,” you murmur.

Seungcheol scoffs. “You can thank me when my cum is dripping out of your used hole and you’re still begging for more.”

He slams his cock back into you, and a cry escapes your lips. God, in this position, he feels even deeper- if that’s possible.

Your toes curl at the sensation, and with every rough thrust, his balls clap against your clit, making you dizzy with pleasure.

His grip on the back of your neck increases, skilled fingers finding the arteries that flow to your brain- soon, you’re not only dizzy with pleasure, but dizzy from air being restricted too. It’s a beautiful, tingling feeling, and it has you clawing at the bed, arching your back as you moan like a desperate whore for him.

You feel something on your clit, but both of Seungcheol’s hands are still occupied, one on your hip, one on your neck-

That’s when you realize that whatever invisible magic grip he’d used to pin you to the bed, he can use to pleasure you too-

Now, you truly feel him everywhere.

“Fuck, fuck-” you struggle against the mattress, another orgasm bubbling in the pit of your stomach.

“That’s it, take it.”

“Are you close?” you ask, and from the silence that you’re met with, you’re pretty sure you’ve caught him off guard. “Please tell me you’re close- I want to be full so bad, want you to breed me, Cheol- please-”

He sucks in a shaky breath, gripping your hip so hard that you’re pretty sure you’re going to bruise. His hand moves away from your neck in favour of grabbing both sides of your waist. He roughly pulls your ass back to meet each hard thrust.

“Keep begging.”

“Please, daddy, please- fuck, this is what you wanted me for, right? This is what I owe you? Then give it to me- give me everything, breed me-”

“Cum for me first,” Seungcheol commands. “Cum on my cock so I know you deserve it.”

The magic on your clit suddenly feels like a harsh vibration, and it’s enough to tip you over the edge. You grab at the bed sheets, letting out a primal sound of pleasure as your core clamps down on Seungcheol’s length for a second time.

He lets out his own groan, and a moment later you feel his cum shooting deep inside of you, filling you up in ways you never even imagined possible.

He fucks you through your highs, his grip unwavering on your hips. It feels amazing to be used like this, to feel rope upon rope of Seungcheol’s seed invading you and coating your walls.

And the sounds he’s making- rough grunts and groans- you’ve never heard anything like it. You’ve never been this head over heals for someone before, and the notion shocks you.

Maybe you really were meant for each other- it’s hard to say what’s real as you sacrifice yourself to be his little cum dump, taking every last drop until he stills behind you, cock still buried to the hilt.

He’s breathing heavily, his gasps teasing your back.

Neither of you say anything for a solid minute.

One of his hands leaves your hip, trailing along your spine. “Good girl.”

You can only whimper in response.

“I will admit, I’m still disappointed you’re not adept in the art of witchcraft, although, that’s hardly your own fault.�� What a topic change. “I’ll find you someone to teach you, you’ll have lots of time to devote to the craft.”

His palm flattens against the small of your back, and he wordlessly prompts you to flatten onto your belly, pressing his own large chest against you like a blanket. His lips find your throat, and he peppers your skin in kisses.

“Your days will be spent learning how to be a Queen, and your nights will be spent like this, with me.” His nose nuzzles by your cheek. “And tomorrow, I’ll make you my bride, officially.”

“Tomorrow?” you squeak. “Isn’t that a little… too soon?”

“I’ve waited three hundred years for you, little love. At this point, there’s no such thing as too soon.”

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading!

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below!

🔮 preview. “Trust me, little love, I haven’t cum in you for months, pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to help myself even if I tried.” With a grin, you allow Seungcheol to cup his fingers around the nape of your neck, dragging your lips to his. He kisses you as eagerly as he had the very first time, pushing you backward with his large form until you bump against the window. “I’ve got an idea,” your husband tells you, his mouth moving to your throat. “I wanna fuck you against this, want you to look at your kingdom while I pump our second heir deep into your perfect little pussy.”

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, impreg kink, cum kink, oral (f recieving), fingering, demon magic as a vibrator, fucking against a window, fucking while wearing a dress, quickie, biting/marking/blood licking, breast play, dirty talk, praise, begging, etc… I petnames. (hers) baby, little love, little sweet, etc… (his) daddy, sir.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.7k I teaser wc. 200

🌙 staring. Seungcheol x afab!reader

bonus

Hell is no place to raise a child, and it’s not a place that is easily accessible to witches either- which is why, soon into your pregnancy, Seungcheol made it his mission to find you a safe haven on Earth that you could call home.

Nestled in a small valley, far from any towns or cities, Seungcheol crafted you a home. It’s a cottage, very different from the Hell palace you’d become accustomed to.

Your days are spent basking in the sunshine with your tutor, a witch of a strong family blood line who had long been acquainted with the King of Hell. Your teacher, a woman named Faeble, also acted as your midwife, ensuring your birth with your first child was as seamless as possible, with the aid of magic of course.

She tends to the wards, teaching you about the ways of the witches, and helps you raise your son- she’s become like the mother you never got to have, and your days are peaceful.

In the evenings, Seungcheol appears, whisking you and your son away to the safety of Hell. It’s a simple little life you’ve made for yourself, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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#seungcheol #seungcheol smut #svthub #choi seungcheol #choi seungcheol smut #svt #svt smut #seventeen #seventeen smut #s.coups #s.coups smut #scoups smut #svt scoups #scoups svt #seungcheol svt #svt seungcheol #demon seungcheol #seungcheol x reader #choi seungcheol x reader

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novankenn · 1 year ago

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Jaune 1/2 (v1-8)

Jaune: AH, COME ON!!

Pyrrha: WHAT THE FUCK!

Glynda: Language, Ms Nikos.

Pyrrha: Fuck that! What the actual fuck?

Ozpin: As you can see. The "cute" Jaune is the same Jaune you came here with. As to why this is a thing... that's up to Ms Arc to decided if she feels like sharing that information.

Pyrrha gave Jaune a look, and she just crossed her arms over her barely cover chest.

Jaune: Piss off.

Pyrrha: Why you bit...

Glynda: Ms NIkos! Enough!

Ozpin: Apparently she’s not in a sharing mood, but I will let you know, Ms Nikos. Cold water and male Jaune makes… cute Jaune. Cute Jaune and hot water makes not cute Jaune.

Pyrrha: You’re not going to let that go, are you?

Ozpin: No, I am not.

Pyrrha: I’m not…

Glynda: Ms Nikos. Beacon has co-ed dorms. You could end up on a team with three young men just as easily as you can end up with three young women. Consider these next two days… practice for the possibility of having to share a dorm with members of the opposite gender.

Pyrrha: But…

Jaune: Can I go get a shower, or splash some hot water on my face?

Pyrrha: I think you should stay like that!

Jaune: Why, would I care what you…

Pyrrha: It would just be easier to be around another girl… even if it is you.

Jaune: Well, tooooooo bad! I’m changing back. Say goodbye to “cute” Jaune.

Jaune rose from her chair, and turned to head for the elevator.

Glynda: You have not been dismissed, Ms Arc.

Jaune paused mid-step and gave Professor Goodwitch an “are you serious” look.

Glynda: I am very serious, Ms Arc. Please return to your seat until the Headmaster or myself says you can leave.

Jaune growled, pivoted around and returned to her seat, and instantly fell into a sulky pout. Pyrrha suppressed a laugh at the image.

Ozpin: So here is the situation. Only the four of us know about Ms Arc’s situation, and it will be kept that way. As for your betrothal. If neither of you are keen on the idea of it happening, I can give you Beacon’s protection for the four years you are here attending school.

Jaune: What about MY issue?

Ozpin: I will also be looking into a way to reverse your condition. While Doctor Oobleck looks into your contract to see if there are any… legal means for it to be nullified… HOWEVER, these… favors are not free… they do have a cost.

Jaune: Of course.

Pyrrha: I can have funds…

Ozpin: Not that type of cost, Ms Nikos, though if you would like to contribute to Beacon’s coffers we can issue a tax receipt.

==\ Episode List /==

#Jaune 1/2 #ranma 1/2 #rwby #gender bending #jaune arc #pyrrha nikos #Jaune + cold water = Femjaune!#FemJaune! + hot water = Jaune #betrothal contract

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eris-eveningstar · 9 months ago

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The Betrothal Contract (Fic Snippet)

New fic dropped!! It's coming out soon. It's gonna be short, only 6 chapters. This snippet is from chapter 2.

─── ⬥ • ⬩🐍⬩ • ⬥ ───

From the very beginning, Harry Potter held his soul in his hands and wouldn't let go. Perhaps at first, Tom didn't know what he felt. He and Harry were roughly the same age, with Tom just a bit older, and they grew up together. Early on in their friendship, Harry was Tom's lackey that always followed him around, starry-eyed with wonder and affection. He could sometimes be a nuisance, yet he also occasionally had good ideas. That's why Tom kept him around, he told himself back then.

