#splinter wc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixeyesonathiel · 3 months ago

Text

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done.

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do.

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this.

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

12K notes · View notes

spikedfearn · 3 months ago

Text

Under The Blood Moon

Part I

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: in the humid belly of the night, you flee through the wild woods, breathless and bleeding, chased by a monster dressed in the skin of a man, and when he inevitably catches you, it's not to kill, but to keep. What follows is neither rescue or ruin, but a slow, savage claim written in blood, hunger, and heat.

wc: 8.1k

a/n: for this request, where anon wanted me to lean into Remmick's more monstrous side. My inbox is always open if anyone wants to submit more! also, thank you all so, so, so much for all the love, support, and general positivity you've all shown my fics lately—it genuinely means more than I can even put into words. I'm still blown away by the responses my fics have gotten in the last week, it warms my soul to no end every time I think about it <3 also have to credit axelboneboy for putting the idea of Remmick with a forked tongue in my head

warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance, somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

M I N D T H E T A G S

Part I: Hunt the Hare

Your breath saws raggedly through your throat as you run, legs scraping through the underbrush, branches slashing at your arms, the wet slap of mud against your calves. Your shoes are long gone, lost somewhere back on the splintered path—the soles of your feet raw and stinging with every frantic step.

Your dress, once a soft, homespun cotton in faded butter yellow, clings wetly to your skin, torn at the hem, heavy with damp earth and blood from shallow scratches. The thin petticoat underneath is ripped, the neckline torn where it caught on a low-hanging branch. Your bare legs gleam with sweat and dirt under the fevered gaze of the blood moon. The rough, hand-stitched seams bite into your skin with every frantic movement.

Behind you—

Footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate.

Not rushing, no.

He doesn't need to rush.

The blood moon glowers overhead, a bruised red eye in the sky, bleeding sickly light through the skeletal trees. The mist writhes around your ankles like grasping fingers, every breath clogged with the sour, choking scent of wet moss and rot. The forest feels alive—the cypress trees hunching closer, the swamp water sloshing in unseen black pools, the night thick with the buzz of unseen insects and the sticky slap of humidity against your skin.

You tear through a thicket, thorns slicing your thighs, the pain sharp but distant beneath the roaring panic. Your dress snags again—this time you rip free with a sob, fabric tearing in your frantic escape. You don't stop. You can't stop.

Your lungs burn. Your heart pounds a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs. Your hands are scraped raw where you shove branches aside. You don't know where you're going—only that you have to keep moving.

You think for one stupid, precious second that maybe you've lost him.

Then you hear it—

A low, rumbling chuckle.

The sound rolls across the mist like thunder, like a beast amused by the futile thrashing of its prey.

You shove yourself harder, feet slipping in the mud, the trees spinning in dizzy circles around you.

You should have listened.

The warning plays in your mind now, mocking and merciless—the old women in town, whispering in the feed store, their wrinkled hands making frantic crosses over their chests.

Don't go out on the blood moon.

There's something that walks these woods. A devil dressed in skin, hunting for its next meal.

You had laughed it off. Old wives' tales. A story to get unruly children to behave. Of course you didn't believe it...

Not until the heavy footsteps started following you.

Not until the woods seemed to shift, herding you deeper and deeper.

Not until the laughter—low, rich, and terrifying.

Your foot catches on a root hidden beneath the mist. You go down hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Dirt and dead leaves cling to your palms as you scramble up, only to be yanked backwards by an iron grip around your ankle.

A scream rips from your throat as you're dragged across the ground, nails clawing uselessly at the earth, the taste of dirt and blood thick on your tongue.

"Well, lookie here," a deep, amused voice drawls from the shadows, thick with a Southern slur, soaked in heat and hunger. "Thought you could outrun me, lil’ hare?"

You kick, thrash, cry but—but it's useless.

He steps into view.

For the first time, you see him. Truly see him.

Broad-shouldered, wrapped in the kind of strength that speaks of old blood, of violence written into the bones. His bangs are slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead, catching the moonlight in glints of silver and soot. His mouth is a slow, cruel curve, teeth flashing when he smiles—serrated and sharp, dangerous in their promise.

And his eyes—

God, his eyes.

Deep, burning red, like fresh blood spilled on freshly fallen snow.

They glint at you through the mist, pinning you in place, drowning you in a voracity so raw it almost hums against your skin.

You whimper, trying to crab-crawl backward, but he just tilts his head, slow and mocking, one hand reaching lazily down to wrap around your ankle again.

"You run real pretty," he murmurs, accent thick and sweet as sap dripping down the bark of a Maple tree, "but you ain't got nowhere left t' go, sugar."

The gnarled woods close around you, the mist swallowing your pitiful cries, the trees bending low to listen.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Grins as he pounces.

The world spins in a dizzy, mud-slick blur as he crashes into you, the full weight of him knocking the breath from your lungs. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding up your trembling thighs, your waist, trapping your wrists above your head with a grip so strong it aches.

You thrash, wild and panicked, but it’s like fighting against a landslide.

Every frantic buck of your hips, every desperate twist of your wrists, every teary plea for help, only seems to amuse him further.

He straddles you easily, his thighs like iron on either side of your hips, his body radiating impossible heat. His breath ghosts over your neck—slow, savoring—and when he inhales, it’s with a deep, shuddering drag, as though he’s drinking you in.

You go still.

Frozen.

A scared little rabbit under the paw of a hungry wolf.

Slowly, he lifts his head, and when your eyes meet his, your heart lurches sickly into your throat.

Those eyes—

Red as the blood moon above.

Glowing, starving.

The corner of his mouth curls, a slow, predatory grin, delighting in your overwhelming fear.

"Y' smell it, don't ya?" he murmurs, low and thick with appetite. His nose brushes the curve of your neck, inhaling again, greedily, his voice gone almost reverent. "Sweet lil' thing...bleedin' just f'me."

Your stomach turns over, nausea and terror twining like barbed wire.

He slides lower, his body pressing yours into the soft, damp earth. You can feel every strong inch of him—the way the metal of his belt buckle digs into your hip, the way his thigh muscles tense against you like a coiled predator savoring the final moments before it goes in for the kill.

His nose trails down, brushing the hollow of your throat, the dip between your breasts—slow, agonizing, torturous.

You try to pull away—

He growls.

Not a human sound.

Something low, rattling. Monstrous.

His hand tightens around your wrists until your bones creak. His other hand snakes between your bodies, grabbing your skirt—what's left of it—and dragging it higher, baring your thighs to the muggy night air.

"No use runnin' now," he says, almost gentle, as if talking down a skittish animal. His accent thickens, each word dripping slow as syrup, artificially sweet. "Gotcha all laid out pretty...just how I like ya."

You whimper, twisting helplessly, but he just chuckles deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your ribs.

And then he goes still.

For one terrible, breathless second, he freezes—nostrils flaring, whiffing deeply, body tense as a drawn bowstring.

His gaze drops between your legs—to where your petticoat is soaked through, a dark, spreading stain betraying you to the night.

The change is instant.

A groan tears from his throat—raw, guttural, almost pained—and when his eyes meet yours again, they're molten red, desperate, devouring.

"God Almighty," he rasps, voice cracking like dry kindling. "Ain't nothin' in this world sweeter than a bleedin' cunt."

You sob, humiliated, terrified, as he shifts lower, his body dragging down over yours.

One hand shoves your thighs apart—roughly, possessively—while the other pins your wrists like shackles above your head.

"You don’t even know," he murmurs, almost tender, mouth ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath scorching hot, even in Delta’s sweltering humidity. "Don't even know what you’re doin' to me, sweet pea."

You can feel it now—his mouth, open and panting against the sensitive skin of your thigh, the tremble in his hands as he fights the urge to tear you open like a cat stretched over a fresh kill.

He presses his face against you, inhaling, low and deep, the sound of it filthy in the night.

And then—

He licks.

Long, slow, obscene—dragging his tongue up the seam of your cunt through the blood-slick cotton, a helpless whimper shuddering out of you before you can stop it.

He growls in response—a sound of such raw, savage pleasure you feel it bone-deep.

"That's it," he croons against you, dragging his mouth over you again, harder now, more desperate. "Let me taste it, baby...let me drink ya down."

You shake your head weakly, gasping, tears kissing along your water lines, vision blurry.

He only laughs —low and delighted—and tears the soiled remains of your petticoat aside with a quick, brutal rip of fabric.

And then there’s nothing between you.

Nothing but blood, skin, and his appetite.

Your thighs quake against the rough spread of his hands as he forces you open wider, his breath scorching hot against the most vulnerable parts of you, the parts that have never known a man's touch.

For a moment, he just stares—a low, reverent rumble building in his chest, vibrating through the muggy, blood-heavy air.

You choke on a sob, trying to squirm away, but his fingers dig bruises into your thighs.

"Nuh-uh, sugar," he murmurs, thick with amusement, the sharp scrape of his accent dragging down your spine like a blade. "You gone run enough."

You feel the shift—

Feel it deep in your marrow—

When he leans in and lets his mouth part against you.

A soft, wet, sinful sound fills the air as he licks—

And not just with any tongue.

When he drags it up your slit, you feel it—the unnatural split, the way the forked ends flick and curl separately, tracing obscene patterns through the slick, blood-slick folds of your cunt.

Your whole body seizes, a ragged, fragmented noise spilling from your throat.

He hums low—pleased, greedy—and licks again, slower this time, letting the twin points of his tongue tease your clit, your opening, flickering back and forth in a rhythm that makes your back arch high against the dirt.

"Mmm," he groans into you, nosing deeper, breathing you in like he means to fill his lungs with nothing but your scent. "Ain't never had a taste so fine. Like honey drippin' straight from the comb."

Tears streak from the corners of your eyes and down your temples, hot and shameful. You wrench your wrists uselessly against his grip, but he just pins you harder, his hand tightening like an iron shackle around your wrists.

He pulls back—just enough for you to see the blood slicking his lips, his chin—

And the red gleam of his eyes as he smiles, wide and mean.

"You wanna know what I was fixin' t' do t' ya?" he drawls, voice syrupy slow, full of wickedness. "When I caught ya runnin', I thought I'd rip that pretty lil' throat open. Watch ya bleed out all soft an' sweet beneath me."

You sob—broken, desperate.

His smile sharpens.

"Still might," he says, almost cheerfully, leaning back in, his nose nudging your clit so softly it makes your legs jerk. "If ya don't play real sweet for me, darlin'."

The implication settles heavy as stone in your gut—brutal, absolute.

Be good.

Or be dead.

You nod, trembling so hard your teeth chatter.

He croons a soft, pleased sound, rubbing his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prize.

"That's my girl," he says, thick and low, tongue flickering out to taste you again—slower now, more savoring. "Gonna treat ya real nice if ya stay still f'me."

You do.

You have no choice.

And he devours you.

The twin forks of his tongue work you open mercilessly—teasing, dipping, thrusting, flicking over the swollen nub of your clit in relentless, devastating licks. The sensation is too much—too sharp, too wet, too filthy—and you sob against the onslaught, your hips bucking helplessly beneath his iron grip.

He groans against you—filthy, hungry—and the vibrations make your vision white out at the edges.

"You taste like a blessin'," he mutters into your cunt, grinding the words into your skin with his mouth. "Sweet lil' Sunday sacrament, all laid out f'me t' worship."

You gasp, legs trembling violently, as the first orgasm builds—fast and brutal, cresting through you with the same merciless inevitability as the hunter pressing you down into the dirt, refusing to let up.

You don't want it.

You can't want it.

But your body betrays you—spasming against his mouth, a shuddering cry breaking loose from your throat as you come, helpless and raw, against the wickedly incessant flicker of his tongue.

He moans as if your climax is the answer to damnation.

When you finally sag against the ground, limp and wrecked, he rises up over you—his mouth and chin slick with blood and slickness, his chest heaving, his cock straining hard against the rough denim of his trousers.

And for the first time—

There’s something in his face that’s not just hunger.

Something softer—

Something almost awed.

"Didn't think," he says roughly, almost to himself, "you'd be this damn sweet."

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours—a rough, possessive, almost tender gesture.

"Ain't lettin' ya go now, sweet pea," he whispers, voice cracking like a prayer. "Ain't never lettin' go."

His hands trail down your body—calloused, devout—and you realize with a sick, fluttering horror that he’s not finished.

Not by a long shot.

He’s only just getting started.

You’re barely aware of him moving—too dazed, too wrecked—until the earth suddenly tilts wildly beneath you.

He rises to his feet in one smooth, terrifying motion, hauling your limp body up like you weigh nothing at all. His arms lock around your thighs, hoisting you over his broad shoulder, your face bouncing helplessly against the curve of his back.

The rough weave of his shirt scrapes your muddied cheek, damp with sweat and the humid Mississippi night. His scent floods your nose—salt and soil, blood and musk, something darker, wilder, something inhuman.

You whimper—too weak to fight—as his hand slaps possessively against the back of your thigh, holding you steady like a trophy kill.

"Shhh," he croons, his voice a low rumble vibrating straight through the very marrow of your bones. "Ain't no good wigglin', sweet pea. Y'belong t' me now."

Your fingers scrabble weakly against his shirt, nails catching on the coarse fabric, but he just laughs—a low, satisfied growl that rolls through the mist like thunder.

He starts walking—long, lazy strides deeper into the woods—further from the safety of town, further from anyone who could possibly hear you scream.

The trees lean in overhead, their gnarled branches clawing at the blood-colored sky, the cry of the cicadas like a chaotic choir, being taken deeper into the ugly underbelly of the forest.

The swamp breathes heavy and wet around you, the thick reek of stagnant water and moss closing over you like a suffocating shroud.

You can't see where he's taking you.

You can barely think.

Only feel—the slow, relentless sway of his body, the iron strength of his arms locking you in place as you look at the passing blur of gnarled foliage and plant litter every which way you twist your neck.

And his voice—

Low, filthy, almost tender—

Whispering promises against the slope of your thigh, each word branding itself into your skin.

"Gonna keep ya," he mutters, almost to himself. "Chain ya up nice 'n' sweet...keep ya all soft an' wet f'me...pretty lil' plaything, made jus' fer me."

You sob quietly, the sound muffled against his back, not that anything other than things that go bump in the night would hear anyways.

He doesn't stop.

Doesn't waver.

Just keeps carrying you deeper and deeper into the black heart of the woods, where no one will ever find you.

Where you’ll be his.

Body and soul.

Whether you want to be or not.

The world sways sickeningly with every step he takes.

Your body hangs limp over his shoulder, the thin fabric of your torn dress sticking to your skin, soaked through with sweat, blood, and the sticky breath of the Delta night. Every time he shifts you higher, the calloused drag of his palm across the backs of your thighs sends a tremor through your aching muscles.

The woods are different here.

Deeper.

Darker.

The trees older, skeletal and gnarled, twisted into shapes that look unnaturally human in the bloody moonlight, the knots in the bark large and gaping like mouths frozen mid-scream. The air thickens, heavy with the reek of standing water, mold, the cloying sweetness of rotting flowers.

You choke on it—each breath a struggle, sticky and wet in your throat.

He walks without hurry, the heavy tread of his boots sinking into the soft, muddy earth. The mist clings low around his legs, swallowing the ground whole. Crickets scream somewhere in the black, distant and frantic, but otherwise the world is eerily, horribly still.

You try to lift your head, try to see, but it only makes your vision tilt crazily, a low moan of sickness rising from your gut, feeling the bile trying to crawl up your esophagus.

He chuckles—low and knowing.

"Easy, lil' thing," he drawls, one broad hand stroking up the back of your thigh like a man soothing a spooked filly. "Ain't no sense gettin' y'self all riled."

His bloody fingers trail higher—under the torn remains of your petticoat, brushing the damp, sticky mess between your thighs. He hums, pleased.

"Still drippin'," he mutters almost to himself. "Still sweet."

The mist parts ahead like a curtain—and then you see it.

The chapel.

Or what's left of it.

A crumbling ruin of warped wood and sagging stone, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. The windows are shattered, jagged teeth of stained glass glinting in the blood moon's light. The steeple leans drunkenly to one side, bells long since stolen or fallen.

It should have been abandoned.

It was abandoned.

But now—

It breathes.

The mist coils around its dirty white skeleton, hugging it tight, the trees bending low like penitents around a grave.

He shoulders through the warped doors, boots echoing hollowly against the splintered floorboards. The air inside is thick—choking with mildew, smoke, old blood, the slow, sweet rot of something long dead, something long past salvation.

He carries you down the nave like a groom bearing a bride—if the groom were a wolf and the bride a carcass.

In the very center of the chapel, where once an altar might have stood, there’s only a low, crude bed—little more than a frame of old wood lashed together with vines and rope, a soiled mattress bowed low in the middle. Chains dangle from the bedposts, dark with rust, heavy enough to hold an ox.

Your heart stutters against your ribs.

He stops at the edge of the bed and lets you slide from his shoulder like a sack of grain, dropping you onto the mattress with a grunt. The springs wheeze under your weight. You scramble weakly, trying to push yourself up, but he just watches—arms folded, a slow, wicked grin playing at the corners of his bloody mouth.

"Look atcha," he says, voice dripping slow and fond. "All scared and pretty."

You whimper, trying to scoot back—away from him, away from the bed, away from the chains meant to shackle you to the floor. To him.

