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cupc4keics · 14 days ago

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f1 driver!nanami x perfumer!reader

SYNOPSIS — It’s your big break: a private commission from a high-profile client brings you and your small-town French perfumery to gorgeous Monaco in the middle of July, where you’ve just begun setting up your first standalone boutique. But between construction delays, holiday crowds, and the chaos of Grand Prix weekend, peace is hard to come by. And when a handsome stranger stumbles into your unfinished shop—seeking shelter from the paparazzi and asking for a chance to see you again—your careful plans start to unravel in ways you never expected.

CONTENT — mdni, age gap (nanami is 31, reader is 23), takes place in the 1950s, inaccurate f1 history/general history inaccuracies, i cannot stop talking about f1 im sorry, hotel lobby reference wink wink, loss of virginity, nanami has a HUGE dick, semi public sex, public making out, thigh riding, fingering, oral (f! receiving), cum eating, creampie, unprotected piv sex, floor sex, biting/licking, strangers to lovers, mentions of a character death, fast paced romance, angst, happy ending

PSA — this fic is 22k words, which was too long to post on tumblr, so i had to break off the end, which will be posted soon.

a/n: this fic is for @lily-bisque’s summer bash collab! i meant to have this out so much earlier but ao3 writers curse is real and i could not catch a break. i hope you enjoy my combination of jjk and f1 and i sincerely apologize for the terrible smut i feel so awk writing it.

push to pass | masterlist | divider | part 2

July, 1955

You had a sinking feeling the universe wasn’t on your side the moment you realized your business trip—thinly disguised as a much-needed vacation—coincided with Monaco’s most chaotic weekend of the year: the Grand Prix.

The city had transformed overnight. What should have been a quiet few days by the coast filled with business, dinners, and soaking up the sun was now a blur of revving engines, champagne-soaked balconies, and tourists with more money than sense. Hotels were overbooked, taxis impossible to catch, and every café table already claimed by someone wearing silk and sunglasses worth more than your rent.

Still, you tried to focus on the reason you came. A private commission from a wealthy Italian heiress: she wanted a signature perfume that smelled like danger, like lust.

Something unforgettable, she said, her voice thick with too much wine when she had visited your perfumerie at your hometown in Grasse last spring.

She was ecstatic when she heard you were planning to open your first standalone boutique, and declared that Monaco was the only place worthy of your scent.

That had been two springs ago. Now, in the heat of July, you were standing in the middle of your not-quite-finished shop on Rue de Princess, ankle-deep in linen samples and sawdust, squinting at a half-installed light fixture while your architect bickered with the electrician in rapid-fire French.

The boutique was still more bones than body, but the walls smelled of promise. You’d spent the morning sorting glass vials and raw materials you had shipped from Grasse—vetiver, jasmine, tobacco, bergamot—trying to mix something that felt like heat and adrenaline without sliding into cliché.

You were halfway through dabbing something sharp and citrusy onto your wrist when the front door burst open with a crash loud enough to startle the architect into dropping his tape measure.

A man—tall, blonde, and out of breath—stepped inside. He pushed the door shut behind him with his shoulder and locked it. Then turned around.

“Please,” he said, voice low but urgent. “Just… give me sixty seconds.”

Your first thought wasn’t who he was, or even what he was doing in your boutique. It was that he smelled like engine oil and something sweet beneath it—like burnt sugar clinging to warm skin.

“Pourquoi la porte n’était-elle pas verrouillée ?” you ask your architect in French, barely sparing the intruder a glance as you speak. Why was the door unlocked?

He blinks at you, clearly unprepared for anything other than startled compliance. However, the stranger in the doorway doesn’t move. He just watches you with a calm, measured stillness.

“I was being chased,” he says simply, in broken French with the faintest lilt of something foreign beneath it. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your eyes flick toward the front windows. The sheer curtains ripple just enough to reveal movement outside—shadows pacing, the glint of lenses catching sunlight. You recognize the rhythm of paparazzi on a scent.

The architect mutters something under his breath, likely an excuse, and disappears into the back with the electrician, conveniently, or cowardly. You’re left alone in the room with him. The stranger. The man still standing like this is his safe house.