And then they grew older. Harry spoke against him, he grew a spine. No one else ever did that, including his own parents. His father let him do whatever he wanted, within reason, and his mother often deferred to his father. No one had ever said no to him, except for Harry.

It angered him at first, yet...there was something in Harry's gaze. His emerald eyes glared fiercely at him with a scowl twisting Harry's pretty face, and it was that thought that struck Tom.

When did he begin thinking that Harry was pretty? He wasn't sure, but from then on, those thoughts wouldn't stop.

Harry's shining eyes, his endearingly messy hair and his sheepish grin, his ferocity and terribly naive goodness, even all his moods and ocassional hissy fits—all of it, it made Tom want to claim him. He wanted every part of Harry.

#tomarry #harry potter #tom riddle #new fic #fic rec #omegaverse #im probs going to be known for this lol #the betrothal contract #fic snippet #it's a historical/royalty au #and arranged marriage #it's gonna be sooo good

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moonmaiden1996 · 2 months ago

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Making a Match- Part 2

Part 1

The contract arrived before sunset the next day. Not a servant’s hand, nor a footman’s shuffle—but Lahan himself, who entered just after Lakan, his adoptive father. They stood at your threshold, Lahan’s robes unwrinkled, hair fizzed from the day but his eyes bright as stood behind his elder.

Lakan was just as you imagined: monocle and all. Awkward and powerful. A man who commanded respect—or at least the kind of fear that passed for it. Second only to the Emperor himself, and here he was, grinning like a loon at your father and brothers. It made you feel almost sorry for them. Almost.

Under different circumstances, you might’ve laughed.Standing side by side, the resemblance between Lahan and Lakan was striking—the slant of the eyes, the cut of the jaw. If Lahan aged like his uncle, perhaps he wouldn’t grow fat or bald with time. Lucky you. There was something about those raven curls, slightly unkempt, that made your fingers ache to rake through them. Married life might not be as bad as you thought.

You exhaled quietly, a thin breath of relief, as the pair settled into the morning room, where your father and brothers called for drinks to celebrate. You remained seated on the veranda, eyes narrowed as they guzzled liquor like fools. They could barely see through the fog of their own greed—blind to the predators smiling before them.

Lahan did not sit with his adoptive father. Instead, he slid toward your seat at the edge of the room.

Without flourish, he handed you the scroll, his gaze flicking briefly past you toward the quiet of your private quarters. You didn’t bother asking if he’d worked through the night. Of course he had. Ink still clung faintly to his fingertips.

“I expect you to read it in full,” he said. “There’s a clause for annulment. One for inheritance division. Family support. Even a stipulation concerning the use of shared ink.”

You lifted a brow. “Shared ink?”

“I’m particular,” he replied, adjusting his glasses with one long, ink-smudged finger. “I don’t wish for you to disrupt my routines. While your handwriting is exquisite, I won’t have it corrupt my standards. I’ll see to it you receive proper instruments—as a wedding gift.”

You accepted the scroll, your fingers brushing his—warm, calloused, the hands of a man who wielded quills like weapons. For a moment, he lingered. Just a second. Long enough to make the air taut.

You laughed softly, trailing your fingers along the crisp edges of his perfectly symmetrical script. His gaze met yours—unblinking. It made you look away first, your attention snapping back to the parchment.

And with that, your betrothal began. No pomp. No fanfare. Just a scroll and your brothers and fathers getting drunker and drunker under Lakan’s watchful eye.

Your brothers and father didn’t even acknowledge you. Not a word. Not a glance. They signed you off to the La clan like livestock—without hesitation, without thought.

Your eyes skimmed the document. For what you were expecting, it was generous. Pin money far exceeded what your father had ever allotted you. There was control over the household budget—though supervised, of course. You paused at a clause.

“A house?” you asked.

“It’s the most economical,” he said. “Close enough for me to conduct business and attend court. Tradition favors a separate home for a married couple. I suspect you wouldn’t enjoy living with my father and his peculiarities.”

You snorted. “A fair assumption.”

“I’ve already ordered the master bedroom to be cleaned. It should do us fine.”

“A shared chamber?” you repeated, blinking. That was... unorthodox. You were fairly certain your mother hadn’t even seen your father’s bedchamber in a decade, let alone shared one.

“It’s efficient,” he said flatly. “Saves on fuel in winter and reduces laundering in summer.”

Despite his tone, you couldn’t help laughing.

“I suppose having a wife does have its benefits—beyond heating bills and cutting down on chores.”

He gave no answer. But the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly.

Then he turned to go, heading toward the cluster of men and you followed

“Wait.”

The drink had been flowing too freely—your father already halfway through his second glass before Lahan had even finished listing the clauses. He leaned back in his chair, grinning with the loose, thoughtless bravado that came with fermented confidence.

“We are honored by your choice of our daughter,” he said, raising his goblet lazily in your direction. “Obviously, a widow with no children yet. Married two years and nothing. But I’m sure she’ll provide good heirs, if she’s anything like her mother. If not, you can always sell her to a brothel. That’s all she's good for. Well—that and running a house.”

Your spine locked.

Lakan didn’t flinch.

“Perhaps,” he said coolly, “if her previous husband hadn’t been old enough to be my father, she might have been able to bear something more than shame. Lord Hun was a lecher.”

The room stilled.

Your father let out a brittle laugh, trying to shrug it off—until his elbow clipped his goblet.

The drink sloshed violently, a dark splash streaking across your lap and sleeves. The wine bloomed against your pale fabric, blooming like bruises in the wake of a slap.

You hissed and stepped back——and nearly lost your footing.

But Lahan was there.

His arm circled your waist with startling precision, the other bracing your back as though he’d anticipated the stumble before it happened. His fingers curled at your ribs, solid and warm even through the soaked fabric.

Your breath caught—not from the fall, but from his touch. The rough pads of his fingers, calloused from both pen and paper, brushed your side. And far, far too close to skin you’d only ever let a husband see and touch

Your thoughts betrayed you—treacherous, vivid. You imagined those same fingers pressing somewhere else. Inside you. Measuring, coaxing, cataloguing. Mapping your pleasure like a scribe recording sacred knowledge.

You cleared your throat. Stepped back. “Excuse me,” you murmured. The heat in your cheeks was no longer just from the wine. “I need to change.”

You turned and left before another word could be said.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

You didn’t hear him follow.

But when you stepped out of your dressing room, newly wrapped in fresh linens, he was already there—leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his posture deceptively casual. Yet, your eyes caught the oddly symmetrical alignment of the ornaments lining the hallway, a silent testament to his unyielding precision even in the smallest details.

“Are you well?” Lahan asked, voice low, eyes steady.

“I’m dry,” you replied, arching a brow. “If that’s what you mean.”

His gaze dipped—brief, clinical—to the belt tied at your waist and below that. He said nothing, but his fingers tensed where they rested, a twitch barely visible beneath the fold of his sleeves.

You stepped toward him, unhurried. The robe whispered around your legs with every stride, soft against your freshly cleaned skin. “You seemed… displeased,” his said, voice light but probing. “At your father's comment.”

A flicker crossed your face—confusion, quickly masked. “What?”

“Your father,” Lahan said, slower this time. “When he asked about children and his vile comment should you fail to create them.’

Ah. That.

The words reopened something raw, something you kept sealed beneath careful indifference. Because everyone assumed the lack of an heir was your failure. That your womb was barren, that your beauty was hollow. They whispered behind their hands, wondering what flaw must have hidden beneath your fine silks.

When in truth, your late husband had been too old, too feeble, too far gone into decay to be any sort of man—certainly not a husband. It had been a mercy, really, the impotence. At least you hadn’t had to endure the press of sagging flesh and rancid breath being panted onto you. He’d only ever wanted the performance—your body beside his, your voice low and sweet, as you did what he couldn't.

You'd acted the part perfectly. But it wasn’t your failure, and certainly not worth selling you to a brothel.

“I assure you,” you said now, stepping closer still, your voice silk-wrapped steel, “I can provide an heir. If that’s what you desire. ”

You reached for him—just a touch. Deliberate. Your fingers brushed his wrist, where the calloused edges of his hand had earlier ghosted along your ribs. You traced that place now, slow, intentional, searching the marble perfection of his skin.

“My previous husband…” you began, and let the words drip with something darker, “was unable to perform. So I had to get creative.”

Your hand slid up, then down again, toying with the lapel of his robe.

“You’ll find I’m more than proficient.”

Lahan’s throat bobbed, his expression unreadable, though his stillness had shifted—no longer detached, but held in place by tension barely leashed. Still, he said nothing.

You leaned in, just enough to let the heat of your body press against the cool discipline of his.

“Tell me,” you whispered, lips near his ear. “You’ve never touched a woman before, have you?”

His jaw ticked again. He held your gaze—but didn’t deny it.