He lets you.

For a second.

Then he moves—faster than you can track—grabbing your ankle and yanking you back down the mattress with a savage jerk that knocks the breath from your lungs, chuckling low and mean under his breath, smiling like a predator playing with its food.

He looms over you—all broad shoulders and hungry red eyes, his chest heaving, his hair sweaty and sticking to his face. The crumbling roof of the chapel overhead caved in like a skylight created by time and erosion, the moonlight streaming in creating a bloody halo behind his head.

You kick out at him, weak and feeble. He catches your other ankle, spreads your legs wide with ease, and pins them to the bed.

"Y'know," he says thoughtfully, almost conversational, "I ain't never done this before."

You stare up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

"Usually," he drawls, slow and deliberate, your blood dark and drying to his jaw, teeth sharp and daggered like the canines of a beast. "I catch my prey...an' I tear it open. Bleed it dry. Toss what's left t' the buzzards."

His hands slide up your calves, over your knees, rough palms mapping the shivering muscle of your thighs.

"But you..."

His grin widens, sharp and wicked.

"You got somethin' special in ya, sugar. Somethin' sweet. Somethin’ addictin’.”

His hands move higher, pushing the torn hem of your dress up around your hips.

"Gonna make a pet outta you," he murmurs, almost worshipful. "Gonna keep ya chained up nice and proper. Keep ya fed, keep ya warm...keep ya wet and loose."

You sob, twisting against the hold he has on your legs, but it only makes him chuckle low in his throat.

"Not just a meal, no sir," he says, voice thick with something like wonder. "Ain't never turned a meal inta a pet before."

He leans down, his mouth brushing your ear, his breath hot and damp and hungry.

"Gonna fuck ya every which way," he whispers, each word sinking into your flesh like thorns pricking your skin. "Gonna break ya in nice and slow. Make ya forget y'ever had a name b'fore me."

You shake your head, tears spilling over.

He just laughs—low and delighted—and kisses your temple, obscene in its mockery of tenderness.

"You'll see," he croons. "Ain't nothin' sweeter than bein' wanted, sweet pea. Nothin' sweeter than bein' kept and cared for.”

He shifts, reaching for the chains.

You hear the clatter of iron against wood, the heavy clink of rusted links.

Your blood goes cold.

You realize—

This isn't a nightmare you can wake from.

This is your life now.

Your body.

Your blood.

Your soul.

All belonging to him.

And the monster smiles.

The chains rattle in his fists, thick and rust-bitten, heavy enough to feel like fate.

You kick again, heart thundering in your chest, but it’s nothing against him.

He grabs your wrist with one hand, slamming it down against the splintered wood of the bed frame. The iron cuff closes around your wrist with a brutal finality, locking tight with a groaning snap of the old metal.

You cry out—a broken, pitiful sound that nothing but the cicadas will hear.

He shushes you—a low, almost tender croon—as he grabs your other arm, dragging it above your head and shackling it too.

The chains clink as you struggle, the cold bite of them against your bruised skin making you tremble harder.

"There we go," he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work, red eyes gleaming under the dripping shadows of the ruined chapel. "All trussed up like a good lil' prize hog."

You sob again, humiliated, terrified—but he only grins, predatory and bright, his chest rising and falling with heavy, panting breaths.

Slowly, leisurely, he kneels over you.

His hands trail down your body—dirty palms leaving streaks of blood, sweat, and swamp filth over the ruined silk of your dress. He hooks his fingers into the ripped neckline and tears—a wet, brutal sound of fabric giving way.

Your dress peels open like fruit skin, baring your chest to the swamp-choked air.

He makes a sound then—not quite a growl, not quite a groan—something broken and devout.

"Goddamn," he breathes, one palm spanning your ribs, feeling your heart rabbit helplessly beneath the thin shell of bone and skin. "Y'look sweeter 'n a sunrise after the flood."

His thumb brushes one nipple, watching it harden instantly under the humid chill.

You try to twist away—shame burning hotter than the blood in your veins—but the chains rattle uselessly, locking you in place.

He chuckles, low and dark.

"Ain't no hidin' from me, sugar," he says, rough and sweet, dragging his knuckles down your trembling belly. "Ain't no shame neither. Y'was made fer this. Made fer me."

His hands find the bunched remains of your petticoat around your hips.

Slowly—cruelly slow—he tears the rest away.

Until you're laid bare before him.

Blood-slick, shaking, eyes wide and wet.

He stares at you for a long moment—drinking in the sight of you like a starving man at a banquet that hasn't been permitted to feast yet.

You can feel the weight of his gaze—heavy and hungry.

"Mmm," he hums deep in his throat.

"Prettiest lil' pet I ever seen."

He palms your thighs, rough thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh as he pushes your legs open wider.

You sob—mortified, helpless—but it only seems to please him more.

"Lookit that," he murmurs, dipping his head down, close enough that his breath fans hot across your cunt. "Still bleedin'...still so damn sweet."

And then—

The flicker of heat—

The twin points of his forked tongue lash out, slick and obscene, stroking along the weeping seam of your cunt.

You gasp—body jolting violently against the chains—a sharp, helpless cry tearing from your throat.

He groans deep, low and guttural, as he licks again—slow, deliberate—tasting the blood and slick pooling between your thighs.

He moves with maddening patience—the split tips of his tongue teasing either side of your clit, circling, flicking, taunting.

"You hear that?" he mutters thickly, rubbing his mouth over your cunt, tongue dragging up every inch of you. "Hear how messy y'are f'me, sugar?"

You can't answer.

You're beyond answering.

Your thighs quiver against his shoulders, muscles locking and spasming as he devours you—slow, relentless, merciless.

He pulls back only long enough to watch you squirm—your face flushed, your lips trembling, your hips jerking up helplessly as if chasing the wicked flick of his tongue.

"Poor thing," he croons, mock-sweet. "Y'bleedin', cryin', achin'...and ya still openin' them pretty legs f'me."

He laughs—low and pleased—and dives back in, feasting like a man who'd been starved for a hundred years.

You can already feel yourself unraveling—

Can feel it building again—

That terrible, traitorous heat coiling low in your belly, shame burning so brightly it tastes like iron on your tongue.

He tongues you deeper, forked tongue writhing against your soaked, blood-slick entrance, and you sob, straining against the chains as your body gives in.

You come—

Harder than before—

Your cunt clenching helplessly around nothing, your blood and slick gushing against his mouth.

He groans, hips grinding into the bed, rutting against the mattress like he can't stand it, like the taste of you is killing him.

He pulls back, panting hard, mouth and chin dripping in a fresh coat of crimson.

When he looks at you—

It's not just hunger.

It's possession.

"That's it, baby," he rasps, voice raw, shredded with want. "Give it all t' me. Ain't gonna leave nothin' behind."

You whimper brokenly, chains rattling as you pull uselessly at your bonds.

And then—

You see it.

Him undoing his belt.

The clink of metal, the low rasp of fabric sliding down heavy thighs.

His cock springs free—thick, veined, flushed red—already weeping at the tip.

Your mouth goes dry with terror.

He crawls up the bed like a predator stalking wounded prey, his glowing eyes locked on you, his smile wide and merciless.

"Gonna claim ya proper now, sugar," he says, his voice low and trembling with barely-restrained hunger. "Gonna fuck ya bloody, fuck ya dumb...make ya forget the whole damn world 'cept me."

You sob, head thrashing weakly against the mattress.

He just laughs—low, light, loving—as he fits the head of his cock against your slick cunt.

And pushes in.

The first push of him inside you is a shock—

Stretching, burning, splitting you apart on the thick, heavy drag of his shaft.

You sob, twisting against the chains, but he just groans guttural and filthy, shoving deeper with a slow, brutal roll of his hips that forces your body to open up for him.

"There we go," he pants, sweat dripping from his brow to your heaving chest. "Takin' me real sweet, ain't ya, darlin'?"

The stretch feels endless, unbearable—every ridge and vein of him dragging against blood-slick, swollen flesh.

Your body tries to resist, clenching tight, but he's relentless—grinding deeper, forcing himself past the trembling, fluttering grip of your cunt.

"You fightin' me," he groans, voice ragged with pleasure, "but ya can't stop it, can ya? Body knows. Body knows who owns it now."

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and helpless.

The chains rattle with every shuddering breath you take.

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his skin sweaty and warm same as yours, trapping you together in the sticky, blood-sweet air.

"Y'made fer this," he whispers, voice breaking on the edges of worship. "Made fer me."

With a slow, grinding thrust, he bottoms out—buried to the hilt, your body stretched taut around him, trembling with the effort to contain him.

He doesn't move at first.

Just breathes—hard, shuddering—his cock pulsing hot inside you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll wear the bruises for days.

"Sweetest cunt I ever had," he murmurs, almost dazed, rolling his hips just enough to grind against the blood-slick walls of your cunt. "Sweetest thing I ever tasted."

You whimper, wrecked, overwhelmed.

He starts to move—slow at first, almost lazy, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before slamming back in with a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin.

The bedframe groans under the force of it. The chains rattle. The chapel breathes with the rhythm of it—an old, rotted cathedral witnessing your ruin.

He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breath coming hot and ragged between clenched fangs.

"Fuck," he snarls, thrusting harder, grinding deep. "Ain't never...fuckin'...lettin' you go, sugar."

Each word is punctuated by a savage snap of his hips, driving you higher up the mattress, making the iron cuffs bite deeper into your bruised wrists.

Your world narrows to the brutal stretch of him inside you, the thick heat of his body pinning you down, the filthy grind of his cock dragging more slick, more blood from your battered cunt.

He groans again—a raw, broken sound—and pulls back to stare down at where your bodies meet.

Blood coats his cock, painting the base of it slick and glistening in the crimson moonlight.

He growls—a deep, vibrating sound—and slams in harder, hips jerking.

"Bleedin' all f'me," he mutters, awe bleeding into the filthy cadence of his voice. "Markin' me proper. Good lil' bitch, lettin' me ruin ya."

You sob—don't know if it's from the pain, the shame, the unbearable rush of something darker pooling low in your belly.

He leans in, dragging his split tongue up your throat—slow, languid—tasting the salt of your skin.

"Gonna fill ya up," he rasps, thrusting harder now, the rhythm getting ragged, desperate. "Breed ya good. Chain ya to this bed and fuck ya full every night till y'don't know nothin' but my cock."

Your hips jerk helplessly against him, legs trembling, blood and slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined mattress.

He bites down suddenly—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise—right over the frantic pulse at your throat.

You keen—a high, broken noise—and the orgasm hits you like a lightning strike.

Your cunt clamps down around him, spasming violently, drawing a raw, broken snarl from his chest.

"That's it," he growls, fucking you through it, his cock thickening even more inside you. "That's it, dove, milk it. Milk it good."

You come undone—

Body locking, heart hammering, chains rattling—

As he drives you through wave after wave of brutal, bloody pleasure.

His rhythm falters—

Hitches—

And with a hoarse snarl, he slams deep one last time.

You feel it—

The hot, thick flood of him spilling inside you—

Coating your walls, mixing with the blood already slicking your thighs.

He stays buried deep—panting, shaking, his arms trembling where they cage you in.

For a long moment, the only sound in the chapel is the labored, broken gasps of breath—his and yours, tangled together in the hot, heavy dark.

He nuzzles into your throat, murmuring low, senseless things against your skin.

"My girl," he breathes, over and over, as if trying to convince himself. "My sweet girl."

You lie limp beneath him—wrecked, used, ruined—your body claimed in every way it can be claimed.

And somewhere—

Buried under the terror, the humiliation—

A dark, terrible heat begins to flicker in your chest.

You're his now.

There’s no going back.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Whispers that maybe, just maybe—you don’t want to.

The world feels soft and hazy when he finally moves.

You’re barely aware of it—just a weak, blood-warm ache where your legs sprawl open, your wrists burning raw from the chains. Every nerve ending feels stretched thin, humming with the aftershocks of being wrecked and claimed and ruined.

He shifts over you—his cock sliding free with a wet, filthy sound that makes you flinch—and you feel the thick, sticky mess of blood and come seeping down your thighs.

You whimper weakly, body too used up to fight.

But instead of leaving you—instead of walking away like the monster you thought he was—

He stays.

He kneels between your ruined thighs, the broken mattress sagging beneath his weight, and for a moment he just looks at you—head cocked, hair wild and dripping sweat, red eyes burning.

Something like awe flickers across his face.

"Sweet lil' mess," he murmurs, voice thick, almost tender.

One large, calloused hand cups your knee—thumb stroking slow, idle circles into your bruised skin—as he leans in.

You feel the first press of his tongue before you can even gasp.

He drags that wicked, forked tongue up the inside of your thigh again, lapping at the blood and slick smeared there like it’s the finest ambrosia.

He groans deep in his chest, his hands tightening on your trembling legs to hold you wide open for him.

You sob—broken, humiliated—but he just keeps licking, slow and steady, cleaning you up like a beast grooming his mate.

"Can't waste none of it," he mutters between licks, his breath damp against your skin. "Every drop...mine."

You twitch beneath him, wrists jerking weakly against the chains, but there’s no strength left in you.

There’s no fight left at all.

He licks higher—over the tender, battered folds of your cunt—gathering the mixture of blood and seed with obscene thoroughness, his tongue darting deep, savoring every taste.

You shudder violently, a broken whimper escaping your throat.

He shushes you again—so softly, so lovingly it makes your heart twist.

"Easy, sweet pea," he croons against your skin. "Ain't hurtin' ya now. Jus' takin' what's mine."

His tongue splits and flicks, teasing your clit, making your hips jolt despite yourself.

"That's it," he murmurs, smiling against you. "That's my good girl."

When he’s satisfied—when every drop of blood, every smear of slick has been licked from your trembling body—

He pulls back, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand.

He looks down at you sprawled out on the soiled mattress—swollen wrists chained, thighs open, skin sticky with sweat and tears—and his smile softens.

"Pretty lil' thing," he murmurs, reaching out to thumb the tear tracks from your cheeks. "Took it so good. Knew ya would."

You try to flinch away from his touch, but it’s pathetic—a trembling, fragmented twitch.

He hums low in his throat, pleased.

Slowly, purposefully, he reaches for the shackles binding your wrists.

For a sick, dizzy second, you think he’s going to tighten them—punish you for even thinking of pulling away.

But instead—

You hear the click of old iron locks giving way.

The weight of the cuffs falls from your wrists, leaving raw, angry bands of flesh behind.

You sag back against the mattress like a puddle of liquid bones and flesh, too stunned, too hollowed out to move.

He watches you for a moment—head tilted, red eyes gleaming—like a man admiring the final brushstroke of a masterpiece.

Then he moves.

He scoops you up with terrifying ease—one hand under your knees, the other cradling your back—lifting you like you're weightless.

You make a weak, pitiful sound against his chest, but he just hushes you—soft and sweet—pressing a rough kiss to the crown of your filthy, sweat-drenched hair.

"Shhh, baby," he croons. "Ain't gonna hurtcha. Ain't gotta run no more."

He carries you to the far corner of the chapel—to a weathered old pew tucked into the shadows—and settles down onto it, shifting you into his lap like you belong there.

Your thighs straddle his hips, your chest crushed against his filthy shirt, your legs dangling uselessly on either side of his body.

He rocks you—nice and easy—the way a man might rock a newborn calf.

And all the while, he talks.

Low, sweet, steady.

"Got a place fer ya," he murmurs into your hair. "Back in the bayou. Little cabin where nobody'll never find ya."

His hands roam lazily over your battered body—soothing, petting, possessive.

"Got a bed there," he goes on, voice almost dreamy. "Big enough to tie ya spread-eagle. Big enough t' keep ya wet and ready all the time."

You shudder in his lap—a broken, helpless thing—but he just rocks you harder, nuzzling into your neck.

"Teach ya how t' live on nothin' but my cock and my seed," he whispers. "Keep ya full, keep ya heavy...make ya forget the whole damn world but me."

You sob softly against his chest.

He smiles against your hair.

"That's it," he croons. "That's my sweet girl."

His hand slides between your thighs again—unhurried, filthy—and cups the used, swollen heat of your cunt, thumb stroking lazy circles into the mess he left behind.

You twitch helplessly in his lap.

"Always knew I'd find somethin' special out here," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "Didn't reckon I'd find my forever meal...my lil' blood-slick pet."

He presses his mouth to your temple—a kiss, obscene in its tenderness.

"Mine now," he whispers. "Mine 'til the river runs dry."

The chapel groans around you—old wood settling, whispering, watching—as he rocks you slowly in his lap.

You’re weightless against him.

Soft.

Malleable.

The chains are gone, but you’re no freer than you were before.

Your body has surrendered.

Your mind—

God help you—isn't far behind.

He hums low under his breath, a tuneless, lazy thing—some old hymn twisted into something darker. Something damned.

His hands roam over you without hurry—stroking your bruised thighs, cupping the raw stretch of your hips, smoothing down the arch of your spine.

One of his palms cups the back of your head, pushing your face against his chest, holding you there like a possession too precious to lose.

"You feel it, don'tcha," he murmurs against your hair. "Way y'body melts into mine. Way y'cunt still pulses f'me even now."

You whimper—soft and splintered—and he smiles, wide and slow.

"Don't fight it, sugar," he says, low and coaxing. "Ain't nothin' left but me now."