You cross your arms. “Are you famous?”

That gets a response. The ghost of a smile, subtle and restrained. He steps closer to the counter, eyes scanning the half-finished boutique. There’s paint on the floor, swatches tacked to the walls, and your latest trials scattered across a brass tray. He picks up a small, clear bottle with care, tipping it slightly to catch the light, then rolls it between his fingers like it might whisper secrets.

The scent clings to his skin.

“Depends who you ask,” he says, finally switching to English. “You don’t recognize me?”

You shrug, unbothered. “Should I?”

That smile again, wider now. Real. Not warm, but aware. “Not necessarily,” he says. “Though it does make this hiding place a hell of a lot more interesting.”

You watch as he unbuttons the top of his shirt, just enough to breathe, revealing the fine edge of a scar across his collarbone. There’s a twitch in his fingers, like he wants to sit, but doesn’t know where in your half-finished world he’s allowed to land.

“Do I call the police?” you murmur.

He sets the perfume bottle down with reverence, eyes meeting yours. Steady. Intent.

“I don’t plan to stay long,” he says. “Just needed somewhere to breathe for a minute.”

You hum, leaving behind your samples and making your way toward him. You’re still deciding whether he’s worth the disruption.

“I haven’t apologized,” he says, his voice softer now, stripped of the earlier confidence. “For intruding. I’m sorry, and… thank you for letting me stay.”

You stop just short of him, a careful distance between your body and his heat. Up close, he smells like sun-warmed leather, salt, and the faintest trace of engine smoke. There’s tension still clinging to his frame, like he hasn’t fully unclenched since stepping through the door.

“Don’t thank me yet,” you say lightly, though your gaze sharpens. “I still haven’t decided if I’m going to charge you.”

His mouth twitches again.

“I’m afraid my wallet’s in the car,” he murmurs.

You narrow your eyes, studying him now not as a stranger, but as a puzzle. He had the kind of face designed for magazines and tabloid spreads—angular, golden-skinned, impossibly clean-cut in a way no man really was. Except the scruff on his jaw betrayed a long day, and the fine line of a healing cut beneath his ear whispered of something sharper.

“So,” you say, voice softening but not yielding, “who exactly are you?”

He looks at you for a moment—really looks. There’s something unreadable behind his eyes, something not entirely comfortable with being recognized. But then he exhales, like he’s decided to give you something.

“Kento Nanami,” he says. “Japanese driver for Maserati.”

A beat.

Then, without a hint of ego, he adds, “I fear I’m partly the reason the streets outside sound like a wasps’ nest.”

“I see,” you say slowly, and offer the barest smile. “So you're the reason I’ve been nearly flattened crossing the street all day.”

His mouth lifts at the corner again, but he looks almost sheepish this time. “I’m truly sorry about that.”

You watch him for a beat longer. Most men with a name like his would already be sprawled across your showroom chaise, expecting champagne. But he remains standing, polite hands tucked in his jacket pockets, gaze never dropping below your eyes.

“Come on,” you sigh, and nod toward the high stool near your workbench. “Sit before you put a crease in your spine. You look like you haven’t breathed in an hour.”

He hesitates, just for a second, before crossing the room and lowering himself onto the stool with the kind of quiet control you suspect he applies to everything he does. He rests his forearms on his thighs, eyes roaming over the brass instruments, the scattered vials, the curling paper blotters that still hold ghosts of half-finished perfumes.

“So what’s this?” he asks, nodding toward the environment around him—brass tools glinting in the low light, unlabeled vials catching the sun, fabric swatches hanging like ghosts of decisions not yet made.

You follow his gaze, then glance back at him.

“This,” you say, “is the biggest risk I’ve ever taken.”

He hums, low in his throat, like he understands both possibilities intimately.

You lean back against the edge of the workbench, arms folding loosely across your chest. “My boutique. Or it will be. I signed the lease two months ago. It’s not open yet, but somehow the heiresses already know where to find me.”

A small smile tugs at your mouth, but you don’t offer the name of the woman who sent you here. He doesn’t ask.