You smiled slowly. “How disciplined. How... frustrating.”

Still, he said nothing. Just stood there, cloaked in silence. But the quiet wasn’t passive anymore—it vibrated with something unspoken, something nearly feral. The air between you pulsed, thick with restraint.

“Well,” you murmured, your voice dipping into a sultry drawl, “you’ve chosen to marry. It would be such a waste if you didn’t... utilize your rights.”

A twitch—just the barest flicker—moved through one of his hands.

You closed the remaining distance, the hem of your robe whispering against the front of his tunic. “You’re a man of precision,” you said. “I trust, when the time comes, you’ll apply it... generously.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and smooth—velvet-wrapped steel.

“You presume it will be you who gives instruction.”

Your brows lifted, lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile. “Oh?Are you educated? Or…Do you plan to educate yourself? ”

His expression didn’t falter—but something in his eyes shifted. Narrowed. Grew colder. Sharper.

“No,” he said simply.

You tilted your head, mock-thoughtful. “Then I do suggest you get yourself educated.” You stepped even closer, your breath now mingling with his. “Experience, my lord,” you said, voice barely more than a purr. “Is the best teacher.”

Your fingers grazed the edge of his robe again—this time slower, bolder. “And I,” you added, “am an excellent tutor.”

You let your eyes drift lazily over his face as if appraising a particularly fine, if untested, blade. “Brothels are the usual places, I suppose…” You paused, pretending to consider. “But they tend to focus rather heavily on male pleasure.” Your voice turned languid. “Then again, I’m sure I can manage to satisfy myself if you’re not up to the task. After all—female pleasure does require... meticulous timing and precision.”

Your gaze flicked back to his, deliberate and daring. “Do you have that, Lahan? Precision?”

He blinked—just once. But it was real, unguarded.

“I assure you,” he said, voice a notch lower, “I am a perfectly adequate student.”

Your eyes dropped toward the corridor beyond him—toward the sound of distant laughter echoing faintly through the stone. “My father and brothers will be several cups deep by now,” you said. “Would you care to put that to the test?”

His head tilted, ever so slightly. The edge of his lip twitched, as if suppressing a response he hadn’t quite rehearsed. “I… require time to study,” he murmured. “I—cannot have this sprung on me! Where am I to take notes?”

You stepped in again, this time brushing your body deliberately against his arm. Soft fabric against firm muscle, linen against heat.

“There’s no need for notes, future husband,” you murmured, stepping into his shadow. Then, softer—more deliberate—“Just study me well, husband. I expect a thoroughly educated husband.”

His breath caught—quiet, but audible. His hand hovered at his side, uncertain. You watched it, half-smiling, as if daring him to use it. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Then: “Do you mean to seduce me?” he asked, quiet and unblinking.

Your smile deepened, slow and dangerous. “No, my lord,” you said, turning just enough to let your shoulder graze his chest as you whispered against his skin. “I mean to see if you really are as quick as they say you are.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

You rocked your hips against his hand, the fabric of your robe bunched tight at your waist, legs straddling his thigh. His fingers moved inside you—slow, searching, deliberate—as if mapping every contour, every hidden response. Lahan’s hat had been ripped from his head in a flash of impatience, his unruly curls bouncing with each movement as you ground your body against his. The dressing chair beneath you was solid, sturdy enough to hold your weight—and the intensity of your motion.

His brows knit together, not in confusion but in deep concentration. You could feel it—that razor-sharp focus. Not lust-blind or frenzied. He was observing, calculating every shiver, every subtle twitch like a scholar intent on solving a complex equation perfectly. The tension in your thighs. The tremble in your breath. The tight clench around his fingers.

“Curl your fingers,” you gasped, voice trembling as you gripped his shoulder harder as you moved.

He obeyed instantly—no hesitation, no smugness—only pure, eager willingness to learn.The motion made you arch, your back bowing instinctively. A soft moan slipped past your lips before you could catch it, raw and honest. That one hit home—deep and tight—drawing a flicker of response you hadn’t expected to share.

“There,” you breathed, voice low and thick with heat, “just like that—”

His jaw flexed, the tension in his face shifting. A flicker of something broke through the calm surface—not desire, not yet—but interest. Scientific. Ravenous. Analytical.

“Keep watching me,” you said between shallow, ragged breaths. ‘’Your learning sooo well.’’

Another slow, measured thrust. Then a curling of fingers—perfect, precise. You moaned loud and unbridled. You thanked the spirits that your family were oblivious to when they were drunk.

“You react most intensely here,” he murmured, pressing against that spot again, angling just right, probing deeper. “And when I do this—”

Another curl.

You whimpered, knees threatening to buckle beneath you, caught between the fire rising inside and the electric thrill of his calculated touch.

“Your inner walls tighten by approximately… two degrees of resistance,” Lahan murmured, his voice calm, measured—almost disturbingly clinical. “I cannot see well enough to determine which finger movement yields superior results. For accuracy... I will need you fully displayed.”

You should’ve been embarrassed.

You weren’t.

You were blazing—heat curling in your belly, fire licking beneath your skin. His words, spoken like a physician’s hypothesis, only stoked it further. He wasn’t just touching you; he was studying you like a rare, exquisite specimen. And gods help you, right now you wanted to be his favorite subject.

His touch was no longer tentative or awkward—it was methodical, like a cartographer mapping unknown terrain. Every subtle twitch, every involuntary clench was data, precisely recorded. There was no stumbling, no guesswork. Just relentless, unyielding curiosity.

“You’re ridiculous,” you panted, hips grinding insistently against his palm, urging him on.

“And you’re…” His voice softened, almost hesitant, “breathtaking. Perfectly symmetrical ”

Your head dropped forward, resting against his shoulder, a soft, broken moan slipping from your lips as your body clenched around his fingers—tight, pulsing, unbearable. The climax didn’t crash like the storm you once chased while mounting phallus. No—this consumed you differently. It was clean, final, irrefutable. A sharp cry tore from your throat as it overtook you.

Lahan held you through it, unmoving except for the steady, deliberate pressure of his fingers curled deep inside you, as though anchoring your body to its own pleasure, refusing to let go until every last tremor had passed.

You sagged against him, breath hitching, pulse fluttering wildly against his neck.

And then you heard it. A quiet exhale. Not satisfaction. Not admiration. Annoyed

You blinked, still panting, your body humming and spent.

“Is… something wrong?” you murmured, voice fragile in the heavy silence.

Lahan’s lips pressed into a thin, tight line. His eyes, which had moments before been wide with silent reverence, narrowed now in a puzzled, almost dismayed frown behind his glasses “One,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“…Excuse me?” Your voice was a whisper, breathless and incredulous.

“One orgasm. Singular. It’s... unbalanced.” Lahan’s tone was clipped, as if the very idea offended his precise nature. “Odd-numbered. It lacks symmetry. Continuity. Completion.”

You stared at him for a beat, still sprawled over his lap, your robe slipping from one shoulder to reveal flushed, glistening skin—marked by the aftershocks of your release.

“You’re upset because I came once?”

He looked at you as though you’d suggested he misfile his ledgers—a notion as absurd as it was offensive.

“Odd numbers disturb me,” he said flatly, eyes sharp, voice earnest. “You’ve disrupted the sequence.”

Despite yourself, a laugh spilled from your lips—half disbelief, half delight, bubbling up like a secret triumph.

“You mean to tell me,” you said, trailing a fingertip down the sharp line of his jaw, “that unless I come twice, you’ll be too… unsettled to concentrate?”

He nodded solemnly, completely serious.

Your smile curved slow and dangerous. “Oh, I’m not the one who’s unbalanced,” you purred, smoothing your robe with a practiced, languid elegance. “I feel perfectly satisfied.”

His jaw flexed, a subtle muscle twitch betraying him. “You’re enjoying this,” he said, voice flat but edged with something unreadable.

“Mmm.” You leaned in close, your breath grazing the shell of his ear. “I think I like you best just like this—glasses slightly askew, fingers wet, and one orgasm short of a proper equation.”

His body stiffened. That did it. The twitch at the corner of his eye betrayed the crack in his armor.

You straightened, casting a slow, sweeping glance over him—still fully clothed, still composed, at least outwardly. Save from a rather impressive outline of his straining cock. But you knew better now. Knew how tightly coiled he was beneath that veneer of silk and calculation.

“Next time,” you said, voice smooth as silk, “I get to touch you.”

His fingers slipped free from where they’d rested against you—glossed with your essence.

You brought his hand to your lips, your touch deliberate.

Lahan stilled.

Your mouth closed around his fingers—one by one—your tongue tracing the length of each with slow, meticulous precision. His breath hitched—just once—and you felt it like a quiet victory. When you reached his index finger—the very one that had curled perfectly inside you—you gave it one last lingering lick before letting his hand fall back to his side.