You feel the slow, lazy roll of his hips beneath you—the thick, heavy press of his cock, still slick and blood-warm, nudging insistently between your thighs again.

You sob weakly, your body jerking against his.

But it’s useless.

Inevitable.

He shifts you higher, lining himself up, one broad hand guiding your hips as he pushes back inside—slow, deep, claiming.

You choke on a whimper, trembling violently in his lap as he fills you again—stretching your battered, blood-slick cunt to the limit.

"There we go," he croons. "There she is."

He rocks you on his cock—gradual, thick, obscene—grinding deep with each lazy roll of his hips, never pulling out, never letting you escape the feel of him inside you.

His mouth finds your ear, breath hot and heavy.

"Y'ain't even know my name yet," he murmurs, almost laughing. "Been takin' ya, ruinin' ya, bleedin' ya dry...and you don't even know what t' call me."

You shudder helplessly against him.

He presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw—filthy, tender.

"Remmick," he breathes.

"That's what ya call me, sugar."

Another slow grind of his hips—another thick, aching thrust deep inside your ruined cunt.

"Say it," he whispers, voice breaking sweet and sharp against your skin. "Say my name."

You sob—mind reeling, body burning—but the word tumbles out of you like a rejected prayer.

"Remmick."

He groans, raw and reverent, and rocks you harder, the weathered pew creaking beneath the slow, punishing grind of his body.

"Good girl," he pants, forehead pressing to yours. "Sweet lil' thing...mine now. Mine forever."

He kisses you then—

A brutal, clumsy thing—

Mouth crushed against yours, tasting of blood and salt and something older. Something primordial.

You sob into the kiss, legs trembling against his hips, your body clinging to him without thinking, without reason.

Remmick smiles against your mouth.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Ain't no runnin' now. Ain't no leavin'."

He rocks you again—slow, deep—every thrust branding you, sinking you deeper under his spell.

"You got my name now," he whispers, voice thick with triumph and devotion. "And soon enough, baby...you gonna carry the rest of me too."

His hand slides down, splaying wide over your lower belly—

Possessive, filthy, promising.

"You gonna carry me inside ya, sweet pea," he breathes, voice almost shaking. "Gonna grow fat an' heavy with me...my blood, my seed, my babies."

You sob against his chest—wrecked, overwhelmed—as he rocks you through it, slow and relentless, every movement carving your fate deeper into your body.

And Remmick—

The monster, the devil, the man—

Just holds you tighter, crooning low and filthy against your skin.

"My girl," he whispers. "My sweet, bleedin' girl."

The slow grind of him inside you never stops.

Remmick rocks you lazily in his lap—the pew creaking under the weight of his possession—each slow thrust pushing you deeper under, erasing everything but the burn and the stretch and the unbearable, filthy tenderness of him.

Your head lolls against his shoulder, sweat-soaked hair sticking to your temples, every nerve frayed to a live wire.

He strokes your back in long, rough sweeps—the calluses of his palms rasping over every bruise, every bite mark, every blood-smeared inch of you.

"You feel it, don'tcha, sugar," he breathes into your ear, voice sweet and sticky as syrup. "The way yer body listens to me now. Way it wants me even when you don't."

You sob weakly, too broken to deny it.

His arms tighten around you—one locked around your back, the other spreading wide over your hips, guiding you up and down the thick, blood-slick length of his cock.

"You was made fer this," he murmurs, his breath hot and humid against your skin. "Made t'be mine. Made t'be fucked full, bred fat, kept warm an' wet in my bed."

He rocks you harder—deeper—the swollen head of his cock grinding up against that raw, aching place inside you, making your whole body jolt and shudder helplessly.

Your wrists curl weakly against his chest, the instinct to cling overpowering even your fear.

Remmick hums low, satisfied.

"Good girl," he praises, voice rough and ragged. "Good lil' thing, clingin' so sweet."

He kisses the side of your throat—a slow, open-mouthed drag of lips and teeth—and you feel him smiling against your pulse.

And then his voice drops lower—softer, darker—as he begins to whisper.

"But if y'ever think about runnin'..." he murmurs, rocking you a little harder, his cock dragging thick and slow inside your cunt, "if y'ever try t'leave me, lil’ hare...I'll hunt ya down."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I'll drag ya screamin' back by that sweet lil' ankle," he whispers, almost lovingly. "Chain ya tighter. Fuck ya harder. Make sure next time ya can't even walk."

You sob—broken, breathless.

He kisses your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your tears.

"Maybe I'll break that pretty lil' ankle," he muses, his voice so soft it’s almost a lullaby. "Keep ya bed-bound...keep ya needy...make ya beg for me t'feed ya, to fuck ya, to touch ya."

You whimper, hips jerking against him without meaning to.

Remmick groans low in his chest, thrusting up deeper inside you.

"You'd look so pretty like that," he pants. "All bruised up an' cryin'...beggin' me to keep fillin' this sweet lil' cunt."

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit—swollen, aching, blood-slick—and starts to rub slow, relentless circles.

You gasp, high and needy, clutching at him, legs trembling where they sprawl weakly around his hips.

"That's it," he breathes, rocking you harder now, rubbing you faster. "Cum f'me, sugar. Milk me good. Show me who ya belong to."

You sob, mind fracturing under the thick, unbearable pleasure—under the dirty, endless tenderness of his voice—under the awful, overwhelming rightness of it.

Your orgasm slams into you—sharp, brutal, dizzying—your whole body clenching down around him, sobbing his name against his throat.

Remmick groans, burying his cock deep one last time, grinding slow and thick against the fluttering spasms of your cunt.

"That's my girl," he whispers, voice cracked and worshipful. "My sweet, bleedin' girl. Mine."

He holds you through it—rocking you gently, slowly—cooing filthy promises against your skin.

"Never lettin' ya go," he breathes, voice drunk with possession. "Never."

And you know—

With a dark, shattered certainty —

That he’s telling the truth.

Your body trembles in his lap—used, slick, overflowing—and still, Remmick doesn’t stop.

Still buried deep inside you, he rocks you lazily—thick, slow drags of his cock against your raw, battered walls, the wet, messy sound of it filling the ruined chapel.

You whimper, limp and broken against his chest.

He shushes you, petting your hair, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, your throat.

"That's it, sweet pea," he praises. "Just keep takin' it. Keep takin' me."

His hips move slower now—deep, grinding thrusts that make you feel every vein, every throb of him inside you.

You sob weakly when you feel the telltale pulse of his cock thickening again—feel the way he holds you tighter, groaning low in your ear.

"Poor thing," he breathes, voice shaking with hunger and something darker, deeper. "Ain't built t'keep up, are ya?"

He rocks you harder, the sticky, bloody mess of your body clinging wetly to him.

His mouth finds your ear again—voice low, filthy, almost laughing.

"Y'know why?" he whispers. "Y'know why ya break so easy f'me, sugar?"

You whimper, unable to answer, unable to think.

He licks the shell of your ear—slow, lazy—before speaking again.

"'Cause I ain't no man, sweet thing," he says, voice rich with wicked delight. "Ain't no mortal that tires out an' falls asleep after one fuck."

He grinds deeper—hips jerking, cock twitching inside you.

"A demon’s stamina," he murmurs, "ain't like a man's."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I can do this," he breathes, voice low and full of terrible promise, "forever."

He thrusts again—slow, heavy, final—and you feel it.

Feel the thick, molten flood of him spilling inside you again—hotter, heavier than before, painting your ruined cunt, seeping out around his cock.

Remmick groans low, deep in his chest—a sound full of brutal satisfaction.

He holds you there—stuffed full, pinned tight—grinding the mess deeper with lazy, possessive rolls of his hips.

"There we go," he murmurs against your throat. "Fill ya up good. Mark ya so deep ya gonna leak me out fer days."

You sob, a broken little sound that only makes him hum in pleasure.

He strokes your hair, your back, rocking you gently in the wreckage of the chapel.

"You're mine now," he whispers. "Ain't no priest, no preacher, no god up there that can take ya from me."

He kisses your temple—filthy, loving.

"Belong t' me, sweet lil' thing," he breathes. "My pet. My meal. My mate."

You lie limp in his lap, broken open, owned.

And you realize—with a dark, awful clarity—that you don't even want to run anymore.

You belong here.

With him.

Forever.

And the monster—

The demon—

Your Remmick—

Rocks you slowly into the night, crooning sweet, filthy promises against your skin.

#yes i did write the word 'cunt' 27 times and no i won’t apologize #dear lord this is the filthiest thing I've ever wrote #sinners 2025 #sinners au #sinners fic #remmick #remmick x reader #sinners remmick #jack o'connell

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jaylaxies · 10 days ago

Text

MARIONETTE ‣ teaser

PAIRING: doll!jungwon x fem!reader

CONTENT WARNING: smut, angst, porn with plot, more to be added in the final fic, the fic will contain 18+ content, minors dni.

TEASER WC: 1338 words! (est. 11k words)

SYNOPSIs: As an antique collector, you had encountered many oddities; splintered relics, cursed heirlooms, objects that whispered in the dark, but never a life sized doll so breathtakingly beautiful, so humane. There was only one rule, to not open its coffin before the onset of New Year, however, temptation is quite a decadent exquisite poison. And now? Something stirs beneath the glass—something that waits for you, dearly so.

A/N: hihi loves <3 js leaving this here as i work on the fic, hope you guys enjoy it <3

taglist is open! comment/send an ask to be added <3 (make sure to have your age visible on your blog!)

A doll. That’s what the third and the last tarot card said, the image on it striking something primal in you; especially when you laid your eyes on the white porcelain doll, way too delicate for this world, carved into perfection of some sort, clad in a dark suit. He was perfect. Cheekbones high and blushed, lips blood red, glowing, and eyes? Closed in peace, in wait. You tore your eyes from the card the second you felt something burning on your wrist.

A red thread, something you hadn’t worn before entering the stall, something that resembled exactly the threat around the doll’s wrist. It wasn’t silk, or cotton, it was something old, almost like a crimson fibre.

The women didn’t blink, didn’t show any hint of emotions this time, “you’ve been chosen.”

You breathed out, waiting for her to elaborate.

“He’s been waiting, he didn’t summon you, he chose you. It was when you were ten, he fell in innocent love all over again, the same place, the carnival.”

Her eyes weren’t moving, goosebumps rose up your skin at the mention of the carnival, the same carival which you visited with your parents, the same, which taught you abandonment years ago, the place you were at right now.

“Who’s he?” You croaked out.

“He saw you entering, the innocence long gone, now he craves, he desires your love.”

Your heart thumped out of your chest at the mere mention, the slight possibility of someone wanting you.

“Where’s he?” You asked before you could control yourself, the words, the mannerism almost foreign to you.

The women’s lip twitched up for the first time, the darkness highlighting the curve, before she snapped her fingers, making everything go dark as you stood up, stumbling back with a gasp, and right out of the tent.

It was snowing again, the bustle of the crowd, the cheers of the children. The world was bright again, even in the darkness, but you were hollow, the thread burning around your wrist every passing second, as if in a rush to convey a message.

You weaved through the crowd, past fire breathers and jugglers, past children squealing over marionettes—you yourself felt like one as past a the thread pulled eastward, toward the quieter edge of the carnival. You didn’t ask questions anymore. You just followed.

It didn’t feel real, just a dream with no end. And then, you saw it—tucked between two towering, crumbling buildings was a narrow, glassed storefront you hadn’t noticed before. You would have missed it entirely if not for the thread tightening against your skin, humming now with warmth. A wooden sign hung above the door, painted in fading gold.

The Chiller House: Antiques and souvenirs.

The windows were clouded, frosted even from the inside, yet you could faintly make out the silhouettes of laces, dolls, relics you couldn’t identify. The floral vines covered the sign which sat atop the door.

Binded with love, caged with obsession.

You stared at the sign, heart knocking against your ribs. You had a soft spot for antiques—always had. Things that had lived lives before you. The scent of old paper and polished wood. The way broken toys still smiled, even your room back home looked more like a museum than a bedroom. The past always felt warmer than the present, safer, even when it wasn’t.

A brass bell chimed in peace as you stepped inside, it was like a time capsule bound together. Display cases brimmed with forgotten artifacts—cracked porcelain faces, jewelled gloves, pressed flower letters that looked like they’d crumble at the slightest touch. The scent of cedarwood and dried rose petals filled the air, however, the room wasn’t musty, it was preserved.

You twirled around the empty store, feeling alive for the first time in months, staring at your reflection in an ornate vanity mirror, before stepping behind the curtain, into a room which was dim, but not enough to hide him.

A single glass coffin in the corner of the room, as if meant to be hidden from the world. Lit from below by a single, flickering bulb, the coffin glowed like an altar. And within it—he looked too perfect to be real. A life sized porcelain doll, mouth barely parted as if sighing in sleep. His skin was smooth, pale with a bloom of warmth on the cheeks, and his lips painted a colour of warm red.

Blonde curls falling over his forehead, his suit was tailored in black, lapels stitched with gentle thorns, the collar closed neatly with a thin crimson ribbon. A matching red thread circled his porcelain wrist—identical to the one still burning on your own.

He was so delicate, exquisite personified, crafted so meticulously, it almost felt like a sin to be staring at him. You didn’t realize you were moving till your palm rested on the fogged glass.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” a voice called out, jolting you out of your trance.

You turned around quickly to see the shopkeeper—a woman older than time itself, dressed in a black shawl with hazel eyes that gleamed like a summer storm. She didn’t sound angry, but tired. Like she’d been here before, like she’d seen this play out before.

“I—why? Isn’t he for sale?” You asked.

“He’s not for sale.”

“But why? This is a shop and he’s a doll,” you asked again, desperate to understand.

Her gaze didn’t falter, “he’s not just a doll, and this isn’t just a shop.”

Today has been confusing, but this? It was way par your usual understanding. Not a doll? Not just a shop? It was as if you were bleeding into the thin crack between dream and reality.

“I want him,” you repeated like a broken record.

Her eyes flickered down to your wrist in a scowl, before she gasped, demeanor doing a one eighty, “I see, so it’s happened.”

“What has?”

She didn’t answer, walking past you to the coffin, brushing the gold plated oval, depriving it of the dust that had settled there over the time.

Jungwon—the engraved text read out, a name as pretty as the face.

“I’ll pay anything,” you declared, as if he would cease to exist if you don’t get him, if you don’t keep him preserved with you.

“Anything,” she echoed, “everything,” she confirmed.

You stared at her, wondering if this was yet another tactic used to get a higher price for a certain possession, to quantify the amount of desperation one can behold.

Still, she didn’t answer you directly. Instead, she moved around the coffin, unlatching locks you hadn’t even noticed until now—iron clasps, rusted, something that creaked with each movement. Not the lid, never the lid, just the base. Preparing it for transport.

“You’ll take the whole thing,” she started, as if telling you the rules. “Don’t try to lift the glass. Don’t remove the thread. And no matter how much you want to—don’t open the coffin before the onset of new year.”

“How much?” you asked, breath catching in your throat with newfound warmth blooming up your chest.

She paused her slow movements, scribbling a figure on a torn piece of parchment and handed it to you. Her fingers were cold and dry, like paper itself.

The number was beyond the point of absurdity, a cost that screamed sacrifice, not currency. More than what a doll should be worth, if it was just a doll that is.

You got your card out without a second thought. It was all you had, a price you got for having the ever so absent parents. She nodded, as if she expected you to say yes regardless of the circumstances.

“Handle with care, he’s—he’s more fragile than he appears to be,” she murmured, “alas, don’t forget the rules.”

You nodded, fingertips quick to call, informing your driver to pick up the coffin, the brass bell chiming as you stepped out of the Chiller House. Your eyes followed him, throughout the journey.

All while not knowing that your red thread had disappeared.

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

@jaeminvore @hoondrop @macaroonff @ajayke-reads @en-myworld @lunalovesstories @jayzdaze @deobitifull @mari-oclock @kpoprhia @ikeuizm @woniebae @lalalalawon @blessedcursd @skzenhalove @heesuncore @seuomo @kyurizeu @haechan-nahceah @tobiosbbyghorl @jezzebear @jaehoonii @itsgivingitalian @bunhoons @hyacandoit @luvswonyoung @ma-riiii @addictedtohobi @heeliopheelia @haanigurl @kaykay11sworld @glitterjay @skzooluvr @yongbokified @prkhaven @kristynaaah @tinycatharsis @filmnings @mwahvvis @hoonprksung @mintchocoddeonut @lezleeferguson-120 @s0shroe @onlyticket-home @meowieshibal @highway-143

taglist open! comment or send an ask to be added!

#fic : marionette #enhypen hard hours #enhypen smut #jungwon smut #jungwon x reader #enha x reader #enha smut #jungwon fanfic #kpop smut #enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen reactions

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cod-bin · 2 months ago

Text

you think i don’t notice?

part 2 to don’t tempt me

fuckboy!simon x nerdy!reader

wc: 6.7k

cw: slight mentions of sex, heavy swearing by simon, angst (only a little), angry!simon (not at reader), jealousy

Simon doesn’t leave your room.

Not after he kicks her out. Not after she slams the door like it’s you she’s mad at and not herself for getting caught.

He just… stays.