“I make perfume,” you add. “My great-aunt had a few small shops in Grasse. One in Nice. Mostly small, quiet places. This is the first time I’m doing something on my own.”

Nanami doesn’t say anything at first. He just nods, eyes flicking briefly to the ceiling like he’s trying to picture what the space will look like when it’s finished.

“It suits you.”

You blink. “The boutique?”

He glances at you. “The ambition.”

That earns a quiet breath from you, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You don’t even know me.”

He doesn’t look away. “No. But I’ve seen the way you hold your work.” His gaze drops briefly to the vials on the counter. “There’s care in it.”

There’s a pause long enough to shift the air between you.

Then he clears his throat, gently lifting a small bottle from the tray. He holds it between his fingers like it might crack if he moves too fast. “What’s this one?”

You reach out, take the bottle from him carefully, and unstopper it.

“It’s still in progress,” you say. “A commission. Something she wanted for race weekend.” You tilt the wand once. The scent is strong—leather, bergamot, pepper—but the softer notes still haven’t settled right. You haven’t figured out what’s missing yet.

Without thinking, you hold the wand up toward him. “Wrist?”

He hesitates for half a second, then shrugs out of one glove and extends his hand. You dab the perfume lightly on the inside of his wrist, then wait.

The silence stretches a little.

He brings his wrist to his nose slowly, breathing in once, then again.

You watch him. Not the way he moves, but the way he stills.

“…It’s sharp,” he says finally. “First. Like the start of a race.”

You nod. “It’s supposed to be.”

“But there’s heat under it. Something warmer.”

“That’s where I got stuck.”

Nanami lowers his hand. He looks at you, quiet now in a way that feels heavier than the room. “You’re close.”

You huff softly. “I don’t want close. I want the exact moment you lose control and know it.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just holds your gaze a little too long.

You look away first.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “That probably sounded—”

“No,” he says, gentle now. “I know what you meant.”

“So why’re you running from the paparazzi?” you ask, tucking the stopper back into the bottle and setting it aside with the others.

He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “I had a crash during free practice 2,” he says simply. “Rounded a corner too fast and lost control.”

You glance over your shoulder at him. “You okay?”

“I walked away,” he says, which is neither yes nor no. “The car didn’t.”

You nod once, quietly filing that away.

“I don’t usually do interviews or anything,” he continues after a pause, tone dry. “So everyone wants a chance to be the first to shove a mic in my face. Or a camera. Doesn’t matter what they ask. Just that they’re asking it first.”

You hum, moving to your cabinet to shelve the last of the day’s test vials. “Nothing like a little blood in the water.”

“Exactly.”

You hear the scrape of the stool as he shifts, then the low creak of it settling under his weight again.

“I didn’t mean to crash,” he adds after a moment. “Didn’t mean to hide here, either. It just… looked quiet.”

You glance at him then.

He’s looking down at his wrist, where the scent still lingers.

You don’t say anything. Just lean back against the cabinet and fold your arms again, softer this time.

“You picked the right door.”

His mouth twitches—an almost-smile, subtle but real. “I’ll try to remember it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Planning on crashing again?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Not if I can help it.”

You nod toward the street. “You think they’re still out there?”

He tilts his head, listening. For a second, there’s nothing, just the faint clink of glass in the distance as someone closes up shop down the block.

“Maybe.”

You watch him for another beat. He’s not what you expected when he walked in—less polished, more… human. Tired, maybe. Or just not used to people who don’t immediately want something from him.

“You can stay until they’re gone,” you say. “But only if you promise not to knock anything over.”

He smiles properly now, low, easy, and a little surprising. “I’ll try not to.”

You move back to the workbench without another word, slipping into a rhythm that’s familiar. The room settles with you, still, but not silent. Outside, the street’s gone quieter. Inside, the soft clinks of glass and rustle of paper fill the space.

Nanami doesn’t speak, but you can feel his eyes on you, like he’s watching someone work a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand but wants to.

You pull a small ceramic palette toward you and uncap one of the vials you’d set aside earlier. The scent that rises—sharp, clean, too precise—makes your nose wrinkle.