With that, you stepped away, leaving him alone in the dressing room. The door clicking softly shut behind you.

Thank you so much for all your lovely comments. It made writing this so exciting. I hope you like it.

I might write more Lahan fics with my lovely reader. Please let me know how you found Lahan in this chapter. I am still trying to balance the right amount weird with nerd.

#lahan x reader #lahan #apothecary diaries #the apothecary diaries #lakan #mao mao #maomao

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letthemkook · 2 months ago

Text

Ｔ𝑒Ｔⓗ𝑒ⓡ kim taehyung (one)

Pairing: Yandere!Kim Taehyung × MC (Childhood Friends to Arranged Fiancés)

Themes: Arranged marriage, childhood friends to possessive obsession, elite society and wealth, power imbalance and control, spoiled heroine with overindulgent dynamic, slow-burn to dark sexual awakening, psychological tension, and emotional dependency.

Genre: Dark romance, psychological drama, smut, coming-of-age with elements of emotional and sexual growth, and subtle slice-of-life.

Warnings: Yandere behavior including obsessive love and possessiveness, emotional manipulation, blurred consent in both emotional and physical contexts, themes of privilege and dependency, SMUT (18+)

Intro: Taehyung has always been there. Watchful, constant, impossibly close. As the promise of your arranged marriage looms, you begin to see the truth behind his steady gaze. He was never just waiting; he was claiming.

taglist: @hkplushier

——————-

You first heard the word betrothed when you were eleven. Your mother whispered it like it was a blessing, brushing your hair while humming something soft. “To someone good. To someone who already loves you,” she’d said, like that was supposed to make it better. You still remember the sinking feeling in your chest when she said the name: Kim Taehyung.

Taller than you, smarter, louder—and terrifyingly possessive. Even back then.

You and Kim Taehyung were born into parallel worlds.

Two empires—his in steel, yours in land and luxury real estate—entwined by proximity, wealth, and old loyalty. Your parents met his at a fundraiser when you were still in the womb, and from that night on, it was settled.

You and Kim Taehyung grew up in the same world—glass towers, private jets, weekend galas, and houses too big to feel real. Your father owns half the city’s skyline; his family built the bridges that connect it. Wealth like that makes people greedy, paranoid. But not your families. Not with each other.

Your parents love the Kims. The Kims love your parents. It’s always been that way.

You spent holidays at each other’s estates, vacations abroad in private resorts, and birthdays where the guest lists looked like Forbes. Every major life milestone, he was there. You remember matching tuxedos and dresses as kids at some gala, dancing in front of the flash of cameras while your mothers clapped.

Not that they said it out loud—at least not at first.

At first, it was just shared vacations, joint birthday parties, his mother calling you her sweet girl while fixing your hair with diamond pins. Your father always bragged about Taehyung like he was his own son—his charm, his grades, his golf swing. “He’s a real man,” he’d say, when Taehyung stood up for you against some brat at a banquet. “You’re lucky, darling. Not every girl gets someone like him.”

And his parents? His mother spoiled you. Every birthday, she gave you something handpicked and impossibly expensive—a sapphire bracelet when you turned thirteen, a limited-edition designer bag at sixteen. She always said the same thing with a knowing smile: “What’s mine is yours, sweetheart.” His father called you Taehyung’s girl before you were even old enough to understand what that meant.

Your lives were mirrors, but his was always louder.

Where you were taught grace and diplomacy, he was taught to command. Taehyung filled a room. He was the type of boy whose name was always on someone’s lips—at school, at functions, on whispered calls behind closed doors. He was untouchable, untamed, and completely uninterested in anyone that wasn’t you.

From childhood, he acted like you belonged to him. Not in a dramatic way—but in small, possessive habits. He never liked you walking alone, even inside gated estates. He sat beside you at every dinner, always a little too close. He ignored other girls and memorized your schedule. When he got into fights, it was always over you.

You knew about the betrothal since you were eleven. The contract was a quiet thing signed between your fathers in the office with cigars and prideful grins. When you found out, your mother said it softly, like it was a fairytale. “You’ll be safe with him. His love will be your armor.”

But you didn’t want armor. You wanted choice.

And Taehyung? He never once asked if you agreed. He smiled like he already had you.

Taehyung would walk you home from school without asking. He’d pull your backpack onto his shoulder and call you mine in that calm, self-satisfied voice of his. When boys gave you notes, they ended up wet or shredded. When girls tried to befriend you, they’d back off with nervous glances—because Taehyung watched everyone. Watched them like he had the right.

And maybe he did. Because your families had already decided everything.

By the time you turned eighteen, you were tired of hearing the words “he only does it because he cares.” Your parents had given you a future without asking. A future with him.

He never even asked either.

He acted like it was already done. Like your hand already had his name etched on the bone. He said it with his eyes, with the way he smirked when you glared at him, with the way he’d lower his voice when you got angry—so low and slow it made your stomach twist.

“You’re going to marry me anyway,” he’d said once. “Might as well stop pretending you don’t want me.”

You’d thrown a book at his face.

You didn’t want him. Not like that. Not with this kind of control. But it didn’t matter what you said, not when the engagement was to be formalized on your twentieth birthday.

And worst of all—he’s not cruel. He’s kind. Terrifyingly patient.

Like a boy who’s waited his whole life, knowing eventually, you’d stop fighting.

Your lives were separate in a hundred ways. Different schools. Different social circles. You went to a rigorous prep academy focused on academics and pedigree. Taehyung was across the city, where the emphasis was on networking and legacy. His name alone could clear a hallway. And you were glad, in a way, to have your space. You liked who you were when he wasn’t watching.

Taehyung was the boy who carried your bags even when you didn’t ask. Who stepped between you and barking paparazzi. Who tore up love notes from other boys before you even read them. It used to annoy you. But over time, you got used to it.

That’s the problem now.

You’re too used to Taehyung doing things for you. Used to the way he orders your drink without asking, the way he presses a hand to your lower back when crowds get too close, the way he answers questions on your behalf like he’s doing you a favor.

But there used to be distance—separate schools, separate routines. You could breathe without him in the room.

But that all changed senior year.

When he transferred.

There was no warning. No announcement. One day, you walked into class and he was already sitting in the back row—arms crossed, legs long, looking like the school belonged to him already. Which it sort of did. One call from his father and he’d been placed in all your advanced courses, your clubs, even your student council.

And just like that, the air around you changed.

He didn’t need to say anything. He just looked at you, smirked faintly, and nodded like of course. Of course he’s here now. Of course he’ll sit by you at lunch. Of course your friends are already fawning over him. Of course you don’t need space.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay with it.

He never has.

But he treats you like glass, only he’s the only one allowed to touch it. You feel it in the way he walks you to class now, the way he puts his hand low on your back when people are around. The way he says your name like it’s already his. And maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.

_____

You walked into your advanced econ class, and he was already seated in the back row, legs sprawled, uniform perfect, eyes locked on you like he was waiting. And from that moment, everything tilted. He joined every one of your classes, your student council, your morning study hall. No one questioned it—who would, with his last name?

The girls lost their minds.

Kim Taehyung was tall, devastatingly handsome, absurdly rich—and unattainable. The way he dressed, the way he carried himself, the lazy curl of his smirk when someone tried to flirt—he made them feel like he was a dream they had to earn.

Too bad he didn’t look at any of them. Just you.

And he made it obvious. He sat with you at lunch. Walked you to every class. Ignored every girl who tried to get his attention. And the moment that really sent your friends reeling?

Lunch.

He cut your chicken for you. With the same ease someone might pour water or pass a napkin. Your fork had barely touched the plate when his hand slid it away, and with slow, effortless precision, he sliced it into bite-sized pieces.

“Here,” he said, nudging the plate back toward you, eyes already drifting lazily across the room as if it were nothing.

Your friends stared.

You blinked. “What?”

“Did he just—?” Mina whispered.

“Cut her food?” Jia muttered. “Like she’s five?”

You looked at them, genuinely confused. “He always does that.”

Jia looked like she was about to pass out.

Taehyung, of course, just smiled. A little smug. A little possessive. Like he wanted them to know that this wasn’t new—that you’d always been his, in ways they wouldn’t understand.

And maybe you didn’t either.

——

It doesn’t stop during your lunch with your friends.

Taehyung moves through your day like he’s been doing this his whole life—because he has. The only difference now is that your friends see it.

“Here,” he says one morning, plucking your heavy textbook stack from your arms without asking. He slings your backpack over his shoulder, smooth and casual, and starts walking beside you like this is how it’s always been. Because it has.

Your friends trail behind, slack-jawed.

“Wait, does he carry your backpack to class?” Mina hisses, jogging to catch up.

“Yeah,” you say, brushing hair from your face. “Sometimes he gets annoyed if I try to carry things myself.”

They stare at you.

You stare back. “What?”