Sits on the edge of your bed like he has any business being there, like he hasn’t spent the last six months pretending you don’t exist. You, with your messy ponytail and hoodie sleeves stretched over your hands and tissues peeking from under your pillow like some kind of sick gremlin.

You don’t know what to do. What to say.

So you just sip the tea he brought you. Let the silence stretch.

“I thought you hated me,” you say finally, voice still raw.

Simon huffs a quiet sound. “Didn’t say I liked you.”

That makes you smile. Barely. But he sees it.

His gaze flicks to you — sharp, unreadable — and then just stays there. Watching.

You clear your throat and look away, suddenly too aware of how small your bed is. How close his knee is to yours. How he’s still here and hasn’t gone back to texting whatever girl he’d probably had lined up for tomorrow.

Your stomach flips.

You hate him a little. For making you feel like this. For confusing you. For being decent when he’s supposed to be a total ass.

“You can go, you know,” you whisper. “I’m not gonna, like… die or something.”

He doesn’t move. “Didn’t ask.”

“You’re not staying out of guilt, are you? ’Cause of what she said?”

Simon’s jaw ticks. That muscle again.

“I don’t feel guilty.”

“Then why are you—?”

“Because you’re sick,” he says. “And you looked like you were about to fucking cry, and I didn’t like that.”

You blink. Hard.

“Oh.”

That’s all you manage.

Simon runs a hand through his hair and exhales like you’ve exhausted him, like you’re the problem, not the girl who stomped in and insulted you in your own goddamn room.

“You ever gonna tell me?” he says suddenly.

You frown. “Tell you what?”

“Who hurt you.”

Your blood freezes.

“What—?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he says, low. “You flinch every time someone raises their voice. Every time someone touches you. Even when it’s me.”

You look down at your tea.

“It’s nothing,” you lie.

He doesn’t believe you. You can feel it.

But he lets it go.

For now.

You should feel relieved. But something in your chest twists, tight and aching.

You’re not sure when it started — the wanting.

Maybe it was when he wiped your nose without laughing. Maybe when he kicked out that girl without hesitating. Maybe it’s been building under your skin this whole time, slow and sharp like a splinter.

Whatever it is, it’s worse now. He’s too close. Too real.

You curl into yourself, trying to disappear.

Simon shifts. Leans back against your headboard like he lives there.

“You always this quiet?”

You shrug.

“Figured you’d be the type to never shut up.”

You glance at him. “Why?”

He smirks. “Glasses. Big words. You know. Nerd shit.”

“You think I’m a nerd?”

He grins wider. “Don’t play coy. You literally labeled your tea mugs.”

You flush. “I was sick. I didn’t want to—”

“You’re adorable when you’re defensive.”

You blink.

Did he just—?

Simon doesn’t look at you. Just casually tosses it out there like it’s not going to haunt your dreams for the rest of your life.

You sink deeper into your blanket.

Then—

Your phone buzzes.

You grab it instinctively, thumb swiping across the screen before your fevered brain catches up.

Simon doesn’t move, but something shifts in the air.

“You texting someone?” he asks.

You glance up.

His voice is too light.

You hesitate. “It’s just— this guy from class. He was asking how I’m feeling.”

Simon’s eyes darken. Just slightly.

“This guy.”

You nod, oblivious. “Yeah. He brought me cough drops once. He’s nice.”

Simon doesn’t respond. Just stares at the wall like it insulted him.

You scroll. Smiling faintly.

Simon’s hand twitches.

“What’s so funny?” he mutters.

“Nothing,” you say, looking up. “He just said I sounded cute when I was all congested.”

You’re teasing. Sort of.

Simon isn’t laughing.

“He say that before or after he asked if you were alone?”

You pause.

“What?”

“Don’t trust guys like that.”

Your brow furrows. “You mean nice guys?”

“I mean guys who see a girl who’s sick and vulnerable and think ‘oh cool, now’s my chance.’”

Your stomach twists. “You don’t even know him.”

“And you do?” Simon snaps. “What, you think he actually gives a fuck how you’re feeling? You think he’s checking in because he cares? No. He wants something.”

You stare at him.

“Why do you care?” you ask quietly.

Simon’s mouth opens, then closes.

His jaw clenches again.

“Because I’m your fucking roommate,” he mutters.

You nod slowly. “Right.”

Silence.

Then—

“You like him?” Simon asks suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“That guy. You like him?”

You hesitate.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Simon doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

Then he laughs. Bitter. Mean.

“He wouldn’t last a day with you.”

Your throat tightens. “What the hell does that mean?”

He turns to you. Finally looks at you.

“You think he’d take care of you like this?” he says. “You think he’d sit here while you look like hell and wipe your nose and make sure you’re breathing okay?”

You flinch. “I didn’t ask you to—”

“I did it anyway,” he says, low.

You don’t know what to say.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters. “Whatever this is.”

You stare at him.

“Then why are you here?”

He looks at you. Quiet. Serious.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I keep thinking about you. Even when I don’t want to.”

Your breath catches.

Simon leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clenched.

“I hear you through the walls,” he says. “When you cry. When you laugh. When you talk in your sleep.”

Your cheeks burn.

“I don’t talk in my sleep.”

“You do,” he says. “You said my name once.”

Your heart stops.

“What—?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease.

Just looks at you like he’s watching something fall apart.

“I don’t hate you,” he says. “I just didn’t know how to not want you.”

The air leaves your lungs.

Simon leans in.

Not close enough to touch.

Just close enough to ruin you.

“If that guy texts you again,” he says, “you tell him not to bother.”

You swallow. “Why?”

He looks at your mouth.

Then your eyes.

“Because I’m the one who hears you through the walls.”

And then—

He kisses your forehead.

Just once.

Soft.

Barely there.

But it shatters you.

Simon pulls back.

Stands.

Doesn’t say a word as he moves to the door.

He pauses.

Glances over his shoulder.

“You need anything,” he says, “you call me. Not him.”

You nod, speechless.

And then he’s gone.

Leaving behind a mug of tea, a thousand questions, and a silence that sounds a whole lot like the start of something else.

You were feeling a little better.

Not good, not normal, but better. Enough to shower. Enough to pull on fresh sweats and eat half a bowl of soup without gagging. Your nose was still red, your eyes still glassy, but the fever was gone, and you could finally breathe without feeling like your ribs might crack.

Still, you hadn’t left your room.

Not since that night.

Not since Simon kicked the girl out, sat on your bed like he belonged there, and touched you like you mattered. Like he saw you for the first time.

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

He’d been distant ever since — not cold, exactly, just… unreadable. No more girls. No more music shaking the walls. He hadn’t said anything, but you could feel him in the quiet. In the way he paused in the hall. In the untouched takeout that showed up outside your door, no note, no explanation.

He hadn’t checked on you again.

And you hadn’t dared knock on his door.

You were curled up in bed, watching some old documentary through one barely-open eye, when you heard it — the heavy thud of boots in the hallway. His door creaked open. Then closed again.

Then silence.

Then your door.

It didn’t open. Just a knock. Once.

Your heart jumped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still scratchy.

The door cracked. And there he was.

Simon Riley.

Gray hoodie. Sweats slung low on his hips. One hand braced on the frame like he might change his mind.

You blinked. “Hi.”

He stared at you like he wasn’t sure why he came. Like he’d rehearsed something in his head and forgot all of it the second he saw you.

You tugged your blanket tighter. “What’s up?”

Simon didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned you — flushed cheeks, hair still damp from the shower, sleeves too long over your hands. You knew you looked fragile. You hated that he was the one seeing you like this again.

He finally spoke.

“You look like hell.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Thanks.”

He stepped inside anyway.

Shut the door behind him.

Then leaned against it like he had nowhere else to be.

“Didn’t say it was a bad look,” he muttered.

You stared. “Are you flirting with me or trying to pick a fight?”

“Why would I flirt with you?”

“Ouch.”

Simon’s eyes flicked to yours, and something there made your breath hitch.

“I’m just saying,” he said, voice rough, “don’t get any ideas.”

You almost laughed. “Believe me, I wasn’t.”

He pushed off the door and crossed the room like it was nothing. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t spent months pretending you barely existed.

He grabbed the empty mug off your nightstand. Frowned at it.

“No tea?”

“I drank it.”

“No shit.”

He turned like he might take it back to the kitchen, but you stopped him.

“Wait.”

He paused.

You shifted awkwardly under the blanket, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “Why are you… here?”

Simon didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just looked at you — really looked — and it made your stomach twist.

“You’re still sick,” he said finally.

“I’m getting better.”

“Didn’t ask.”

You huffed, grabbing the nearest pillow and hugging it to your chest. “You’re being weird.”

He snorted. “You’re the weird one. Sittin’ in here like a damn ghost.”

“I’ve been recovering.”

He looked at you over his shoulder. “From the flu or from getting screamed at by that silicone-sculpted banshee?”

You blinked. “Both?”

He turned back around. Set the mug down. His shoulders were tense.

“You shouldn’t’ve opened the door,” he muttered.

“I didn’t,” you said. “She did.”

He didn’t respond.

Just paced a few steps away, hands on his hips. Like he had too much energy and no clue what to do with it.

“What’s your deal?” you asked, quieter now.

He shot you a look.

You sat up a little. “You’ve been… off.”

“I haven’t.”

“You haven’t brought anyone home in three nights.”

“So?”

“So I’m not complaining, but it’s weird.”

Simon’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker. Frustrated.

“Maybe I don’t feel like listenin’ to some brat whine about thread count while I’m tryin’ to—”

He cut himself off.

You blinked. “While you’re trying to what?”

“Never mind.”

You tilted your head. “While you’re trying to pretend you don’t care about me?”

That stopped him cold.

His jaw flexed. His hands clenched. He turned to face you, slow and deliberate.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, low.

You smiled — tired, knowing. “You keep saying that, but you’re in my room.”

Simon stalked closer, eyes dark. “Because you’re sick.”

“You didn’t care before.”

“I didn’t know before.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Silence.

Thick enough to drown in.

Simon stood over your bed, jaw tight, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

You stared up at him, heart thudding. “Why do you care now?”

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then your knees pulled up to your chest. Then back to your eyes.

“You really wanna know?” he asked, voice like gravel.

You nodded.

He stepped closer.

And closer.

Until he was right in front of you, close enough that the heat from his body made your skin prickle.

Then he leaned down, braced his arms on either side of you, and looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that made him feel anything at all.

“I don’t,” he said.

You blinked. Breath caught.

“I don’t care,” he repeated, voice lower now. “You get sick, you get better — not my fuckin’ problem.”

Your chest ached. “Right.”

“But if I hear you cry because of someone I brought into this house again,” he said, tilting his head, “I will lose it.”

You swallowed. “Simon—”

“I’ll lose it,” he said again. “Because I’m not gonna watch someone tear you down when you’re already hanging on by a thread.”

You stared at him. “That… kinda sounds like caring.”

His mouth twitched. “It’s not.”

You smiled. Just a little. “Okay.”

He leaned in closer.

Close enough that his nose brushed yours. That his breath was warm on your cheek.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he whispered.

“You’re worse.”

He didn’t deny it.

And then — without thinking, without warning — his hand reached out. Fingers under your chin. Lifting your face to his.

Not kissing you. Not yet.

Just holding you there, eyes flicking over your face like he was trying to memorize the exact version of you that made him lose control.

“You still feel like shit?” he asked.

“Less like shit,” you whispered.

“Good.”

Then he let go.

Straightened up.

Walked to the door like nothing happened.

Paused there, hand on the knob.

You watched him, heart still racing.

He looked over his shoulder. Met your eyes.

“Don’t go thinking I care.”

Then he left.

And shut the door behind him.

Your room was still too quiet.

You hadn’t said anything since Simon walked out last night.

Not when he brought you soup. Not when he leaned against your doorway and asked, “Need anything?” like it didn’t feel like his voice dragged hot iron down your spine. And definitely not when he stayed longer than necessary, standing there like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to start.

You didn’t answer because you didn’t trust your voice. Or your face. Or the way something was cracking open between you two and he didn’t even seem to notice.

But he did.

You just didn’t know it yet.

You were curled under the blanket now, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, glasses slipping down your nose as you flipped another page of the book you weren’t reading. It was easier than looking at the door.

Because you knew he’d come in eventually.

He always did now.

The shift had been slow — from silence to tension, from passing jabs to something warmer, if not softer. But the edge never dulled completely. Not with Simon. Especially not when he didn’t want it to.

You heard the door creak open behind you.

“Still alive, then.”

His voice was lazy. But there was a tightness beneath it. Like he’d been rehearsing sounding casual.

You didn’t turn. “Barely.”

Footsteps. Closer.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered. “House’s been quiet. Almost peaceful.”

You scoffed into your blanket. “Guess your bimbos took the night off.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“I haven’t brought anyone home all week.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t like him. At all.

You turned to look at him, and he was already watching you.

Leaning against the frame. Hoodie half-zipped. Hair messy. Eyes dark.

You said nothing.

He stepped inside.

Something about his energy was different tonight. Less cocky. Less put together. Like whatever was usually holding him upright had been worn thin and now you were seeing what was underneath.

You sat up slowly, pulling your sleeves over your hands again.

Simon’s gaze flicked down. Noticed. Something flickered across his face.

“You mad at me?” he asked bluntly.

You blinked. “Why would I be mad at you?”

He didn’t answer.

You swallowed. “You’ve been… weird.”

Simon huffed a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve been weird.”

More silence.

Then he said your name.

Just that.

Soft. Like a question and a warning all at once.

“I don’t get it,” you said finally, because your chest was too full and your head was too hot and everything about him made you feel like you were drowning in something you weren’t supposed to want. “Why are you being nice to me now?”

“I’m not,” he muttered.

You blinked at him.

Simon looked away.

“You’re just…” He exhaled sharply, jaw ticking. “You’re too fuckin’ quiet all the time. And then when you do talk, it’s like you think I can’t hear you.”

You frowned. “What?”

He stepped closer.

You felt the shift in the air immediately. The pull. The way he always managed to fill a room, even without touching anything.

“You think I don’t notice you?”

His voice was low, dangerous in the way a storm is dangerous — not because it’s loud, but because you can feel it coming.

“Every fucking night I brought someone home, you think I didn’t hear you breathing through the wall? You think I didn’t feel it when you went quiet, like you were trying not to exist?”

He leaned closer. You could feel the heat coming off him now, smell the faint smoke of his cologne.

“I see everything, sweetheart. That’s the problem.”

Your heart stopped.

Literally stopped.

“Simon…”

“You think I was ignoring you?” His eyes pinned you in place. “I was. I fucking had to.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“I’d come home, see your light on, know you were in here reading some stupid ass book in that dumb oversized hoodie like you weren’t the most distracting fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

You flinched. His voice wasn’t angry. But it was so raw it hurt to hear.

“And then I’d go in my room and I’d hear you—just existing—and I’d get fucking mad.” His tongue ran over his teeth. “At you. At me. At the whole fucking situation.”

You sat there frozen.

Still too sick to fight, too overwhelmed to speak.

Simon stepped forward again. You were face to face now, your knees nearly brushing his thighs where he stood.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You never got it.”

“Then tell me.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“I didn’t bring those girls home because I wanted to,” he said. “I brought them home because it was easier than thinking about you. About the way you look at me when you think I don’t see.”

You swallowed. Your voice barely worked. “You’re always so mean.”

His mouth twitched. “Because I didn’t want you to look back.”

Silence.

He sat down on the edge of your bed like the first night, his knees brushing yours. But this time, he didn’t look away.

“I’m not good at this,” he said, almost to himself. “At—feelings. At being… kind.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffed a soft laugh. Ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

He looked at you again. And this time, the weight of it was unbearable.

You shifted. “Why are you here, Simon?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then—

“I heard you crying last night.”

You stiffened.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “Just… stood outside the door like a fucking idiot.”

You stared at him. Eyes hot.

“I wanted to come in. But I knew if I did, I’d say something dumb. Or too much. Or not enough.” His voice dropped. “And I couldn’t handle you flinching from me again.”

You blinked fast. “You make it really hard not to flinch.”

“I know.” He leaned in, elbows on his knees. “That’s why I’m trying.”

You stared at him. Hard.

“Do you even like me?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He exhaled.

Then he said your name again.

Soft.

Real.

“I think I’m fucking obsessed with you.”

You didn’t breathe.

Didn’t dare.

Simon looked away, jaw tight. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You shook your head. “That’s not a problem.”

He turned back toward you.

And for the first time in forever, he looked like he believed you.

Like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t going to break him.

Or you.

You reached for him without thinking, fingers wrapping gently around his sleeve. He stilled. Let you.

He looked at your hand.

Then at your face.

“You’re still sick,” he muttered, but he didn’t move.

You smiled. “I’m always sick.”

Simon’s mouth twitched. His eyes softened.

He leaned in just enough to let his forehead touch yours.

No kiss.

Not yet.

Just heat and breath and a storm that didn’t want to pass.

“I’ll stay,” he said quietly.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed. “Okay.”