“This isn’t usually where I mix,” you say after a while, not looking up. “In case I’m not home, I’m building a studio in the back for that. Better ventilation. Fewer distractions.”

You glance his way. His expression stays neutral, but his brows lift just enough to acknowledge the irony.

You give a small shrug. “But the bottle I sent out for the heiress—it didn’t sit right.”

Nanami leans forward slightly on the stool, elbows resting on his thighs again. “So you’re rewriting it?”

“In a way.” You swirl a drop of base oil with a citrus resin, watching it cloud the mixture. “Not from scratch. Just… nudging it toward what it was trying to be.”

He watches you for a moment longer, then nods toward the array of small vials near your right hand.

“What are those?”

“Modifiers. Accents. Most people wouldn’t notice them directly, but they change everything underneath.” You pause. “Wanna help?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Help?”

You gesture to the tray. “Pick one, any one. First instinct. We’ll see what happens.”

He seems skeptical. “You’re letting a stranger play with your formula?”

“Only because you’ve got a good nose,” you say, not entirely teasing. “And I’m curious.”

He leans in slightly, scanning the labels of tiny handwriting in faded ink. He hovers over a few, then finally reaches for one near the back. He holds it up between two fingers.

“Hinoki,” he says.

Your eyes flick to the bottle, then back to him. “…Interesting choice.”

“Good interesting?” he asks, and it sounds sincere.

You smile, just a little. “Let’s find out.”

You draw a small pipette and carefully add a drop to your mixture. The shift is immediate—cooler, woodier. Something cleaner than what was there before, but grounded. You lean in, closing your eyes.

The imbalance that was bothering you? Gone.

You blink, glance at him. “That was… actually good.”

He huffs. “Surprised?”

You tilt your head. “Impressed.”

He looks away, but the edge of his mouth pulls just slightly upward. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

The scent hovers between you, sharp citrus softened by something quiet and green.

“I think you just solved my problems, Kento Nanami,” you smile, glancing at him over the rim of the mixing palette.

He lifts a brow, but there's a quiet satisfaction in his expression—subtle, like everything about him. “Glad to be of use.”

You reach for a clean blotter strip, dip the end into the blend, and wave it gently in the air between you.

“This is it,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “It finally… settled.”

Nanami leans forward slightly as you offer the strip, careful not to touch. He inhales once, slow and thoughtful, eyes flicking closed for just a moment.

“It smells… sexy?,” he says softly.

Your chest tightens, just for a second. You blink, caught off guard by the way he said it.

“That’s exactly what it’s supposed to be,” you say after a beat.

He nods, like he understands.

You tuck the blotter away, labeling it neatly in pencil. “You want to name it too, or should I not give you that much power?”

Nanami chuckles under his breath, the sound low and warm. “No,” he says. “That part belongs to you.”

You glance toward the windows. The light’s shifted again—softer now, tinged with late afternoon gold. The street outside looks quiet. Whatever crowd had been chasing him earlier seems to have moved on.

You turn back to the bench, reaching for a clean bottle from the box beneath it. The glass is simple. You hold it in one hand while pouring the mixture with the other, steady and precise.

When the vial’s empty, you stoppered the bottle and ran your thumb over the top.

“Formule 11,” you say quietly. “I’ll write the label later.”

Nanami watches you as you cross the room, ducking into the back to grab your bag and coat. When you return, you’re pulling on your gloves, bottle tucked carefully in your side satchel.

“I have to go deliver this,” you say, voice light but not apologetic. “Client’s expecting it before dinner.”

He nods once, sitting up straighter on the stool, like the moment’s shifting and he can feel it too.

You pause at the workbench, then reach across and grab something from a hook by the door—your architect’s hat, soft cotton, well-worn. You step toward him and place it gently in his hands.

“If you sneak out the back,” you murmur, “go straight to the next block and turn right. That’ll take you back to the main road without anyone noticing.”

He looks down at the hat, then up at you again. “You’ve done this before.”

You smile faintly. “Not with race car drivers.”

He holds the hat a little tighter in his lap. “Will I see you again?”

You meet his gaze, quiet for a beat. “Probably not.”