Jia lowers her voice like she’s explaining something to a toddler. “That’s… not normal.”

You blink, confused. “It’s just Taehyung.”

They exchange looks like that explains nothing. Because to them, he’s not just Taehyung. He’s the devastating new senior transfer with power stitched into every breath. But to you, he’s always been the same—bossy, patient, annoying. Familiar.

Later, you’re walking to your afternoon class when one of your shoelaces comes undone. Before you even notice, Taehyung’s already crouched, long fingers tugging the strings neatly together.

“There,” he murmurs, double-knotting it. “Don’t trip.”

You hum distractedly, checking your phone. “Thanks.”

When you glance up, three girls from your AP Literature class are staring at you with open mouths.

One even drops her pen.

Taehyung doesn’t react. He stands, dusts off his slacks, and picks up your backpack again. “Let’s go.”

You don’t question it. You never do. Because this is just how it’s always been. From the moment he was old enough to reach the laces on your shoes, Taehyung has done these things. And not once have your parents told him to stop. Not once has he asked if it’s too much. He just does.

You sit through your next class with your friends whispering at your side.

“Do you even like him like that?” Jia asks under her breath.

“He’s just…” You trail off. How do you explain something so ingrained it doesn’t feel like a choice? “He’s always been like this. It’s not a big deal.”

Jia looks at you, sharp-eyed. “That’s what makes it a big deal.”

You frown. But you don’t reply. Because what would you even say? That it’s comfortable? That it’s easier to let him do things than fight him? That sometimes it’s nice, the way he hovers just close enough to make you feel safe without saying why?

The truth is, you don’t fully understand it either.

But Taehyung does.

He watches all of it—your confusion, their judgment, his own slow integration into your life—with the calm patience of someone who’s planned for this moment for years.

He doesn’t mind that they’re starting to notice.

In fact, he wants them to.

Because the more they see what he does for you, the more they’ll understand what he already knows:

You belong to him. Even if you haven’t realized it yet.

————-

Taehyung walks you to every class, even if it means being late to his. He adjusts your uniform jacket when it’s off-center, handles things like vending machines, library fines, and event sign-ups without you ever lifting a finger.

You’re used to it.

Your friends are not.

“He really just… does that?” Mina asks one morning, after he hands you your favorite iced drink before first period without being told.

“Yeah,” you say, not looking up from your phone. “He’s always done it.”

“Like he just… carries your bag? Signs you in?”

You blink. “I mean.. Yeah.”

They don’t get it. And you’re too used to this life to explain it.

Later that week, your group has a class project due that requires bringing in heavy poster boards and prop pieces. You’re standing near the front gate, holding the lightest bag of supplies while the large foam trifold board with the rest of the massive main presentation model sit on the bench beside you—untouched.

Taehyung is supposed to carry it, place it, organize it. He always does. But he’s late.

Just a few minutes late.

Still, you check the clock. Tap your foot. Your arms are folded, and your expression is increasingly pouty.

Your friends watch you in confusion.

“Are you… waiting for something?” Jia asks.

“Taehyung,” you say simply, like that should be obvious.

Mina frowns. “You could start taking the stuff in, though.”

You look at the heavy trifold, the model board, the stack of notes under a paperweight. Then back at her. “Why would I?”

Dead silence.

Jia stares at you. “You do know it’s your project too, right?”

You shrug, genuinely confused by their confusion. “He’s carried worse.”

They’re still trying to process that when Taehyung finally appears, his blazer slightly rumpled, tie loose, hair perfectly windblown. He doesn’t speak—just walks over, takes the project supplies in one hand and your bag in the other.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says softly. “Did you wait long?”

You huff. “Yeah, I was waiting here for like… seven minutes. I even thought about carrying it in myself.”

His lips curl in a small, knowing smile. “Tragic.”

Your friends are stunned. Again.

He walks you in like he owns the building—and maybe he does. Half the girls in school watch him with hearts in their eyes, whispering about his wealth, his looks, his voice, his hands. But he doesn’t look at them.

He only looks at you.

And he does it with a kind of quiet, practiced patience that says he’s done this forever—and will do it for the rest of your life, whether you ask or not.

Because you’re used to him handling everything.

And that’s exactly how he wants it.

_________________________

That day you have a seat change in class.

Your professor, in a moment of what must’ve been cosmic cruelty, decides to “shake things up” for your literature seminar and randomly assigns new partners for the semester-long project. You don’t think much of it—until you’re paired with Raejun, a boy from the debate team. Smart. Well-dressed. Confident in a way that doesn’t scream arrogance.

You’ve never talked to him before. But when he smiles at you, something about it feels… normal. Refreshing. Like he’s not seeing you as a last name or a future heiress. Just you.

Taehyung watches the whole thing from across the room, seated beside Mina now, his expression unreadable. But you feel the weight of his gaze pressing between your shoulder blades.

“Hey,” Raejun says, offering his hand when class ends. “Want to go to the café after school? We can plan out our research outline.”

You hesitate. Not because of him—but because of the tension that immediately shifts in the room.

Before you can answer, there’s a sound behind you—metal scraping lightly as Taehyung stands. He doesn’t say a word. Just walks over, calm and unhurried, and places a hand lightly on your shoulder.

“She won’t be going,” he says to Raejun, voice polite, but firm.

You blink. “Taehyung—”

“She’s busy,” he continues, gaze never leaving Raejun’s. “With me.”

Raejun raises a brow. “I mean, it’s just a school project. I wasn’t—”

Taehyung’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure you weren’t. But you are mistaken.”

There’s something quiet but unmistakably final in his tone. Raejun looks between the two of you, then steps back with a short nod.

“No problem,” he says carefully, then walks away.

The moment he’s gone, you round on Taehyung.

“What was that?”

He looks down at you. Still smiling. Still calm. “I handled it.”

“You scared him off!”

“Good.” His fingers curl a little tighter on your shoulder. “He was looking at you like you were available.”

You laugh, bitter and breathless. “Well, I am available, Taehyung. You don’t own me.”

His jaw flexes. “You keep saying that like it’s true.”

That stuns you into silence.

You don’t know what to say. You’ve known him all your life. But this is the first time he’s said something that feels like a threat—not in volume, but in certainty.

He leans in, voice lower. “You can flirt. You can pretend. But don’t forget who’s always been here. Who does everything for you. Who knows how to take care of you—because I’ve been doing it since before you could spell my name.”

His hand slides from your shoulder to your waist, and he steps closer.

“You belong with me. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

Your heart stutters.

Then he pulls back—expression smoothing over like nothing happened. “Let’s go. I already scheduled your ride.”

You don’t move at first. Just stand there, a little breathless, a little shaken.

Your friends don’t say a word. But Mina gives you a look. A knowing one. Like she’s starting to piece it together.

And deep down… maybe you are too.

———-

A week later Taehyung hasn’t brought it up again, the incident with Raejun—not with words. But his actions have only intensified. He walks you to every class now, even ones you told him not to. Waits outside the girls’ restroom like it’s normal. Texts you when you’re five minutes late to lunch with a where are you, princess?

It’s become routine again. Familiar.

Comfortable, in a way you hate admitting.

You’re in the middle of a bad day when it happens. Your student ID card—linked to your school account, your snack money, your library access—decides to stop working. You’ve tried tapping it three times. Nothing. The vending machine blinks red. You’re hungry. Irritated. And slightly flustered because you forgot to charge your phone and left your wallet in the science lab.

So naturally, you go looking for Taehyung.

You spot him near the main stairwell, talking to someone. You recognize the girl—her name is Yena. She’s on the dance team and widely known for being beautiful, graceful, and allegedly crushing hard on Taehyung since the day he transferred.

She’s standing too close.

Her hands are clasped nervously, cheeks a little flushed. She’s mid-sentence, eyes big and hopeful.

And you don’t even register it.

“Taehyung,” you call, marching up. “My card isn’t working and I’m starving. Give me yours.”

He turns immediately, hand already sliding into his blazer pocket. “What?”

You hold out your hand expectantly. “I tried mine three times.”

He steps toward you without hesitation. “You didn’t eat breakfast again, did you?”

“No, and I’m gonna pass out.”

Yena clears her throat behind you. “Um—excuse me? We’re in the middle of something—”

You turn, surprised. “Oh. Sorry.” Then pause. “Wait, were you guys talking?”

Yena blinks, incredulous. “Obviously.”

You stare at her blankly. “Right. Well, I’m just borrowing his card.”

Her mouth opens. Then closes.

Taehyung doesn’t even look at her.

He presses his card into your palm and rests a hand lightly on the back of your neck. “Go buy something warm. I’ll meet you outside in five.”

“Kay,” you mumble, already halfway to the vending kiosk. You barely notice Yena’s expression—or the way Taehyung doesn’t so much as glance at her when she starts trying to talk again.

When you’re gone, Yena stares at him, red-cheeked and humiliated.