And for once, Simon didn’t run.

part 3

☆☆☆

☆taglist☆

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sixxels · 2 months ago

Text

play it back

fratboy!sukuna x fem reader

wc: 14k

!!disclaimer!! situationship, smut, p in v, mdni, angst! comfort. this is messy, so so messy but what fic of mine isn’t?

the first thing anyone ever smells when stepping into choso’s house is weed and watermelon vape. the second is tequila, the third is him. the one guy you really didn't want to see right now.

smokey, rich, him. sukuna.

you try to ignore it, the lights are dim and pink and pulsing. it’s not packed yet, but it will be. choso’s parties always fill up like bathtubs. slowly, hot.

you step through the threshold and into the thrum of it all. maki grabs your wrist the moment she spots you. “thank god,” she says, tugging you toward the living room. “i need someone sane to witness this mess.”

you barely manage a hello before she’s dragging you in, past the sliding kitchen door and down the short hall, until you see a group of all your friends sitting in a circle.

“truth or drink,” gojo booms, slamming his empty solo cup down on a wonky wooden frat table like he’s just cast a spell.

you roll your eyes. maki groans beside you.

“oh god, not again.”

“no, listen,” gojo says, serious. “this is character development. this is growth. this is—,”

“—an excuse to be nosy,” suguru cuts in.

“exactly!”

sukuna’s already here, of course he is. spread out like he owns the couch. one leg over the other, cigarette burning low between two tattooed fingers, eyes slouched half-lidded as if he’s barely awake. like he didn’t just watch you walk in.

and just like that, it begins.

choso pulls out the question cards he made last semester, a mix of drunk scribbles and genuinely soul-destroying prompts. shoko hands everyone a refill. yuki raises her eyebrows at you like, ‘buckle up, baby.’

you sit, shoulders tight, pretending not to care when the bottle lands on sukuna.

your chest pinches anyway.

“truth,” he says lazily, eyes half-lidded.

choso reads the card. “do you think you’ve ever been in love?”

the room hushes, tension vibrating like a tight string.

sukuna’s expression doesn’t change. he drags from his cigarette. smoke curls out the corner of his mouth.

“no.”

a few snickers. gojo coughs dramatically, little did you know he’s the only one who sukuna tells about your little… situation, so he was as uncertain as you were. he gave you a sympathetic look from across the circle.

“no offense,” maki mutters under her breath, “but i believe it.”

your stomach sinks. you don’t know why you expected anything different. maybe you didn’t.

you just hoped.

the bottle spins again. lands on you.

your throat goes dry, and maki grabs your hand under the table.

gojo perks up like a kid in church who just got told the sermon’s about sex.

“truth,” you say.

suguru plucks a card. “do you think the person you want wants you back?”

silence again.

you look down at your cup.

you think about sukuna’s mouth. the way he kissed you that night at the party like he was afraid he’d forget how. the way he didn’t call for two days after. the way he still texts you at 2am like you’re a convenience store.

your voice is soft. “i think maybe, like halfway?”

no one says anything for a moment.

even sukuna.

especially sukuna.

then yuki murmurs, “you deserve more than half-love, baby.”

you nod, but you don’t say anything.

what would be the point?

as the game dissolves into teasing and too-loud laughter, gojo throws himself dramatically across suguru’s lap and starts fake-crying like a soap opera housewife. “you never loved me!” he wails, half-choking on his drink, and suguru just hums and pets his hair like a tired husband with a golden retriever.

shoko steals the card deck. maki yells something about how is he crying without tears, and choso starts explaining the thc content in his gummy stash to a girl in a crocheted top who keeps giggling like she doesn’t understand a word.

the circle splinters. the warmth disperses. the night, like a bruise, begins to spread.

you lose sight of sukuna in the crowd.

the room gets louder. people you don’t know start filtering in. loud boys in snapbacks yelling about beer pong. girls in glitter boots clacking across the hardwood like they own the place. someone walks by with a bong shaped like pikachu and a glowstick necklace that makes your eyes hurt.

it’s not that you don’t want to be here. it’s that you suddenly feel like you’re watching it all through glass. like you’re not in the room anymore. just near it.

you slip away. quietly.

the kitchen is cooler than the rest of the house, the hum of the fridge a steady drone underneath the bass. you lean against the counter, press your palms into the tile. you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the silence makes your ears ring.

then,

“you gonna pretend i’m not here all night?”

you freeze.

you don’t need to look to know who it is.

that voice always comes just after you start to forget it. low, lazy, soft with smoke and something sharp underneath.

sukuna.

you inhale slow, steady. then turn.

he’s leaning against the counter like it’s a throne. one hand braced on it. the other running through his hair like he’s trying to shake off the night. his eyes are heavy-lidded. glossy. the slow drawl in his voice tells you what you already know.

he’s high. probably drunk. maybe both.

he’s beautiful in that unbearable way he always is, like a nightmare you mistake for a dream.

you don’t say anything. you just look at him.

he raises his eyebrows like that’s the joke. “didn’t even look at me,” he says, voice dipped in that honey-slick sarcasm. “kinda hurts.”

you let out a breathless laugh. cold. “didn’t know you could feel pain.”

he snorts, like he expected that. “guess you bring it out in me.”

the music from the living room pulses through the walls, muffled and rhythmic like a heartbeat you can’t trust.

you cross your arms. “you high?”

“little bit.”

you nod. “figures.”

he shrugs. “you looked good tonight.”

it’s casual. too casual. like it costs him nothing to say it. but the way his gaze flickers over you, slow, warm, like he’s memorizing you, that betrays him.

your stomach flips. you hate that it still reacts to him. that your body remembers every place he’s touched even when your brain is begging you to forget.

you steady your voice. “that why you ignored me?”

he blinks. “i didn’t ignore you.”

“you didn’t look at me,” you say, softer now. “not once.”

he tilts his head like a dog hearing a strange sound. “would that have made a difference?”

you swallow. “not to you, probably.”

and there it is, the flicker in his eyes.

brief. but real.

like he didn’t expect you to say that. like it hit somewhere he wasn’t ready for.

he pushes off the counter. takes a step forward. then another.

too close. always too close.

his voice drops low. “don’t do that.”

you meet his gaze. “do what?”

“don’t act like you don’t know i care.”

you laugh. it’s not kind. it sounds like heartbreak breaking in reverse. “do you?”

“i wouldn’t be here if i didn’t.”

“you’re here,” you say slowly, “because you always come back when the buzz wears off. when you’re bored. when it’s dark and quiet and you remember i’m soft.”

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t deny it.

you go on, voice barely above a whisper. “you only show up when you want something. and i keep letting you.”

he stares at you. there’s a crack forming in his expression, small, hairline, but there, then he says it, just one word.

“yeah.”

no apology, no excuses, no fix, just that.

and somehow that hurts worse than all the lies he could’ve told.

you drop your gaze, chest tight.

the silence between you is thick with everything you’ve never said. everything he’ll never give you.

after another awkward silence you're interrupted by a voice.

“didn’t think i’d find you in here.” you both turn, yuki is standing in the doorway, hip cocked, drink in one hand, the other braced against the frame like she’s leaning into a scene she’s already seen too many times.

her gaze flickers between you and sukuna. calm. sharp.

“you good?” she asks you directly.

you nod. automatically.

she hums. doesn’t buy it.

she steps into the kitchen, slow and easy, like a tiger circling a campfire. her eyes settle on sukuna. “didn’t peg you for the type to haunt kitchens like a ghost with unfinished business.”

sukuna scoffs. “didn’t peg you for the type to care.”

“don’t,” yuki says, voice crisp, “mistake my presence for forgiveness.”

he doesn’t reply. but he holds her gaze.

she walks past him, pours herself another drink, doesn’t bother asking. then turns back to you.

“you want me to stay?”

it’s a soft question. one you feel all the way down.

you think about saying yes. about grabbing her hand and letting her drag you back to the circle, where maki will make you laugh and choso will roll his eyes and shoko will hand you something that tastes like pain and nostalgia.

but you don’t.

you shake your head.

yuki nods. doesn’t push. “come find me if he says anything stupid.”

then she leans in, kisses your temple, warm, steady, and says, low enough that only you hear:

“you don’t owe him anything. not even your silence.”

and just like that, she’s gone, and you’re left with him again.

sukuna is quiet now. the tension that always coils around him is looser, but not gone.

he watches you.

you watch the floor.

then you speak.

“i think i wanted you to fight for me.”

he closes his eyes for a beat. then opens them. “that’s not something i’m good at.”

you nod.

“i know.”

silence, heavy and final.

you brush past him. he doesn’t stop you.

doesn’t even move.

you leave before it gets too late. before you can talk yourself into staying. before sukuna can kiss you like a promise he’ll never keep.

choso finds you on your way out. he wraps you in a hug, tight and lingering.

“you okay?” he murmurs.

“yeah,” you lie.

he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t say so.

he just presses something into your hand. a shirt you must of left in his room, the one you left the last time sukuna ghosted you after 2am.

“text me when you’re home,” he says.

you nod.

you glance back once, just once, and see them through the window:

gojo dancing stupidly with a bottle of tequila. suguru with his phone flashlight on, filming it like it’s high art. maki yelling at shoko, who’s dumping popcorn in someone’s drink. yuki standing near the back…

the party ends slow. like the last drag of a cigarette, burnt out, bitter, and a little too quiet. music still thumps from inside choso’s place, muffled through the walls, but the energy has thinned out. people are either too drunk to notice or already stumbling home with the wrong shoes and the wrong names.

gojo’s the one who calls it. “yo, let’s dip,” he says, slinging an arm around sukuna’s shoulders like he always does, loose and lazy, like he owns the world and you’re lucky to be living in it. suguru’s behind them, silent and steady, hoodie pulled up and smelling like weed and sandalwood. they leave without saying goodbye to anyone. that’s kind of their thing.

outside, it’s humid. the kind of summer night that sticks to your skin and makes the air taste like sweat and smoke. sukuna’s already lighting another cigarette, lips parted, eyes half-lidded. he doesn’t offer one to gojo or suguru. he doesn’t need to. gojo’s got a vape in one pocket and a flask in the other, and suguru doesn’t need anything to look high. he just always does.

they don’t talk much on the walk back to the frat house. it’s not far. five blocks, maybe. quiet streets and broken streetlights. gojo’s whistling something off-beat. sukuna’s got his hands in his pockets. suguru hums low under his breath, something old and haunting.

when they get back, the house is dead. empty beer cans in the grass. some kid passed out on the porch. the usual. sukuna steps over him without blinking. gojo kicks the kid’s leg, laughs when he groans. suguru opens the front door and lets it creak.

they go upstairs, past the chaos of the main floor, past the girls’ hoodies still draped on the railing and the smell of stale liquor clinging to the carpet. third floor. the balcony. sukuna’s spot.

it’s dark out there. just a sliver of moonlight and the distant flicker of someone else’s backyard party. sukuna leans against the railing. suguru drops into the broken plastic lawn chair. gojo pulls out a blunt from somewhere deep in his jacket and waves it like a magic trick. “you’re welcome,” he says, sticking it between his teeth.

sukuna exhales slow. smoke curls up into the sky. “what, you want a medal?”

“nah. just a thank you and maybe a little kiss on the mouth.”

suguru snorts. sukuna rolls his eyes.

they pass the blunt in silence for a bit. the air’s thick with something that isn’t just weed. something quieter. heavier. the kind of shit that settles behind your ribs and makes everything feel too loud even when no one’s talking.

gojo breaks it first.

“so.” he’s watching the street below like he’s waiting for someone to walk by. “you gonna talk about it or do we have to play twenty questions?”

sukuna doesn’t look at him. doesn’t have to. “talk about what?”

gojo tilts his head. his hair’s a mess, sweat sticking to his forehead. he’s still got glitter on his cheek from some girl that kissed him three hours ago. “you know what.”

sukuna flicks ash off the balcony. “nah. i don’t.”

“you and her.”

the silence tightens. suguru shifts, leans back. he’s not getting in the middle of this. he knows better.

sukuna takes another drag. his lips twitch, just barely. “there is no me and her.”

“bullshit.”

“seriously.”

“nah, that’s bullshit and you know it.”

sukuna finally looks at him. his eyes are sharp, red in the moonlight. not angry. just tired. “i don’t owe you an explanation.”

“you don’t,” gojo says, shrugging. “but you owe her something.”

sukuna doesn’t say anything.

gojo doesn’t press. not yet. he just lets it hang there, like smoke between them. like a threat.

after a minute, sukuna mutters, “she knew what it was.”

“did she?”

silence again.

gojo sighs. leans his elbows on the railing. “look, i’m not trying to play therapist or whatever. that’s shoko’s job. but you gotta know she’s not like the other girls that come to our parties.”

sukuna scoffs. “i know that.”

“do you?”

he doesn’t answer.

gojo watches him. he’s serious now. which is rare. his voice drops low. not angry. not mocking. just honest. “she’s sweet, man. like… good. not in that fake ‘pick me’ way. like… genuinely good. and you’ve got her looking at you like you’re the sun or some shit.”

sukuna exhales through his nose. “she doesn’t.”

“she does.”

“whatever.”

gojo’s smile fades. “you’re gonna break her.”

sukuna’s jaw tightens.

“you’re already breaking her,” gojo says softer this time. “and i don’t think you want to. i think that’s what’s messing you up.”

for a second, sukuna looks like he might say something. like he might throw the blunt off the balcony or snap gojo’s neck or punch the railing until it splinters.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he says, “i didn’t mean to.”

gojo blinks. a little surprised. but he doesn’t let it show.

“i didn’t plan for any of this,” sukuna says, voice low, rough. “she was just… there. and then she wasn’t just there. she was everywhere. all of a sudden.”

gojo nods.

“i don’t do feelings,” sukuna mutters, like it’s a confession. “i don’t do this.”

“yeah, no shit.”

sukuna glares at him. gojo raises his hands, grinning.

“look,” gojo says. “i get it. you don’t wanna hurt her. you’re scared. whatever. but stringing her along? pretending she’s just some random girl you fuck when she’s clearly not? that’s worse.”

“i know,” sukuna snaps. then softer, almost like he hates himself for it—“i know.”

they go quiet again.

suguru lights another joint.

gojo leans his head back and stares at the stars. they’re faint out here. hidden behind pollution and bad choices.

“you like her?” he asks, sukuna doesn’t answer right away.

“…yeah.”

“how much?”

“too much.”

gojo grins. “gross.”

sukuna rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

“so what now?” gojo asks. “you gonna keep acting like a cold asshole? or maybe try something new, like honesty.”

“it’s not that easy.”

“yeah, it is. you just say what you feel. preferably with your mouth and not your dick.”

sukuna doesn’t laugh, but his lips twitch again. that almost-smile he gets when he’s trying not to admit he finds gojo funny.

gojo turns to him, cocky glint in his eye now. “look, i’m just saying, if you don’t treat her right…”

he pauses. lets it hang there.

“…i will.”

sukuna snorts. “shut the fuck up.”

“i’m serious.”

“you couldn’t handle her.”

gojo grins. “oh, i could. and you know it.”

they’re both smiling now. but underneath it, there’s something sharp. something real.

a warning.

sukuna finishes his cigarette. flicks it over the railing. watches the ember fade in the grass.

“i’m not gonna let her go,” he says finally. “but i don’t know how to keep her either.”

gojo looks at him. really looks. “figure it out. before someone else does.”

the stars above them don’t offer any answers. but maybe that’s okay.

they stay out there a little longer. talking about everything and nothing. until the night bleeds into morning and the city starts to yawn.

and somewhere, not too far away, you’re still thinking about him. still waiting.

and maybe now, maybe finally, he’s starting to realize what that means.

mondays economic class.

he’s sitting in the back again.

legs spread like the seat was made for him, hood up, sunglasses on even though they’re indoors and the windows are closed. he hasn’t looked at you once. not during roll call, not during the lecture, not even when the professor called on him to answer a question about marginal cost and he replied with a deadpan, “pass.”

you hate him.

you hate that you’re still thinking about him even as you type notes you’ll never read again.

you hate that you still notice the way his fingers tap against the desk like he’s impatient with the whole world. you hate that you can’t forget what those hands feel like on your hips. you hate the weight of his gaze—when it’s on you, when it’s not. it doesn’t matter. he’s in your head either way.

you scroll back in your notes, realize you’ve written the same sentence three times.

you sigh. close your laptop. rest your chin in your hand and stare at the front of the class.

you didn’t even wear anything cute today. you’re in sweats. your hair’s a mess. you didn’t think he’d be here—he barely comes to econ unless he needs to cheat off someone’s midterm. so why does it feel like your heart’s pounding just because he’s breathing the same air?

you glance back, like you can help yourself.

he’s leaned back in his chair, chewing on the end of a pen. his eyes are behind his sunglasses but you know, you know, he’s watching you too.

god.

you hate that he gets to do this to you.

he fucked you once and now he gets to haunt your life like some ghost with a nicotine addiction and a fratboy attitude. it’s been months. and somehow, you’re still here. still hoping for more. still checking your phone for messages that don’t come.

you tell yourself you’re over it. you lie, the class ends. people start packing up. zippers and shuffling and half-asleep small talk.

you gather your things slow. give yourself a moment to breathe. you don’t want to walk past him. you don’t want to look like you’re trying. you don’t want to care, but you do.

you head for the door. keep your head down.

you almost make it.

but just as you step into the hallway, a hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you sideways, into a side corridor no one uses, behind a column of lockers, where the lights flicker and the air smells like dust and old paper.

you already know who it is.