He watches you carefully. Not disappointed exactly, but thoughtful, like he’s working through something he’s not sure he’ll say aloud.

“I’m free tomorrow,” he says, “after noon. Qualifying starts around one. I could get you in. Quietly.”

You blink. “Really?”

He nods. “I just want to say thank you. I don’t know what else I have to offer.”

That earns a quiet laugh from you, soft and surprised. You glance at the door, then back at him.

“…I’ll think about it.”

Nanami gives a small nod, like he knows better than to press.

You adjust your coat and put on your sunglasses, hand on the doorknob now.

“Don’t let him see you leave,” you call gently. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I gave you his hat.”

Nanami lifts it in a half-salute. “I won’t.”

You disappear into the dusk, the bell over the door chiming softly behind you.

“KENTO NANAMI WALKS AWAY FROM CRASH, WALKS STRAIGHT INTO RUMORS — AGAIN.” Crowd-favorite refuses interviews for fifth year running as speculation grows ahead of Monaco GP.

Your black coffee has long gone cold, abandoned on the edge of the café table as you scan the paper, fingers leaving faint smudges on the corner of the page. You’ve read the same paragraph three times now—not because it’s well-written, but because your brain keeps circling the same thought like a drain.

How did you not recognize him yesterday?

His face is everywhere. Above the fold, below it. Different expressions, same intensity. Even when caught in motion, mid-step or mid-turn, his gaze is sharp, grounded—impossible to look past. And yet you did. You talked to him like he was just some stranger ducking the press. Let him wear your architect’s hat. Let him touch your work.

The bell above the café door chimes behind you, a burst of cold air brushing against your back as someone steps in. You don’t turn around.

Instead, you flip the page, eyes catching the headline from the day before:

“NANAMI: SILENT BUT DEADLY.” Japan’s golden ghost chases third straight title while giving press the cold shoulder.

You huff, folding the paper in half, trying not to overthink it. But since last night—since a surprise dinner you hadn’t planned to attend (or really been invited to, not that the heiress cared)—you’ve learned three things about Kento Nanami:

He was serious about the no interviews. He doesn’t speak to the press, doesn’t pose for cameras, doesn’t play the game. Every headline printed about him is mostly stitched together from guesswork, gossip, and grainy photos taken when he’s not looking.

He's a three-time world champion. Five years in Formula 1, four of them with Maserati. Two back-to-back wins in the last two seasons. And if he wins this week, it’ll be his third in a row—four in total. That kind of record makes people obsessive.

He's thirty-one, and started racing at six on a dusty little track outside Tokyo. Took a two-year detour through law school, then came back like he had something to prove. And maybe he did. Maybe he still does.

You set the paper down, letting out a slow breath.

The part that gets you most isn’t the stats or the headlines.

It’s that he looked at you like none of it mattered, like he wasn’t the Nanami Kento.

You rub at the corner of your mouth, unsure if you’re smiling or grimacing.

Somewhere in the street behind you, an engine growls to life, unmistakably expensive. You sip your now-cold coffee, eyes lingering on the newspaper one last time, reminded that Qualifying starts in less than two hours.

You stand, brushing down the front of your long dress before placing your fascinator carefully back atop your head. The satchel slips easily across your shoulder, the glass bottle inside tucked snug between a silk scarf and your wallet.

“Merci, Sylvie,” you call toward the barista as you pass the counter.

“À bientôt,” she replies with a smile, already clearing your cup. See you soon.

The café door swings shut behind you, and the city air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of salt from the nearby water. The streets are still buzzing, though not as loud as they’ll be by race time. You tuck your chin deeper into your scarf and raise a hand for a taxi.

It pulls up within minutes and you slide into the backseat, instructing the driver to drop you off at the marina.

As the car pulls away from the curb, you glance once over your shoulder, back toward the café window where you’d been sitting. The paper’s still on the table, folded and forgotten.

You don’t regret leaving it behind.

The familiar scenery of yachts and sailboats quickly replaces the narrow, sun-worn buildings as you near the marina. Sleek white hulls line the docks like teeth, flags fluttering softly in the breeze. The water glints under the late morning sun, a gentle sway rolling through the harbor.