“Seriously?” she mutters. “I was trying to tell you I like you.”

Taehyung tilts his head slightly. “I know.”

She blinks. “Then—?”

He smiles. Not kindly.

“I don’t really care.”

And then he walks away.

By the time you’ve bought your snack, he’s already waiting by the courtyard steps, hand outstretched to carry your bag. Like always. Like it’s nothing.

You toss him his card back. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t take it.

“You should keep it.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs. “You’ll need it again.”

You slip it into your pocket without thinking. Because you probably will.

And behind you, somewhere in the distance, a girl walks away with tears in her eyes—learning the same thing everyone else eventually does:

You weren’t just someone Taehyung liked.

You were the reason no one else ever stood a chance.

___________

It all builds up to Friday lunch.

You’re eating at your usual table, Taehyung sitting beside you with one hand on your chair and the other lazily flipping through your notebook. Your untouched tray is half-eaten—because he made you a custom plate and brought it over himself. Your backpack is off your shoulders, tucked beneath his seat. And your phone? Charging in his blazer pocket because you forgot again.

You’re not even thinking about it. But your friends are.

The moment he steps away to take a call, Mina turns to you, dead serious.

“Do you even realize how dependent you are on him?”

You pause mid-chew. “Excuse me?”

Jia chimes in. “Like—do you know how to do anything without him? Register for classes? Go to the bank? Cut your own food?”

You blink, chewing slowly. “I mean… not really?”

Mina looks horrified. “You’re not even ashamed!”

You lift your juice with a shrug. “Why would I be?”

They stare. You smile. You’re not even being ironic.

“I do well in school, I handle my business, I’m just not…” You wave a hand vaguely. “Manual.”

“Manual?” Jia echoes, deadpan. “Girl, you couldn’t even refill your Metro card without him.”

“Because he does it better,” you say breezily. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Mina says carefully, “is that if he ever left, you wouldn’t know how to function.”

That gives you pause.

Not because she’s wrong. But because… yeah. She’s kind of right.

You’re smart. Brilliant, even. You get top marks, lead committees, kill it in academic competitions. But when it comes to real-life things—life life—Taehyung or your parents have always stepped in.

Need to open an account? Someone handled it. Need to pay your phone bill? Auto-paid. Hair appointments? Booked. Dry cleaning? Delivered. Anything that involved interaction, planning, lifting, sweating—Taehyung did it.

Because he wanted to. Because you let him.

And deep down, you know you could learn. You could grow. Be self-sufficient.

But… you don’t want to.

You sip your drink. “You make it sound like a tragedy. It’s not. He likes doing things for me.”

“That’s not the point,” Jia says, softer now. “Don’t you ever feel like he’s building your whole world around himself? Like, if he pulled back even once, the floor would fall out?”

You glance at Taehyung across the courtyard. He’s standing in the sun, one hand in his pocket, phone pressed to his ear, eyes flicking toward you even while he talks.

He doesn’t pull back. That’s the thing.

He never has.

And if you’re honest with yourself… it is a little terrifying how much you rely on him. How many things you don’t know. How often you look for him without realizing.

But you’ve never felt safer.

You look back at your friends and shrug. “I like not having to handle everything. I don’t think that makes me spoiled, and I don’t want to change.”

They fall quiet.

And then Taehyung returns, slipping his phone away and leaning in to brush a crumb off your cheek. He doesn’t ask what you were talking about. He doesn’t need to.

You lean into his hand like it’s instinct.

Because it is.

—————-

You bring it up later.

Not because you want to fight—but because the silence your friends left behind won’t leave your head.

The sun is setting outside the library, soft gold bleeding through the windows as you both sit on the lounge couch. Taehyung has your laptop on his lap—sorting through your inbox without being asked, muttering about unsubscribing you from spam. He’s calm. Comfortable. In his element.

Which makes it feel even riskier to ask.

You shift a little. “Taehyung?”

“Hm?” He doesn’t look up. His fingers are already clicking away—cleaning up your digital clutter like it’s his own.

You pause. Then: “Do you think I’m too… dependent on you?”

That gets his attention.

He freezes for half a second. Not long. But you notice.

His eyes flick up slowly, dark and unreadable. “Who told you that?”

You fidget. “Just… my friends. They said I wouldn’t know how to function without you.”

His jaw tics—just slightly. “And do you believe that?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. Maybe a little. But… is that bad?”

He sets your laptop down. Gently. Like he’s afraid of cracking it. Then he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking at you with something slower, heavier.

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not bad.”

Then his voice changes—darker, silkier.

“Why wouldn’t you depend on me?”

Your heart flutters. Not in a good way. In the way prey animals might flinch when the air goes still.

“You shouldn’t have to worry about things like money, scheduling, errands. You’re too good for that. Too soft. I want to take care of everything. Isn’t it nice? Isn’t it easy?”

You swallow. “Yeah, but—”

“But what?” he murmurs. “You want to start struggling? You want to learn how to carry heavy things, make calls, deal with strangers who talk to you like they don’t know who you belong to?”

His voice is still soft—but the tone underneath is sharp. Glittering.

“I’ve done everything so you wouldn’t have to.”

There’s a silence between you now, thick with something you can’t quite name. And then, with a faint smile, he lifts a hand to your cheek.

“You’re not dependent on me,” he says, stroking your skin with his thumb. “You’re just mine.”

The words hit something in your chest.

He leans in, nose brushing yours, voice lowered to a whisper.

“And I’ll never let you forget that.”

You say nothing.

You don’t push him away.

Because somewhere, deep down… a part of you always knew that, while circumstantial— and like the moon to the earth—, you would always be tethered to Kim Taehyung.

(tbh idk if this proper grammar)

__________

You almost forgot about the engagement.

Not really forgot—how could you? It’s been hanging in the background of your life like an old painting, too familiar to notice anymore. But with school, exams, Taehyung transferring, and your friends whispering about how “weirdly close” he is… it’s been easy not to think about.

Until he brings it up.

You’re at his place—which is bigger than most hotels. Normally unheard for a student his age. He’d picked you up after school because your driver was late, and you didn’t want to wait. It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon. Just homework and coffee and the same way-too-large couch you always half-sink into.

But now you’re sitting at the edge of his bed, watching as he flips through a thick leather folder on his desk.

“You know,” he says casually, not even looking at you. “You’ll be twenty in about nine months.”

You blink, suspicious. “And?”

He smiles to himself, then holds up the folder—cream-colored paper, gold-stamped headers.

You recognize the logo: your family’s law firm.

Your stomach tightens. “What is that?”

“Preliminary prep,” he says simply. “Your dad and mine have been reviewing timelines.”

Your breath hitches. “Timelines for what?”

He looks at you then—straight on, with no attempt to soften the blow.

“For our engagement.”

You stare at him. “I thought that wasn’t until after I’m twenty.”

He shrugs, too relaxed. “It won’t be formal until then, no. But the structure’s being built. Joint accounts. Combined assets. Travel permits. You’ll be included in our family trust sooner than expected.”

You blink hard. “I didn’t agree to that.”

Taehyung tilts his head. “You didn’t have to.”

You shoot to your feet. “That’s not how this works, Tae. Just because our families—just because they planned something doesn’t mean—”

“It’s not just them,” he cuts in, voice cool. “I’ve always known I’d marry you.”

You go still.

He rises slowly, walking over until you’re nearly chest to chest.

“This isn’t a plan to me,” he says, voice low. “It’s a truth. Something I’ve been building around for years. Every school I chose. Every step I took. Every decision I made with your name in mind.”

You swallow. “That’s—obsessive.”

He smiles faintly. “No. It’s devotion.”

Then he leans in closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Do you really think I transferred to your school just because I missed you?”

You shiver.

He pulls back, eyes locked on yours, and speaks with quiet finality:

“You’re not going to walk away from this. Even if you try. Because no one else will ever be good enough for you. And because I already made sure—long, long ago—that I’d be the only one waiting at the altar.”

You don’t move. Don’t speak.

And in the silence, he leans forward, kisses your temple gently, then murmurs:

“Nine months isn’t that long, sweetheart. You’ve already belonged to me your whole life.”

_______

The invitation came in a gold-trimmed envelope sealed with wax.

Your parents had smiled when they handed it to you—said it was just a family dinner. Just a small celebration to honor a “new stage of unity.” But the tone in their voices said more. Final. Proud. Like they were presenting a trophy they’d spent years polishing.

You knew before you even opened it that this wouldn’t be casual.

By the time you arrive at the Kim estate, everything is already perfect. A private ballroom dressed in candlelight and crystal. Velvet napkins. A custom menu. Your mother kisses Mrs. Kim’s cheek like they’re sisters. Your father clinks whiskey glasses with Taehyung’s dad like the deal is done.

And in the center of it all—Taehyung, standing beside the head of the table, waiting for you.