“sukuna,” you breathe, not quite surprised.

he looks at you like he’s bored. like this is a chore. like he didn’t just corner you like a secret. “hey.”

you try not to let your voice shake. “what do you want?”

he shrugs. leans a shoulder against the wall. everything about him is infuriatingly casual, like this is nothing. like you’re nothing. “you wanna come over?”

you blink. “…now?”

“yeah.”

he doesn’t elaborate.

you shift your weight, heart pounding. “why?”

his jaw flexes. “you know why.”

and yeah. you do.

you look up at him. his face is unreadable. dark eyes under his hood, mouth set in a line that’s too hard to call a smile. he looks tired. he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. he looks like the last time he touched you is still on his fingertips.

you shouldn’t.

but god, he’s looking at you like he wants you again, and it’s been so long since he’s looked at you like anything at all. and you’re weak. and stupid. and still in love with a boy who never says your name unless he’s dragging it out of you in bed.

“…okay,” you whisper.

he nods like he expected you to say yes.

his room’s dark. always is. it smells like weed and cologne and something distinctly him. the sheets are still messy from the last time he was here, probably with someone else.

you don’t ask.

he doesn’t offer.

he locks the door behind you, tosses his hoodie to the floor, lights a cigarette and leans against his desk like he’s thinking. like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that won’t come out.

you stand awkwardly near the bed. your fingers twitch. you almost ask him what’s wrong. you almost ask him if he’s okay. you almost ask—

“you look tired,” he says instead, like it’s the only thing he knows how to offer you. you laugh, quiet. “yeah. i am.”

he stares at you. exhales smoke through his nose. walks over, slow, until he’s standing in front of you, close enough that you can smell the nicotine and aftershave and the faint scent of whatever cheap shampoo he uses.

he reaches out. brushes your cheek with the back of his hand. something in your chest pulls tight.

“you’re still sweet,” he mutters. “even now.”

you swallow hard. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he doesn’t answer.

inside his head, he’s screaming.

'tell her you think about her all the time.

tell her you can’t stop dreaming about her mouth.

tell her it’s been eating you alive that you made her feel disposable.

tell her you miss her. tell her you’re sorry. tell her—'

“take your shirt off,” he says instead.

and you do.

of course you do.

because that’s what you do when it comes to sukuna. you say yes even when you mean no. you give him pieces of yourself like they’re nothing, just hoping one day he’ll realize how much they cost you.

he kisses you like he’s angry. hands rough. mouth hungry. he kisses you like he’s trying to say all the things he’s too much of a coward to say out loud.

you let him.

you let him use your body as a place to bury his feelings.

you let yourself pretend it means something.

he fucks you like he’s punishing himself.

like he’s trying to carve you into his skin, leave a mark deeper than anything words could say.

your back hits the mattress and he’s on you in a breath, mouth everywhere, hands urgent, grip bruising. his rings drag down your ribs, your hips, your thighs, leaving fire in their wake. his teeth scrape your collarbone. he bites your neck, your shoulder, your chest, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

you moan for him. soft. breathy. helpless.

and god, the way he reacts, like your sounds are gasoline. like they’re unraveling whatever threadbare control he’s got left.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “fuck, baby. you don’t even know what you do to me.”

you want to ask what that means.

but then he’s pushing inside you — rough, deep, unforgiving — and the question dies on your tongue.

you gasp. arch. dig your nails into his shoulders.

he groans like he’s in pain. like being inside you is the only thing that makes him feel human.

“always so tight for me,” he mutters against your mouth. “like your body fucking knows who it belongs to.”

you shouldn’t let him say things like that. not when you both know it’s not real. not when you know he’ll go cold again once the high fades.

but you nod anyway. whisper, “yes.”

because in this moment, in this darkness, you do belong to him.

he fucks you slow at first. deliberate. deep enough to make your toes curl. he presses his forehead to yours. watches your face. watches the way you fall apart just for him.

“look at you,” he breathes. “so fucking pretty like this.”

his hand wraps around your throat, just enough to make your breath hitch. not enough to hurt. just enough to say mine.

he kisses you again, messy, possessive, desperate, like he’s trying to crawl inside you. like he’s trying to make you forget any name that isn’t his.

and you let him, you always let him.

his pace gets rougher. harder. the headboard slams the wall and you don’t care. you’re shaking. sweating. whispering his name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“sukuna—” you gasp. “i’m gonna—”

“yeah, baby?” he pants, fucking you through it. “you gonna come for me? make a mess all over my cock?”

you nod. cry out. your body tenses, then shatters.

you fall apart beneath him, and when you do — when you come with your whole heart in it — something in his face breaks.

his rhythm stutters. his jaw clenches. his breath catches like he’s never seen anything more devastating than you loving him out loud without saying a word.

he finishes with a groan. deep. guttural. like it hurts him.

and maybe it does.

because when he pulls out, he doesn’t speak.

he just collapses beside you. chest heaving. jaw clenched.

and you both lie there in the dark, skin slick, hearts racing, silence choking, pretending it didn’t mean everything.

afterward, he doesn’t say much. he smokes while you lay on your side, back to him, eyes fixed on the crack in the wall.

he wants to reach out. wants to trace his fingers down your spine. wants to ask if you’re okay. wants to say i’m sorry i don’t know how to love you right.

but all he says is:

“you can sleep here if you want.”

you don’t answer.

you fall asleep anyway.

he stays awake long after you’ve started dreaming.

'fuck.'

the door creaks when you open it.

you wince, glancing back at sukuna’s bed. he’s asleep, sprawled on his stomach, breathing deep. the sheets are tangled around his waist. his hand is stretched toward where you were laying minutes ago.

you leave anyway.

your sweater is inside-out and you don’t bother fixing it. you don’t look in a mirror. you don’t even grab your shoes. the floorboards are cold, but you move quiet. like a secret. like a ghost.

you’ve done this before.

the house is quiet. mostly. there’s a low hum from the fridge and the drip of the bathroom sink down the hall. you turn the corner into the kitchen, eyes blurry, mind fogged, and stop short when you see… gojo?

gojo satoru. shirtless. sleep-mussed. drinking orange juice straight from the bottle.

he freezes. you freeze.

“…uh,” he says, mid-sip.

“…hi,” you whisper, not really sure why.

he lowers the bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “i wasn’t expecting company.”

“i wasn’t expecting anyone to be awake.”

he looks at you then. really looks, eyes narrowing.

taking in the state of you, your hoodie, half-zipped. your hair, messy. your bare feet. the too-quiet look in your eyes.

“…he do something?” he asks, voice low, unusually serious.

you blink. “no. no, i just—”

but the words don’t come. you shake your head instead. try to smile. it doesn’t stick.

gojo doesn’t push. he just sets the orange juice down and hops up on the counter, like he’s settling in for something. “you want tea? or whiskey? or, like… both?”

you laugh, soft. “just water’s fine.”

he nods. gets up. finds a glass. fills it. hands it to you without meeting your eyes.

you sip slowly. the silence stretches.

“…you’re not gonna ask?” you murmur.

“not yet,” he says, sitting back down.

“trying to be cool.”

you glance at him. “you’re not very good at that.”

he grins, a little sheepish. “yeah, i know.”

another beat. you lean against the fridge. hugging yourself. “he didn’t kick me out. i just… didn’t wanna stay.”

“because?”

you swallow.

“because it hurts.”

that gets his attention.

his smile fades. his whole posture shifts, shoulders tense, jaw tight, hands curling around the edge of the counter. he looks like he wants to say something sharp, but reins it in.

instead, he says, quiet: “he doesn’t know what to do with you.”

you look at him. “what does that mean?”

gojo shrugs, but it’s a lie. “it means you’re not like the other girls. you’re not easy to forget. and sukuna…” he sighs. runs a hand through his hair. “sukuna likes things he can throw away. he doesn’t know what to do with something real.”

you stare at your water. “i don’t even think he likes me.”

“he does,” gojo says immediately. then catches himself. “i mean—he feels something. he wouldn’t keep you around if he didn’t. that guy doesn’t even keep leftovers.”

you almost smile.

gojo swings his legs a little, like a kid. “look, i’m not… i’m not good at this. feelings. girl stuff. crying. whatever.” he gestures vaguely at you. “but i know you’re too good for this. you’ve got this… i don’t know. softness.”

you raise a brow. “softness?”

“yeah. like. you care about people. even when they don’t deserve it.” he scratches the back of his neck. “it’s rare. makes you a good person. but it also makes you a really easy target for people like him.”

you’re quiet.

“i’m not saying sukuna’s evil or anything,” gojo adds. “he’s just… scared.”

“of what?”

“of being known. of letting anyone close. of you seeing all the ways he’s already fucked up and leaving him for it.”

“…i wouldn’t.”

“i know that,” gojo says. “you know that. he doesn’t. he grew up thinking love was a weakness. that closeness meant pain.”

you stare at the floor.

“he uses sex to avoid feelings. you use it to get closer. that’s never gonna work,” he says gently.

and it hits you like a slap.

you sit down at the little kitchen table. press your palms into your eyes. “why does it feel like i’m always the one getting hurt?”

gojo’s smile is sad. “because you’re the one who feels the most.”

silence again. this time thicker.

gojo watches you. watches the way you hunch your shoulders. the way you’re trying not to cry. the way your fingers tremble around your water glass.

inside, he’s fuming.

because he likes you. not romantically. not like that. but in the way a big brother likes his little sister’s best friend. in the way a guy who’s been in the game too long recognizes something rare and soft and good,and wants to keep it that way.

he remembers the first time he saw you. walking into their party with maki, eyes wide, sweater too big. he remembers thinking: she doesn’t belong here.

and now you’re sitting in their shitty kitchen in the dark, heart bruised, eyes tired, wearing his best friend’s hoodie and nothing else.

and he feels like he failed you.

“hey,” he says, softer now. “can i tell you something?”

you nod.

“if you ever decide you’re done… like, really done. if you ever stop waiting for him to grow up… i hope you find someone who deserves you.”

your voice is quiet. “you think he never will?”

gojo shrugs. “i think he might. i just don’t know if it’ll be soon enough.”

you bite your lip. look away.

he hesitates. then grins—teasing, but there’s something pointed underneath it.

“…and if he doesn’t figure it out?”

you glance back at him.

he winks.

“maybe i will.”

you laugh—really laugh—for the first time that night.

“shut up.”

“i’m just saying. i’m tall as fuck. hot. emotionally available.”

“you’re not emotionally available.”

“okay, but i pretend really well.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in it now.

gojo stands. ruffles your hair. “come crash in my room. i’ll take the floor. you can take the bed. no weirdness, just… company.”

you hesitate.

but you’re so tired. and gojo’s safe. and you can’t go back upstairs.

“…okay.”

“cool,” he says, and grabs his juice on the way out. “also. if you hear any weird noises in the walls? that’s just nanami. he lives in the vents.”

you blink. “what—?”

“long story,” gojo says, already walking away. “come on.”

you follow him down the hall.

and for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel so alone.

meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, sukuna was closer than you’d thought.

he hears her laugh before he hears her voice.

soft. almost shy. tired in a way that isn’t about sleep.

sukuna leans against the wall at the end of the hallway, just out of sight. cigarette burning slow between his fingers. his hoodie half-zipped, throat dry.

he hadn’t meant to get up.

but he always wakes when she leaves. like his body knows. like something inside him panics when the bed goes cold.

so he got up. quiet. just to see.

and now he’s standing in the dark, eavesdropping like a fucking coward while she sits in the kitchen and talks to gojo.

he can hear her voice low and sad, cracking around the edges. can hear gojo trying to make her laugh, trying to make it okay.

he listens anyway.

even when it hurts.

“why does it feel like i’m always the one getting hurt?”

“because you’re the one who feels the most.”

sukuna exhales smoke, slow. clenches his jaw.

he knows gojo’s not hitting on her. not really. he knows it’s not like that.

but it doesn’t matter.

what matters is that she’s downstairs spilling her heart out to someone else. that she didn’t wake him. that she didn’t stay.

that she left.

and that gojo was the one who made her laugh.

“he doesn’t know what to do with you.”

“he uses sex to avoid feelings. you use it to get closer. that’s never gonna work.”

he scoffs. quiet. bitter.

like hell gojo knows him. like hell anyone does.

they don’t know what it’s like to have something good and be too fucked-up to hold it. to want softness and flinch every time it touches you. to love someone in silence because saying it out loud would make it real.

they don’t know what it’s like to want to be better but still ruin everything you touch.

they don’t know him.

he flicks ash to the floor. keeps his back to the wall.

he should be angry. should storm in. tell gojo to back off. tell her to come back upstairs. tell her—

tell her what?

that he felt something? that he missed her the second she slipped out of bed? that he hates the way she makes him feel like there’s still a heart in his chest worth breaking?

no. instead, he presses the cigarette to his lips, takes a long drag and walks silently back upstairs. because it’s easier to leave than admit you care.

it’s easier to pretend you didn’t hear it.

it’s easier to be the villain than try to be anything else.the bedroom door clicks shut behind him.

the bed is cold.

he doesn’t sleep.

“wait, wait, so you’re telling me you failed your chem midterm because you got too high and thought the beaker was flirting with you?”

choso shrugs, dragging a fry through a sad puddle of ketchup. “not flirting. just… vibing.”

you snort into your drink, shoulders shaking. “you vibed with a glass container and flunked stoichiometry?”

“the beaker started it.”

the table erupts with laughter. maki bangs her fist against the wood. “you’re such a freak.”

“hey,” choso says, mouth full, totally unbothered. “i passed the retake. c’s get degrees.”

you’re sitting at a picnic table behind the campus dining hall, where the sun cuts through gaps in the tree canopy and everyone’s pretending it’s not a monday. someone smuggled beers in gojo’s oversized backpack (probably him), and there’s music playing low from geto’s speaker, something beachy and stupid and perfect for pretending your life isn’t a mess.

it’s the full crew today. rare. loud.

gojo’s got on sunglasses even though you’re in the shade, and he keeps pulling dumb faces behind them. shoko’s halfway asleep with her feet in suguru’s lap. maki is chain-eating sweet potato fries while ruthlessly cyberbullying nanami for being too good at Wordle. yuki’s got a cherry lollipop between her teeth and is quizzing you about your classes, occasionally pausing to threaten to beat up your econ professor for “crimes against women.”

and sukuna—

sits at the far end of the mat, leaning back on his hands, shoulders tense, smoking slowly. saying nothing.

i mean, at least he came?

you haven’t spoken to him since you slipped out of his bed this morning. since you wandered barefoot into the kitchen and laughed with gojo until you felt human again.

now you’re sitting between gojo and choso, sipping lemonade like you’re not thinking about it. like you’re not wondering if he notices. if he cares. (he does. not that he’ll say it.)

“so,” gojo says, nudging your elbow. “have you seen that econ TA since the last midterm? the one with the man bun?”

you groan. “don’t remind me.” maki perks up. “what did you do?”

you bury your face in your hands. “i thought he was just some guy in the hallway and told him his fly was down.”

gojo cackles. “was it?”

“unfortunately, yes.”

yuki whistles. “bold of him to teach supply and demand with his dick out.”

“stop—”

“i won’t,” yuki says, pointing her lollipop at you like a mic. “queen behavior. you saw something, you said something. brave.”

“heroic,” maki adds.

“horny,” suguru mutters.

“you would know,” shoko mumbles, eyes still closed.

the table descends into delighted chaos again, voices overlapping, laughter sharp and bright. you lean into choso’s shoulder, still grinning, cheeks warm. this — this moment — feels like breathing after being underwater. like coming up for air.

you feel normal. safe.

but you don’t miss the way sukuna’s jaw ticks as he stubs out his cigarette. or the way he keeps glancing at you from beneath his lashes, pink hair falling in his eyes, arms crossed tight over his chest like he’s holding something in.

something that’s starting to crack.

from the corner of your eye you catch suguru leaning towards sukuna.

“you good?” he asks, looking down the mat.

sukuna doesn’t answer.

he lights another cigarette instead.

“you’ve had, like, four of those already,” shoko says, dry. “gonna give yourself cancer and a bigger attitude.”

gojo snorts. maki snickers.

sukuna exhales smoke toward the trees. “you want me to light one for you too, doc?”

shoko raises a brow. “i only diagnose, baby. not treat.”

the group titters again, but sukuna isn’t smiling. his gaze flicks across the mat — past gojo’s shit-eating grin, past maki’s teasing smirk, past you.

his voice comes out flat. “then shut the fuck up.”

the laughter stutters. dies.

you glance at him, startled.

shoko just blinks. “you always get this bitchy when your vape dies?”

“maybe he’s cranky ’cause someone didn’t say good morning,” gojo mutters, too quiet for most to hear — but sukuna hears it. you hear it.

your stomach drops.

sukuna stiffens, slow and cold. “the fuck did you just say?”

gojo shrugs, casual. “just saying. might’ve helped. sunshine and rainbows. breakfast in bed. a little serotonin.”

“don’t start.”

“not starting anything,” gojo says, smile sharp. “just making conversation.”

“then maybe shut your mouth.”

“jesus christ,” maki says under her breath. “chill.”

“no, really,” sukuna snaps, eyes narrowed. “why are you talking, satoru? you want her to climb into yourbed next time?”

the table freezes.

you flinch.

gojo’s grin falters, just a second — then returns, brittle and bright. “damn. someone’s projecting.”

“fuck off.”