He pulls out your chair before you can reach for it. Adjusts the hem of your sleeve when you sit. He leans in, murmurs, “You look beautiful tonight,” and doesn’t blink when your hand flinches slightly in your lap.

Dinner begins with toasts.

Your father raises his glass first. “To two families who’ve built a future together—and to the children who’ll carry it forward.”

Mrs. Kim beams. “We’ve waited so long for this to become official.”

You press your lips into a polite smile, trying not to fidget with your silverware.

Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s so happy.

Except you.

Except Taehyung—who doesn’t look happy. He looks calm. Focused. Like he’s measuring how long the speech is so he can steer the next move.

Halfway through the meal, he touches your hand lightly under the table. When you look at him, he’s already watching you, gaze unreadable.

“They’re going to propose a wedding date,” he says quietly.

Your heart lurches. “What?”

“Not officially. Not yet. But they’ll test it. Mention something this spring. Smile like it’s hypothetical.”

You glance at your parents, laughing with his.

“And you’re just fine with that?”

He turns fully to you. “I already picked my date three years ago.”

Your breath catches.

“Why spring?” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Because you look prettiest in white under cherry blossoms.”

You want to be angry. You want to pull your hand away.

But you can’t.

Because he’s looking at you like he’s already seen it all. Like he’s watched you walk down the aisle a thousand times in his head. Like he’s not hoping for a yes—just waiting for the moment it becomes impossible to say no.

And the scariest part?

No one here sees anything wrong.

To them, it’s romantic. Powerful. Perfect.

And Taehyung knows it.

He squeezes your hand just once and murmurs,

“You were born to sit at my side. Why fight it now?”

________

Things at school are… different.

Not in a huge way. Not loud. But in glances. In whispers. In the shift of attention every time Taehyung enters a room with you at his side.

The dinner last weekend hadn’t been public, but people talk. Especially when powerful families start moving in sync. And when Taehyung returned to school on Monday in a tailored blazer with your family’s crest embroidered beside his own, the rumors practically lit themselves on fire.

No one dares ask him directly. But they do ask you.

“Hey,” says Hana, a girl from your physics class, catching you at your locker during break. “Sorry if this is weird, but… are you and Taehyung, like… together?”

You blink. “What?”

“Dating. Officially. Because I know a lot of girls who, like… would want to confess to him, but they’re not sure if he’s off-limits or not.”

You stare at her like she just asked whether the sky is blue.

“No,” you say. “We’re not dating.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Really?”

You nod. “It’s complicated.”

She leans in, curious now. “How complicated?”

You shrug. “We’ve just… known each other forever. Our families are close.”

Hana tilts her head. “Close like how?”

You say it without thinking, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “We’ve been arranged to be married since we were kids.”

She freezes.

You don’t notice right away.

You just keep rummaging through your locker, tugging out a notebook like you said we’ve got a quiz today, not I’m engaged to a future CEO because our parents decided when I still had braces.

When you turn back to her, she’s blinking slowly.

“I—sorry, what?”

You blink back. “Oh. Yeah. It’s a family thing. I think the formal engagement is in two years, but it’s basically done.”

She stares at you like you’ve grown another head.

And you genuinely don’t understand the reaction.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“You’re not dating,” she says slowly, “but you’re arranged to marry?”

You nod again. “Yeah.”

“But that’s, like… that’s insane.”

You frown. “It’s kinda… normal to me, I guess.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that.

And neither do you.

Because it is normal to you. Normal for Taehyung to walk you to class. Normal for him to sign your forms. Normal for him to know your routines better than you do. You never had a moment to decide whether you wanted him or not—he’s just always been there.

The only strange thing is that anyone else finds it strange.

From across the hallway, you catch his gaze. He’s leaning against the wall, surrounded by people, but watching only you.

You offer him a small nod.

And he smiles like he already knows what you just said.

Like he expected it.

Like you’re already doing exactly what you were raised for.

————

Some days, you forget how weird your life looks from the outside.

Like Tuesday morning, when you’re walking to homeroom and Taehyung intercepts you in the hall, already holding your planner open.

“You have a meeting with the student council after lunch,” he says. “Moved your group project review to Thursday, and your mom texted me—she’s sending the driver to pick you up at five instead of six.”

You blink at him, still chewing a bite of your granola bar. “Oh. Okay.”

Your friends behind you—Mina, Jia, and Sujin—are just watching. Speechless. Again.

“You didn’t even check your schedule,” Mina mutters.

“I don’t need to,” you say around your granola. “Taehyung does it for me.”

“You do realize how insane that sounds, right?”

You shrug. “He’s good at it.”

It’s not a joke. You genuinely don’t remember the last time you scheduled your own appointment, submitted a form on time, or even remembered a test day without Taehyung sending you a text reminder in the morning.

He keeps your life straight. Always has.

It’s just… efficient.

Later, during a speed and strength class, an elective class, it’s even more obvious.

You’re supposed to be doing light activity—shooting hoops for cardio. Most people are in pairs. The gym is loud, sweaty, chaotic.

And then there’s you.

You’re barely jogging around. Mostly standing in one place while tossing basketballs half-heartedly at the hoop. It wouldn’t work, except—

Taehyung is there.

He’s not even in your class, technically, but he’s here anyway. He’s standing just off the court in his white PE shirt and black sweatpants, hair pushed back, sleeves rolled up. Every time your ball rolls away—even two feet—he sprints after it.

He brings it back. Hands it to you.

Every. Single. Time.

You don’t even have to look.

At one point, you miss and the ball hits the wall, bouncing off toward the opposite bleachers. You sigh and glance at him.

He’s already gone after it.

You and your friends decide to sit on the bleachers nearby. They had their water bottles in hand, slack-jawed.

“Do you ever get your own ball?” Sujin finally asks.

You look at her, confused. “You mean before Taehyung transferred? I guess so.”

Mina groans. “This is actually insane.”

You’re about to respond when the bell rings. You head to step off the bleachers, but hesitate when you realize your foot’s already sore from earlier in the week—you’d twisted it during rehearsal. The bleachers are high. Your knee wobbles a little when you try to step down.

And without missing a beat, Taehyung’s there.

He reaches up, lifts you off the bleacher like you weigh nothing, and sets you down gently on the gym floor. Hands warm at your waist. Careful. Casual.

“There,” he murmurs. “Don’t strain yourself.”

You barely react. “Thanks.”

Your friends? Dead silent.

“You don’t see anything wrong with this?” Mina hisses under her breath as you walk out together.

You shrug. “He takes care of me.”

Sujin laughs weakly. “He’s like a full-time handler.”

“He likes it.”

They exchange looks, unsure whether to feel jealous or horrified.

But all you feel is calm.

Because this is how it’s always been.

And Taehyung? He’s already waiting outside the locker rooms, holding your bag like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Because to both of you—

It is.

——————

Dinner with your two families were always long, quiet, and expensive.

The kind of dinner where every fork gleams, every glass sings when touched. Where the napkins are folded like fans, and the staff appears and disappears so seamlessly it feels like magic. But the real performance is happening at the table.

Between the parents.

Your parents. His parents. And the two of you—sitting side by side at the center, like royalty in waiting.

“So,” your father says warmly, lifting his glass, “Taehyung tells us he’s already closed his first real estate acquisition under the family trust. At his age. That’s no small feat.”

Your mother beams. “It’s truly impressive. We always knew he’d rise early. The Kim family reputation precedes itself, but still—it takes discipline to live up to it.”

Taehyung’s father smiles. “He’s always been diligent. Obsessively so. When he locks onto a goal, it’s already his.”

You feel Taehyung shift slightly beside you, his arm resting along the back of your chair. His fingers graze your shoulder, casual—claiming.

“We’re just grateful,” your mother continues, “that our daughter will be cared for by someone so driven. We couldn’t ask for a better future son-in-law.”

“I’m not just going to care for her,” Taehyung says then, smiling softly but speaking with that quiet gravity only you recognize. “I’ll make sure she never has to lift a finger unless she chooses to.”

Your father chuckles. “You spoil her already.”

Taehyung’s hand slides lower, palm lightly brushing the top of your arm.

“She was raised to be spoiled,” he says simply.

Everyone laughs.

But then his mother turns to you, face warm and proud. “And you, my dear, are every bit the young lady we always hoped for. That voice of yours—the singing, the languages, the way you float across a piano… You don’t just have talent. You have grace.”

“I always said she has presence,” your mother chimes in. “Even when she was little. The way she speaks, the way she carries herself—”

“She was born with the feminine arts in her bones,” his father adds. “She’s cultivated. Refined.”

Taehyung looks at you with a slow smile.

“You’ve become exactly what I always pictured you would be,” he says softly. “Beautiful. Sharp. Still mine.”

You freeze.

The table laughs again. As if it were romantic. A compliment.

But his hand tightens slightly at your side. Just for a second.