“no, seriously. you get all bent out of shape the second she talks to someone else—”

“shut up.”

your voice cuts through the noise.

everyone turns to you. eyes wide.

you’re trembling.

“just—stop it,” you say, softer now. “you’re talking about me like i’m not sitting right here.”

silence.

sukuna looks at you like you’ve slapped him. maybe you have. metaphorically. emotionally. whatever. he goes still, face unreadable, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

you swallow. “if you’ve got something to say to me, say it. don’t take it out on everyone else.”

no response.

just a quiet, dangerous inhale. smoke curling from his lips.

you shake your head and scoff. the silence stretches — too long.

awkward. loaded. sharp as glass.

until choso clears his throat. “well,” he says, a little too loud, clapping his hands together like he’s brushing off the tension. “that was fun. but also maybe we all need to get blackout drunk and pretend none of this ever happened.”

maki snorts. “best idea you’ve ever had.”

“i’m serious,” choso says, pulling out his phone. “i was gonna wait, but whatever. we’re throwing a rager this weekend. big one. everyone’s invited. bring whoever, just don’t break my fucking windows this time.”

gojo perks up immediately. “you mean like… priject x kind of rager?”

“like ‘campus cops get called and ignore it because they’re scared’ kind of rager,” choso says, grinning.

“fuck yes,” yuki says, leaning back on her elbows. “i haven’t blacked out and woken up next to someone emotionally unavailable in weeks.”

“i thought you were seeing someone,” shoko says.

“i am,” yuki shrugs. “he’s just out of town.”

everyone laughs. it breaks the tension. just a little.

suguru raises a brow. “you sure your house can handle it?”

choso grins. “nope. but that’s the fun.”

“i’m in,” gojo says immediately. “i’ll bring ket, just got some for free off this blonde sorority girl i boned-.”

“gojo shut the fuck up,” maki says.

“aww,” gojo replies, smug.

you force a smile. nod. “yeah. sounds fun.”

choso glances at you, gently bumping your knee under the table.

you bump him back.

even sukuna mutters something that sounds vaguely like “whatever.” which, from him, is practically an rsvp.

everyone starts packing up. wrappers and half-empty cups, chattering and laughing as they get to their feet. the afternoon sun is mellow now, casting soft gold over everything. it should feel easy. warm.

but when you glance over at sukuna, he’s already standing. already walking away.

you step toward him, hesitant. “hey—”

he doesn’t stop.

doesn’t even look at you.

just shrugs. “don’t.”

your mouth opens. closes. something twists in your chest.

“i just… i thought maybe we could talk,” you say, softer now. quieter. just for him.

he slows. barely. the wind tugs at the hem of his hoodie. he looks over his shoulder, eyes cold and unreadable.

“what’s there to talk about?” he says.

it’s cold. effortless. the kind of line someone drops when they’re already halfway out the door.

you stand there, hands loosely curled at your sides, trying not to look as stupid as you feel. “sukuna…”

he finally looks at you.

and it’s worse than him not looking at all.

his expression is blank. not cruel, just tired. unreadable. like you’re just another thing he has to deal with. like this — whatever this is — doesn’t live under his skin the way it lives under yours.

“i don’t know what you want me to say,” he mutters.

“i don’t want you to say anything,” you say quietly. “i want you to be honest.”

he scoffs. looks away, runs a hand through his hair. you catch the way his jaw flexes, the way his fingers twitch like he wants a cigarette but doesn’t light one.

you step closer, not touching him. just enough so you’re in his space. maybe trying to remind him that this matters. that you matter.

“you look at me like i mean something,” you whisper. “and then you act like i don’t. like i’m a problem you never meant to have.”

his mouth twitches. but he says nothing.

“we sleep together,” you go on. voice soft, cracking at the edges. “and i know it doesn't mean nothing. not for me. not the way you look at me. not the way you touch me.”

his shoulders tense.

“you’re not like this with everyone,” you say. “you’re not cold like this unless you’re trying to hide something.”

“don’t start,” he mutters.

“start what?” you say, heart racing. “caring? because i do. and i know you do, too. even if you won’t say it. even if it scares you.”

that hits something. he flinches like the words sting.

and then — nothing. a breath. a long silence.

“you don’t know me,” he says.

it’s quiet. vicious. said without heat, but it lands like a slap.

your throat tightens. “i think i do.”

“you don’t,” he snaps, louder now. “you don’t know anything about me. you think you do because i fuck around with you every now and then — and that was a mistake.”

you flinch. physically step back.

his eyes dart away, jaw locked. you see the panic in the way he won’t meet your gaze. like he hates himself even as he says it.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you,” you say, barely above a whisper. “i just wanted you.” he says nothing. just stands there, staring at the grass, at the sky, anywhere but you.

you swallow. blinking back the sting behind your eyes. “i’ll stop. if that’s what you want. just… tell me.”

for a second, you think he might. you think he might give in. say something real, but then he looks at you, and it’s gone.

the softness. the almost, he shrugs. “do what you want." and with that, he turns and walks away.

you don’t stop him, don’t cry, you just stand there in the sunlight, hands trembling, heart cracking, watching him disappear like he always does.

the screen door slams behind him hard enough to shake the frame.

sukuna storms into the kitchen, kicks a chair out of his way, and yanks open the fridge with the kind of force that screams unresolved issues. there’s nothing in there but a half-empty bottle of orange gatorade and someone’s leftover pasta.

he grabs a beer instead. cracks it open without looking. downs half of it in one go.

“yo,” gojo calls from the living room. “there he is. you get lost or something?”

“yeah,” geto adds, laid out across the couch with his phone in his hand. “thought you died or ran off with some groupie.”

sukuna doesn’t answer. just slams the fridge shut and leans against the counter, eyes dark.

gojo appears in the doorway a second later. grinning, barefoot, stupidly beautiful in that careless, smug way that always makes sukuna want to punch him. “what, the picnic get a little too emotional for you?”

“fuck off.”

gojo raises a brow. “whoa. easy, killer.”

geto looks up from his phone. “damn. he’s brooding. who pissed in your cheerios?”

sukuna glares. “both of you need to shut the fuck up.”

gojo snorts. “jesus. what crawled up your ass?”

“i said shut the fuck up,” sukuna snaps, voice sharp and ugly. “don’t make me say it again.”

gojo tilts his head. his grin fades just slightly. “what’s your problem, man?”

“you’re my fucking problem,” sukuna spits.

geto whistles low under his breath. “okay.”

gojo blinks. “me?”

“yeah, you. always looking at her. always acting like you give a shit.”

“maybe i do,” gojo says, folding his arms.

sukuna shoves off the counter. closes the distance fast. “then why don’t you fuck her?”

geto sits up.

gojo’s smile drops.

sukuna’s breathing hard. eyes narrowed, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. “you want her so bad, right? always hovering. always asking about her. if you’re so worried, go fuck her.”

gojo’s mouth twitches. not a smile this time. something colder. “you think this is about fucking?”

“you want her,” sukuna growls. “don’t pretend you don’t.”

“of course i fucking want her,” gojo snaps, stepping in close. their chests almost touch. “you think i’m blind? you think anyone’s blind? she’s the best fucking thing to walk into our lives, and you treat her like trash.”

sukuna shoves him.

gojo stumbles back half a step, then laughs. “hit a nerve?”

“don’t talk like you know anything,” sukuna says, low and mean.

gojo’s face twists. “i know enough. i know she looks at you like you hung the fucking moon. and you look at her like she’s a mistake.”

“shut up.”

“you’re not scared to lose her,” gojo says. “you’re scared you already have, and you’re too much of a coward to fix it.”

sukuna grabs his shirt. fists it in both hands. “say one more word.”

“you wanna hit me?” gojo challenges. “go ahead. but it won’t make her stop crying about you. it won’t make her stop waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass.”

“fuck you.”

“you already said that,” gojo says, eyes gleaming. “try something new.”

sukuna shoves him hard. gojo crashes back against the wall, laughing like he’s enjoying this. like the fight is foreplay.

geto sighs loudly from the couch. “jesus christ. this is the most homoerotic thing i’ve seen all week.”

“shut up, suguru,” both of them snap at once.

geto just sips from a water bottle and settles in like he’s watching an hbo original.

gojo wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. there’s no blood, but it feels close. he’s breathing hard now, too. “you think you’re the only one who could’ve had her?”

sukuna freezes.

gojo steps forward, lower now. his voice a little quieter, sharper. “you think i couldn’t have kissed her that night in the kitchen? when she looked at me like she wanted to fall apart? you think i haven’t had the chance to touch her? to fuck her?”

something ugly twists in sukuna’s gut. his jaw ticks. “then why didn’t you?”

gojo stares him down.

“because she’s in love with you, you fucking idiot,” he says. “and i’m not the type to take advantage of a girl crying over someone else.”

that hits like a punch.

sukuna reels back, lips parted. chest rising and falling too fast. his heart feels like it’s trying to escape.

gojo’s voice is quieter now. lower. almost sad. “she’s too wrapped up in you to see the way you treat her isn’t normal. but i see it. geto sees it. everyone sees it.”

sukuna says nothing.

gojo sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “you don’t deserve her.”

geto stands up, finally. claps a hand on sukuna’s shoulder. “you okay, man?”

sukuna jerks away.

he can’t be in this room anymore.

he storms past them both, heading upstairs without another word.

he slams the door behind him and doesn’t bother locking it.

the room’s a mess, it always is, clothes on the floor, textbooks on the desk collecting dust, ashtray full from three nights ago. he kicks a chair out of the way and collapses into the couch shoved against the wall.

his fingers are shaking when he rolls the joint. it’s not even a clean roll, he’s too pissed for precision, but he lights it anyway. inhales like it’ll kill the thoughts if he burns them fast enough.

it doesn’t.

smoke curls out of his mouth in lazy spirals, and he stares at the ceiling like it might have answers. but all it has is water stains and a crack in the corner that keeps getting bigger. he exhales. slow. watches it fade.

and thinks about you.

fuck.

he should’ve kissed you at the picnic. when you looked at him like that. like he meant something. like you were hurt, but still reaching for him. he should’ve fucking said something. instead, he walked off like a coward. let you stand there in front of everyone, soft and wide-eyed and trying, and all he did was shrug you off. like you didn’t matter.

he ashes the joint into a beer can. stares at the ember. lets his thoughts get loud. why does he do that? why does he push you away like you’re nothing, only to think about you constantly when you’re gone?

you looked so pretty today. he noticed — even though he pretended not to. he always notices. the way your voice goes quiet when you talk to choso, like he’s the only one who really sees you. the way you laugh at gojo’s stupid jokes, but your eyes flick to sukuna like you’re hoping he’ll laugh too. like you’re hoping he’ll give you something.

and he doesn’t.

because he’s fucking scared.

scared that if he lets himself want you out loud, he won’t be able to stop. scared that you’ll look at him the way his father looked at his mother — like love was a leash and a punishment all in one.

scared he’ll ruin you.

because that’s what he does, right?

he ruins things.

gets high. gets laid. ghosts the ones who stay too long. pushes until they leave so he doesn’t have to watch them choose to. you haven’t left yet. and that’s what makes it worse. you stay. even when he hurts you. even when he’s cold. even when he’s drunk at a party and pretends he doesn’t see you standing across the room in a dress that makes his chest ache.

god.

he remembers how you looked that night. the one at choso’s. on the couch, tequila on your tongue, heart in your eyes.

you touched him like you meant it. like he wasn’t just another party boy with a lighter in his back pocket and no soul in his stare, you touched him like he was yours.

he exhales. coughs a little. blinks the sting from his eyes, he can still feel your fingers in his hair, he’s never had that. not really. not the kind of want that runs deep. the kind that leaves bruises you ask for.

but you gave it to him, and he didn’t know what the fuck to do with it.

so he threw it back at you. let it rot. let it sit between you like a loaded gun and dared you to pull the trigger, but you didn’t. you just looked at him today, so sad, like you knew he’d break your heart and you were still hoping he wouldn’t.

like you loved him.

and maybe that’s the part that scares him the most. that you do.

he tips his head back against the wall. closes his eyes, takes another hit, and thinks about what it would be like if he were someone else.

someone better, someone whole, someone who could say it back,vsomeone who could hold you in public. let you fall asleep in his bed and mean it when he said stay.

but he’s not.

he’s just him.

all rough edges and bad decisions. full of want and fear and ugly things he doesn’t know how to name, and you — you’re everything soft. everything gentle. everything he doesn’t deserve, but fuck, he wants you anyway. more than he’s ever wanted anything.

he ashes the joint again and stares at the wall. and for the first time in a long time,

he feels like crying.

you’re sitting cross-legged on yuki’s bedroom floor, eyeliner in one hand and heartbreak in the other.

“i just feel stupid,” you mutter, carefully lining your waterline in the mirror she propped against the bed. “like… i know he's a dick yuki but it still hurts.”

the girl in question is sprawled out on her stomach, applying highlighter with the kind of nonchalant ease that makes her look like she belongs on the cover of a magazine. “you’re not stupid,” she says, voice soft, “you’re just in love with a boy who’s emotionally fucked up and terrified of intimacy.”

you snort.

“i’m serious,” she adds, rolling onto her side to face you. “sukuna is the human version of a locked file. password protected. probably booby-trapped. and yet here you are, trying to romance him with your full heart and soft eyes.”

“it’s like i’m trying to love a brick wall.”

“a hot brick wall. with great arms.”

you laugh despite yourself. “and a great dick... wait, hey! don’t gas him up.”

yuki grins. “i’m just saying. if you’re gonna have your heartbroken by anyone, at least it’s by someone with good bone structure.”

you finish your eyeliner, lips pressed tight. “you think he feels anything for me?”

yuki pauses. looks at you. “i think he feels a lot. i think that’s the problem.”

you don’t respond. just sit in the quiet buzz of your own nerves as she helps you fix your hair.

by the time you both finally leave, it’s past eleven, and the party’s already in full swing.

or, more accurately, it’s a fucking riot.

cars lined down the block. bass shaking the pavement. the frat house looks like it’s about to combust, people hanging off the porch railing, lights flickering through the upstairs windows, the whole front yard packed with bodies and booze and cigarette smoke.

you’re barely through the door when you get bumped into, hard.

“jesus,” yuki mutters, grabbing your wrist so you don’t get pulled away. “this is worse than i thought.”

inside, it’s chaos.

liquor spilled on hardwood. sweaty bodies pressed together. someone already passed out on the stairs with sharpie all over their face. strobe lights flash in the living room, where people are dancing like they’ve never heard the word tomorrow.

it smells like weed, beer, and cologne — heavy and dizzying.

you spot gojo first, shirt half-unbuttoned, pouring tequila directly into someone’s mouth on the kitchen counter. he’s laughing so hard he nearly drops the bottle.

maki’s by the fridge with shoko, both leaning against the door like it’s the only thing keeping them upright. shoko looks bored. maki looks hammered — but still effortlessly hot in a cropped corset and leather pants.

and sukuna —

god.

he’s sitting on the couch, legs spread, head tipped back, a blunt in his fingers and a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor.

he’s wearing that stupid silver chain and a black tee stretched across his chest like it’s painted on. eyes half-lidded. hair tousled. cheeks a little flushed.

he looks fucked up.

high as a kite. drunk as hell. somewhere between earth and oblivion.

and he still manages to look right at you like he owns you.

you blink. look away.

“there you are,” choso says, suddenly at your side. he pulls you into a one-armed hug, his voice low in your ear. “was starting to think you weren’t gonna show.”

“sorry,” you breathe, grateful to see him. “yuki took forever curling her hair.”

“hey,” yuki says behind you, flipping him off.

he just grins and hands you a red solo cup. “you okay?” he leans in a little, lowering his voice. “looks like it’s hitting you.”

you nod, hand gripping the hem of his hoodie like a lifeline. “it’s just… packed. i forgot how insane these parties get.”

“yeah,” he says, glancing around. “they started pregaming at like eight. gojo took three shots of fireball in a row and tried to backflip off the couch. shoko had to stop him. it was a whole thing.”

you glance toward the living room where the couch looks like it’s been through a war. “jesus.”

“you wanna go to the backyard?” he offers. “it’s still loud but it’s not, like, madhouseloud.”

“maybe in a sec,” you say. “i need to… settle.”

his gaze softens. “you saw him?”

you nod, eyes flicking again to sukuna, who’s now leaning forward to light his blunt. you can see the way his jaw clenches when he exhales. how his eyes sweep the room like he’s looking for a reason to get in a fight.

“he’s already gone,” you murmur. “i don’t even know if he knows i’m here.”

choso’s quiet for a second. then, gently: “he knows.”

you look at him.

“you look like that,” he says, giving your outfit a subtle once-over. “there’s no way he hasn’t noticed.”

you smile a little. sad. “yeah, but it’s not like he’ll do anything about it.”

choso shrugs. “maybe not. but it’s still driving him crazy. you showing up like this. looking like that. it’s the closest thing to revenge you’ll get without breaking something.”

you sip your drink. “what if i don’t want revenge?”

“then that makes you a better person than most of us.”

you lean against his shoulder. “thanks for always looking out for me.”

“someone’s gotta,” he murmurs, eyes scanning the room. “and god knows it’s not gonna be him.”

he sees you before you see him.

you always show up late. always soft around the edges. always looking like heartbreak dressed in something tight.

and tonight—

tonight you look unreal.

you’re holding choso’s arm like the party might swallow you whole. he’s leaning in close to talk to you. protective. always too fucking close.

sukuna takes a slow drag of his blunt and exhales through his nose.

it’s like trying to smoke the jealousy out of his chest. like maybe if he gets high enough, he’ll stop caring that your hand is still on choso’s hoodie, like it belongs there.

he doesn’t.

he watches the way your eyes sweep the room. how your mouth twitches when you spot him. that quick flicker of emotion—surprise, disappointment, something soft and sharp all at once—and then you look away.

that’s what fucking kills him.

you used to look at him like he was everything.

now you barely hold his gaze.

he wants to blame you. wants to pretend this whole ache is something external, something happening to him. but it’s not. it’s him. it’s all him. his mess. his coldness. his fucking cowardice.

his fingers twitch.

you’re laughing now. some guy just handed you a drink. not choso — someone else. taller. probably some econ prick you sit next to in lecture. he’s leaning into your space like he’s earned it, and you’re letting him.

you’re fucking letting him.

sukuna watches from the couch like a phantom. bottle of jack between his boots. blunt burning slow between his fingers. high out of his goddamn mind but still crystal fucking clear on one thing:

he’s going to kill that guy, or kiss you until you forget he exists.

maybe both.

maybe he won’t do anything. maybe he’ll just rot here, on this shitty leather couch that smells like weed and sweat and spilled seltzer, and keep watching you talk to some nobody like you didn’t fall apart in his arms three weeks ago.

he should look away, he can’t.

you smile at something the guy says. tip your head back, eyes soft, lashes fluttering. sukuna’s throat goes tight.

he remembers the sound you make when you laugh for real. how it tastes against his mouth. how you cling to him like you’re afraid he’s going to disappear.

but he already did.

he disappeared the second you looked at him like he meant something.

and now he’s just here. watching you be wanted by everyone who isn’t him. letting his own silence fuck up the only good thing that’s ever looked at him like he’s worth something.

you take a sip of your drink. the guy touches your arm.

sukuna sees red.

he sits up straighter. crushes the end of the blunt into an empty red solo cup and grabs the bottle of whiskey off the floor.

if he’s going to watch you flirt with someone else, he’s not going to do it sober.

not tonight.

not when you look this good.

not when you’re glowing in the middle of a crowd, and he’s the one who turned you into a ghost.

he downs the rest of the whiskey like it’s water. doesn’t even flinch.

liquid courage or liquid idiocy — at this point, what’s the difference?

you’re still across the room, still talking to the same guy, still pretending you don’t feel his eyes on your back like a second skin.

fine.

you wanna ignore him?

then he’ll make sure you can’t.

“yo,” he slurs, pushing off the couch. “gojo. shotgun?”

gojo, already halfway through a white claw, perks up instantly. “now we’re talking. someone get the funnel.” like the two weren't arguing a day ago, crazy what alcohol does to you.

someone cheers. music blares. lights pulse.

sukuna doesn’t look at you — not yet. but he knows you’re watching now. he can feel it, that slow drag of your attention pulling back toward him like gravity. like instinct, because he’s being loud. reckless. stupid. because this is what he does best: burn bridges and light himself on fire just to feel warm.

someone brings the beer bong over and sukuna barely waits for it to fill before dropping to one knee, taking the nozzle in his mouth with that cocky little smirk that means he’s about to do something he knows he’ll regret. gojo claps him on the back. “you’re so fucking dumb, man.”

“jealous?” sukuna sneers, head tilting, eyes flicking over to you — finally.

and yeah. you’re watching. your expression is unreadable. somewhere between worry and frustration and that familiar ache he’s seen too many times in your eyes. good.

maybe now you’ll remember.

he downs the beer like it’s nothing. wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and flashes a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. "another,” he says.

“dude,” geto mutters, shaking his head. “chill.” but sukuna’s not listening, he’s already halfway to the kitchen, already demanding shots, already making a fucking scene, and he doesn’t stop.

not until he sees you moving toward him. slow, uncertain. choso trailing after you, clearly annoyed. clearly ready to drag sukuna outside and beat his ass if he doesn’t knock it off.

but sukuna just grins wider, sloppier. his eyes lock onto yours like you’re the only person in the world that matters.

and in his fucked-up little head, you are.

“look who finally noticed me,” he drawls, voice syrupy and bitter all at once. “what, couldn’t hear me being a complete disaster over the sound of you flirting?”

you stop a few feet away from him. choso lingers close, protective, but quiet. “what are you doing?” you ask, soft. wounded.

it hits him in the chest like a punch.

he hates that tone.

he hates that he made you use it.

“partying,” he shrugs, gesturing around. “that’s what we do, right?” you stare at him. your lip trembles.

fuck.

fuck. this isn’t working.

he wanted your attention, not your disappointment, he wanted your eyes on him — not like this. you glance at the crowd — the people watching, whispering, smirking.

"come outside,” you murmur. “please.”

and for a second, he wants to. for a second, he thinks he might follow you anywhere. but instead, he laughs. harsh. cruel. drunk.

"why? so you can lecture me? tell me to get my shit together?”

your eyes glisten like they always do when you’re trying not to cry.

"i just want to make sure you're okay..." you shyly murmur. you look so small right now. not physically, no, you’ve always filled a room just by breathing, but emotionally. fragile in that heartbreaking way he hates himself for craving. like you’re bracing yourself for him to break you again.

and that’s the moment it hits him.

his high? gone. like a match snuffed out under cold rain.

he stares at you.

'fuck.'

he doesn’t know what he expected. maybe for you to scream at him, finally give him the reaction he’s been provoking all night like a sadistic asshole. or maybe to just turn your back, disappear into the crowd with some guy who’ll actually treat you right.

but this?

you’re just… sad.

sad and soft and waiting. hoping.

it guts him.

he runs a hand down his face and mutters something under his breath, like a half-formed curse or maybe your name—he’s not even sure anymore—and then sighs. “come on,” he says, voice low. rough. “let’s get outta here.”

you blink at him, confused. “what?”

“outside. fresh air. you look like you hate it here.”

he doesn’t wait for your answer. just slips through the crowd, trusting you’ll follow. and you do.

out back, it’s quieter. still messy. kids lighting joints, someone making out against a fence, music thumping faint in the distance. but it’s better. open.

he lights a cigarette, takes one drag, then flicks it away like it’s poison. because it kind of is. his throat feels tight. tighter than it has in weeks.

you cross your arms, biting your lip. “are you gonna say anything or—?”

“i’m sorry.”

it’s like a gunshot in the silence.

you freeze. blink. “…what?” he turns to you, finally really looking at you, and god, it fucking hurts.

you’re standing there in this little dress that hugs you in all the places he’s dreamed about touching with reverence instead of recklessness. hair mussed from the heat, lips parted, looking at him like you still see something good under all this rot.

“i’m sorry,” he repeats, slower. quieter. “for being a dick. for tonight. for every night.” you don’t say anything. not yet. just watch him, wide-eyed, while he runs both hands through his hair, pacing like he’s going to combust.

“i don’t know how to do this,” he mutters. “feelings. talking. whatever the fuck this is between us.”

“sukuna—”

“no, let me finish,” he snaps, then softens when he sees you flinch. “sorry. again. just… let me talk.”

you nod, and he breathes.

"you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel anything real. and that scares the shit outta me. i’m not good at this. i fuck up. i push people away because it’s easier to ruin shit than risk needing it.” he looks at you like he wants to fall apart but doesn’t know how.

“but you? you’re different. you look at me like i’m not some piece of shit frat guy with a lighter and a nicotine addiction and a god complex. and it makes me wanna be better. not just for you—fuck that, that’s too easy—but for me. because for the first time in my life, i care.”

you take a shaky breath. “then why do you keep hurting me?” his voice cracks. “because i’m a coward.” and that’s the truth of it. plain and ugly. he moves closer. slow. tentative.

“i didn’t mean to fall for you,” he says, voice hoarse. “but i did. so fucking hard. and every time you smiled at me, i felt like i couldn’t breathe. and i told myself i didn’t care. i slept with other girls. i ignored your texts. i acted like you were nothing. but you weren’t. you aren’t. you’re everything.”

you look up at him, eyes shimmering. “then why—”

“because i didn’t think i deserved you.”

his hands hover near your arms, like he wants to touch you but is afraid he’ll taint you. “you’re so fucking good. you care. you love so deep it’s terrifying. and i’m… i’m not that guy. i drink too much, i sleep around, i lie to myself. but with you… i don’t wanna lie anymore.”

and then finally—finally—he touches you. hands gentle on your waist like you’re porcelain. like he’s holding something sacred.

“i love you,” he says, and it breaks something in his chest to say it out loud.

your lips part in a quiet gasp.

“i don’t know how to love right. but i know it’s you. it’s always been you.”

you stare at him, tears falling now. not sad—just overwhelmed. and when you whisper, “i love you too,” it’s like something inside him clicks into place.

he pulls you into him.

not like the rough, fast, dirty hookups from before. not like the careless nights or the sneaky touches at parties. this is different. this is soft. reverent.

he holds your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “i’m gonna fuck up,” he says. “i know it. but i’ll try. for you. i’ll try.” you nod, leaning into him.

“you don’t have to be perfect,” you whisper. “you just have to be real.” and for the first time in his life, he is.

he kisses you like you’re the last good thing in the world. slow and deep and aching. his hands trembling just a little as he holds you closer, because he knows what this means.

this isn’t just a kiss, this is a promise.

and when you finally pull back, breathless, foreheads pressed together under the stars and the hum of a party you’ve both forgotten, he exhales something that feels like peace.

this feels like peace, neither of you says it, but it’s obvious in the way you walk side by side through the humid night, your pinkie brushing his. in the way the music fades behind you. in the way he doesn’t light another cigarette, even though his fingers twitch for it. "you wanna crash at mine?” you ask quietly, like you’re afraid the magic might snap if you speak too loud.

sukuna shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “sure. your bed’s comfier anyway.”

you nudge him with your elbow. “you’ve never slept in it.” he smirks, boyish. “yeah, but i’ve imagined it. mostly with you naked.”

“gross,” you say, laughing despite yourself, cheeks warm. he catches that. stores it. your laugh. the tilt of your head. the way you look at him like you’re still trying to believe this version of him is real. your dorm is quiet when you slip in. your roommate’s gone for the weekend, and everything smells faintly like you, warm shampoo, vanilla lotion, the fruity candle you always forget to blow out.

he toes off his shoes, watches as you dig through your drawer for a t-shirt. you toss it at him. oversized. soft. “wear this.” “you want me in your clothes now?” he raises a brow. “kind of possessive of you.”

“shut up and change.” he obeys. mostly because you’re watching him with this amused little smile, biting your lip like you’re trying not to. he peels off his hoodie and shirt, and you don’t look away—not this time. you just stare. like you’ve got a right to, and maybe you do.

you crawl into bed first, and he follows, letting the blankets swallow you both whole. your body finds his like it always does—like instinct. his arm wraps around you, snug. grounding. for a while, you just lie there. tangled up. listening to the faint buzz of a streetlamp outside and your twin heartbeats slowing in sync. "so,” you murmur into the quiet, “you ever gonna tell me what your first impression of me was?” he exhales a half-laugh. “you mean besides thinking you were way too sweet to be within a ten-foot radius of someone like me?”

“yes.”

he stretches, arm still looped behind your back. “alright. first time i saw you, i thought, ‘she looks way too cute for a party like this.’” you blink. “that’s it?”

“that’s everything.”

you smile against his chest. “i thought you were a douchebag.”

“accurate.”

“but also hot.” he snorts. “can’t blame you.” you reach up to flick his earring. “modest, too.”

“deadly combo.”

he goes quiet then, thumb brushing the curve of your hip beneath the blankets. his body is warm. relaxed. but his eyes are open, staring at the ceiling like there’s still something heavy on his chest. “you okay?” you ask, soft.

he doesn’t answer right away. just pulls you closer, tucks your head under his chin. your breath ghosts over his collarbone. “yeah,” he says eventually. “just thinking.”

and he is.

his thoughts spiral and drift, but they always land back on you. on how you smell like sleep and sweetness. on how your leg’s thrown over his like it belongs there. on how your fingers trace lazy patterns against his side, like your body’s memorizing him in real-time. he looks down at you. your lashes are fluttering now. not quite asleep yet, but close.

you don’t even know what you do to him. how you make him want to stay in one place, when he’s always been the type to run. how you make him feel clean, even when he’s covered in smoke and guilt and sharp edges. how he’d burn down his whole world just to keep yours bright. he doesn’t know how to say it, not out loud. not yet.

but he’ll show you, in the way he lets you hold him, in the way he watches you sleep like you’re the moon and the ocean and the sky all at once, in the way he lets his walls fall, brick by brick, as he lies beside you in your too-small bed and thinks 'god, i fucking love you.'

he’s not sure when it happened. maybe it was that first party, when you looked at him like you knew better but stayed anyway. maybe it was every little moment since. the after-class coffees, the way you talk to choso, the time you kissed him in the rain and told him he was worth more than he believed.

but he knows this:

he’s yours now, in the way that matters. not in words. not in labels. not in frat boy bravado. but in the stillness. in the way his heartbeat slows when you touch him. in the way he doesn’t feel high tonight—just whole.

"you awake?” he murmurs.

you hum against him. “barely.” he presses a kiss to your temple.

“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, like a secret. and maybe you don’t hear it. maybe you’re already dreaming.

but he means it.

god, he means it.

and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t want to wake up alone. he wants mornings with you. bad coffee and cold feet and sleepy smiles. he wants all of it. you and your stupid candle and your oversized t-shirts and your too-big heart. so he kisses your forehead again. lets your scent bury into his skin.

and as you finally drift off in his arms, sukuna closes his eyes and lets himself want something real.

something like this.

something like love.

extraaa

frat rats and others ig

yuki 🪩: chat what the fuck am i looking at

yuki 🪩: [photo attached]

yuki 🪩: LMAO THEYRE NOT EVEN NAKED WTH

maki 🥋: HUHHHHH

maki 🥋: omg they are so like... calm looking.

shoko 🩹: bro no way

shoko 🩹: sukuna looking content that's some voodoo shit

choso 🍃: i literally watched him almost rock some guys shit for talking to her last night now he's sleeping with a fucking smile on his face wth bruh give me a break

geto 🍷: free y/n bro

choso🍃: su man I'm glad it finally happened lowk

gojo 🧿: alright fuckers, i’m taking full credit here

gojo 🧿: this whole meltdown-to-makeup saga? that’s me pulling strings like a puppet master

gojo 🧿: if i hadn’t pissed him off just right, this whole tender bullshit never would of happened

shoko 🩹: you mean emotionally blackmailing him until he cracked? real noble, gojo

gojo 🧿: hey, desperate times call for desperate measures

gojo 🧿: plus, someone had to wake him up :(

maki 🥋: you’re the worst kind of manipulative and it’s honestly impressive

gojo 🧿: proud of my work here, thank you very much

gojo 🧿: i deserve an award for making sukuna less of a complete dickface

yuki 🪩:you're getting your ass beat when he wakes up and sees that bro

choso 🍃: lol watching him fail to keep his shit together all this time was tragic but so funny icl

gojo 🧿: nah but let’s not act like he didn’t look a little too happy to be clinging onto her in that pic

gojo 🧿: mf was in REM sleep dreaming about her saying “i’m proud of you”

choso 🍃: he’s gonna wake up and act like he didn’t say all that emotional shit too

choso 🍃: “idk what you’re talking about” ass boy

geto 🍷: someone record his gaslight attempt when she brings it up later

geto 🍷: “that wasn’t me babe, that was the tequila talking”

shoko 🩹: tequila didn’t make you cry into her neck and whisper “don’t leave” king

maki 🥋: he’s gonna delete himself from the chat when he sees this convo

gojo 🧿: and yet i’ll still be the villain somehow

gojo 🧿: just know none of this would’ve happened without my psychological warfare

yuki 🪩: congratulations on being the most chaotic matchmaker known to man

gojo 🧿: i’ll be taking referrals now

gojo 🧿: hit me up if your situationship needs emotional waterboarding

shoko 🩹: Jesus Christ

choso 🍃: y’all think he’s gonna be normal now or…?

geto 🍷: define normal

maki 🥋: if he stops growling every time someone breathes near her, i’ll take that as a win

yuki 🪩: god imagine him showing up to econ actually smiling. i’d drop the class

shoko 🩹: if he starts doing couple shit on campus i’m gonna barf

gojo 🧿: imagine them holding hands in the dining hall. i will LOSE it

gojo 🧿: i’ll flip the table

geto 🍷: y/n has the patience of a saint and the taste of a girl who needs therapy

choso 🍃: she’s in love let her be 😭

maki 🥋: yeah well she better be charging him hourly for emotional labor

gojo 🧿: alright placing bets now

gojo 🧿: how long before he fucks it up again? i say three weeks tops

yuki 🪩: shut the fuck up gojo

ooo finally done another, not as good as my choso fic but i still fw this oneee (subtle plug go read this shit it’s fire: sex w/ a stoner)

m.list.

your guy’s comments make me the happiest girl in the world i will respond to them all you are all my biggest supporters omg kiss me lololo

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