You force a small laugh, trying to breathe past the weight in your chest.

Because this isn’t just admiration.

It’s assessment.

Praise for becoming the perfect investment. The perfect possession. The perfect bride.

And you realize, in this moment, that the dinner isn’t a celebration.

It’s a ceremony.

You’re being spoken about like something rare and precious.

And Taehyung is the only one at the table who looks at you like he already owns it.

————————

It’s framed as a gift.

A weekend trip to a private vacation estate in the hills—courtesy of both families, as a “reward” for your academic success and Taehyung’s flawless integration into your school.

Your parents gush about it. “You two deserve a little time away,” your mother says, smiling as she adjusts your suitcase. “Something quiet. Private. It’ll help you get more comfortable.”

“With what?” you ask, even though you know.

“With your future,” your father answers simply.

Taehyung picks you up Saturday morning in his family’s private car. The driver handles the bags. He opens the door for you. The moment you sit, he drapes a soft cashmere blanket over your lap, already warmed. The cabin smells like white tea and something faintly floral—your favorite.

It’s only a two-hour drive. Quiet. Scenic.

And Taehyung holds your hand the entire way.

When you arrive, the villa is already stocked. A breathtaking two-story home nestled into the hillside with an infinity pool, glass walls, and a view that stretches all the way to the sea. The staff greet you like they know you—like they were prepped not just on your allergies but your mood swings.

You’re led upstairs to the bedroom.

Singular.

And your breath hitches the moment you step inside.

It’s enormous. Warm-toned. Candlelit. The windows are half-open, the curtains blowing in a soft breeze. There’s music playing faintly from somewhere—classical, soothing.

But the most obvious detail?

There’s only one bed.

You turn slowly. “Taehyung.”

He’s already removing his blazer, rolling up his sleeves.

You stare. “There’s only one bed.”

He glances at it. Then at you.

“So?”

You narrow your eyes. “We’re not even engaged yet.”

He steps toward you, calm. Certain.

“No,” he murmurs. “But we’re promised. That’s more than enough.”

You cross your arms. “They said this was to bond. Not to pretend we’re already married.”

He smiles at that. A slow, dangerous kind of smile.

“Do you think they don’t already see it that way?”

You blink.

He steps closer. “We share a future. This is just a preview.”

You back up until your legs hit the bed frame. “This isn’t what I agreed to.”

He leans down, bracing one hand beside your hip on the mattress.

“But it’s what you were raised for.”

You go still.

His voice softens, brushing the shell of your ear. “I won’t touch you unless you want me to. You know that. I’m not rushing anything.”

Then he pulls back slightly—just enough to look you in the eye.

“But you should get used to waking up next to me.”

There’s a terrifying truth to his words—not because he’s being cruel, but because he’s not lying.

He’s being honest.

And worse, part of you doesn’t hate it.

________________

You’re lying on your side, facing the window. The sheets are cool. The lights are off. Taehyung’s arm is slung loosely over your hips, his chest pressed to your back. Barely touching, but enough to feel the heat of him through the thin silk of your sleepwear.

And then—he shifts.

His thigh brushes between yours. His palm slips slightly lower. And you feel it. All of him. The slow, steady thrum of heat and muscle behind you.

You freeze.

You’re hyper-aware now.

Of the way his arm tightens a little. Of the soft exhale he lets out against your neck. Of the fact that his hand is so big. His forearm alone spans your waist. And when you glance down—

When did he get that built?

You’d never really looked before. Not like that. But now you can’t stop noticing—the broadness of his shoulders, the quiet bulk of his biceps when he tightens them, the way his veins drag across his hands when he adjusts the blanket for you like it’s instinct.

Has he always been this… big?

You shift slightly. Not away—just enough to think.

Your breath catches when his fingers brush against your stomach. You’re not even sure it was on purpose.

You’re warm now. Embarrassingly warm.

And worst of all?

You don’t hate it.

Taehyung stirs behind you. You think he’s asleep—but then his voice slips into the dark, low and calm.

“Are you nervous?”

You swallow. “No.”

“Liar.”

You shut your eyes. “I was just thinking.”

He hums. “About me?”

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t need you to.

His hand presses a little flatter against your stomach. Still chaste. Still polite. But there’s weight in it now. Possession. Heat.

“I’ve always been here,” he murmurs, voice right at your ear now. “It’s not my fault you’re just now seeing me.”

You inhale sharply.

And he chuckles—deep and satisfied.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “You’ll get used to that, too.”

————

The weekend unfolds like a dream you didn’t choose.

The estate is too quiet. The staff is too trained. Everything is tailored to your comfort—your favorite teas, your preferred temperature, your brand of lotion already stocked in the bathroom. It should be soothing.

But it isn’t.

Because nothing about this place feels like yours.

It feels like his.

Taehyung hasn’t raised his voice once. He hasn’t touched you without care. But everything he does drips with intention. Every dinner is timed. Every walk through the garden is silent and slow, his hand resting low on your back like a claim. Every decision is already made before you think to ask.

And the worst part?

He treats you like you’re cherished.

Not a prisoner. Not a guest.

A wife.

On the second night, you wake to soft breathing behind you. You’d fallen asleep on the far side of the bed, but now his arm is heavy around your waist. His legs tangled with yours. His breath brushing your neck.

He’s hard against your lower back.

You freeze.

And then you feel his voice against your skin.

“Still awake?”

You swallow. “Taehyung—”

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he says, and he means it.

But he doesn’t move away.

He just lets his hand skim your stomach. Not lower. Just enough.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted this for so long. Just this. You, in my bed. Where you’re supposed to be.”

You close your eyes. His hand flexes slightly over your stomach.

“I could take it slow,” he whispers. “Kiss you until you forget why you ever hesitated.”

You let out a shaky breath.

He nudges your hair aside and presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck. Then another. Then one just beneath your ear.

“You’d be so sweet under me,” he murmurs. “Soft. Shaking.”

His hips shift—barely. But enough for you to feel just how badly he wants you.

You don’t push him away.

You should.

But you don’t.

And he knows.

“You’re already mine,” he whispers. “Your body just hasn’t caught up yet.”

He grinds against you slightly—just enough for you to feel the full weight of his desire. You shudder.

His breath is warm at your nape. “Do you feel how hard I am for you? Every night I lie here and ache, knowing you’re finally where you belong, and I’m still being good.”

His fingers skim the underside of your breast, then retreat.

“I’m patient,” he says, kissing the back of your shoulder now. “But don’t mistake that for weakness.”

You feel his grip tighten at your waist again. “One day, you’ll beg me to take you apart. You’ll ask for it. And when you do…”

He presses one last kiss to your jaw—possessive, lingering.

“I won’t hold back.”

And then, just like that, he pulls you tighter into his chest. Like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just whispered a slow unraveling into your ear.

Sleep doesn’t come after that.

But you don’t move.

And neither does he.

Another kiss. Lower. Smoother.

“This body—this future—it already belongs to me.”

His fingers trail up your ribs, then stop.

He lets you breathe.

Because he’s patient.

And patience, with Taehyung, is never kindness. It’s calculation.

———

You try to sleep.

You curl up beneath the sheets, facing away from him, breathing slow and shallow, mind racing from everything he said—everything he almost did.

You never stood a chance.

The words echo like a curse, like a promise.

Eventually, exhaustion pulls you under.

But your sleep is shallow, twisted. And then it starts.

The dream.

You don’t even realize it at first—only that you feel warm, breathless, weightless. A hand on your hip. A mouth on your throat. The sound of someone groaning low against your skin. Fingers pushing your thighs apart, a familiar scent, lips brushing your jaw.

And his voice—low, velvet.

“Mine.”

You arch in your sleep. Whimper.

In the dream, he’s inside you. Deep. Slow. So gentle it’s cruel.

You moan.

“Taehyung…”

The name slips from your lips before your body even registers it.

In real life, your back arches. Your thighs clench. Your lips part on another helpless little sound.

You don’t see him sit up behind you.

Don’t feel the shift in the bed as he leans in.

But you do feel his fingers graze the inside of your thigh—real, not dream-soft

And you wake.

Eyes fly open.

Your body is still humming. Still aching. And when you move—

You freeze.

There’s wetness between your thighs. Sticky. Obvious.

Your cheeks flush red hot.

You turn slowly to find him kneeling beside you on the bed, sheets pooled around his waist, chest bare, hair tousled. He’s staring at you with something dangerous in his eyes.

You don’t speak. Can’t.

He hums low. “You said my name.”

You try to look away.

He reaches out, hand brushing lightly along your inner thigh.

You flinch.

He doesn’t stop.

“You were moaning for me in your sleep,” he says calmly.

Your heart pounds.

“Did you like it?” he asks, voice a whisper now. “The dream?”

You can’t breathe.

He leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “Was I fucking you slow or hard?”

You choke on a gasp.