You thank the driver, stepping out with a quiet merci, your heels clicking lightly against the wooden planks as you make your way down the dock. A few workers are already out—coiling ropes, polishing chrome, moving like it’s just another Saturday, even though the city’s thrumming with the pulse of race week.

The docks look nothing like they did the last time you were in Monte-Carlo.

Now, the roads are blocked off with metal barricades and brightly colored signage. Police in vests line the intersections, directing foot traffic while trying not to be bowled over by the swarm of vendors, staff, and spectators crowding the sidewalks.

Where calm seaside paths once stretched quiet and open, now scaffolding rises above the pavement, draped in banners of team logos, tire brands, and champagne ads printed larger than life. Grandstands have been erected where cafes used to spill out onto the street, their tables cleared to make room for race marshals and media crews. The air buzzes with energy and the distant hum of engines tuning in the background.

You pass a section of fencing wrapped in black netting, just opaque enough to keep the view partially obscured. Behind it, glimpses of activity: mechanics moving like clockwork, crew members wheeling carts stacked with equipment, someone in a fire suit stretching quietly against a wall.

Even the sea seems different today, choppier somehow, like it’s reacting to the weight of the city’s breath holding tight in anticipation.

You clutch the strap of your satchel in one hand.

The last time you walked this route in spring, it was lined with yachts and morning joggers. Now it feels like the entire world has been invited to watch something happen. For some reason, you’ve decided to step straight into the middle of it.

You follow the signs toward the entrance checkpoint, your steps slower now, the weight of what you’re doing catching up to you in the space between footfalls.

A security guard stands at the gate, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning everyone who approaches. You offer a small smile as you near.

“Salut, I’m here to see Kento Nanami.”

The man lifts a brow. “Do you have a paddock pass?”

You hesitate. “No. He invited me yesterday, said—he said he’d leave something but…” You trail off, realizing how thin it sounds.

The guard’s expression flattens a little. “I can’t let anyone in without clearance, mademoiselle.”

“It’s not—look, he told me to come. It was last minute. I wasn’t exactly—” You sigh, frustration catching at the back of your throat.

“Name?” he asks, unimpressed.

You’re just about to answer when you catch the flicker of movement beyond the barrier. Kento Nanami, walking out from behind one of the garages, head turned slightly as he listens to something being said beside him.

He’s dressed in a white fire-resistant undershirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the top of his racing overalls tied loosely around his waist. There’s a smudge of something near his jaw—grease, maybe—and a glint of sweat at his collarbone that hasn’t quite dried yet.

The moment he sees you, his steps slow.

The guy beside him says something else but Nanami doesn’t answer. He holds up a hand, eyes locked on you now.

Then he’s moving toward the gate.

“Is she with you?” the guard asks, tone shifting instantly.

“She is,” Nanami replies, not looking at him. “Let her through.”

You exhale, relief blooming in your chest as the gate swings open. He waits just on the other side, arms crossed loosely now, a towel slung over one shoulder, gaze steady as you approach.

“You came,” he says simply.

You try not to look too pleased by the surprise in his voice.

“Well,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair beneath your fascinator, “you did owe me a thank you.”

That gets the faintest pull of a smile from him. Almost too small to catch—but there.

“Come on,” he says, nodding for you to follow. “I’ll show you the paddock.”

And just like that, you're walking beside him.

The air inside the paddock is hotter, tighter, filled with the scent of oil, rubber, and that distinct metallic tang that clings to machines running just a little too close to their limits. The garage is alive with movement—engineers moving with practiced ease, radios crackling, fans humming low in the background.

Nanami walks just ahead of you, offering the occasional nod or clipped instruction to someone passing by. He doesn’t introduce you to anyone until you reach the far side of the garage—where another man is perched half-sideways on a folding chair, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, race suit unzipped to his waist like Nanami’s, but far less neatly.

You know who he is before Nanami even opens his mouth.

Satoru Gojo—Formula 1’s reigning legend, its most magnetic headline, the youngest to ever win a championship, and the only one in history to hold six.

He's lounging like the paddock was built for him. Which, in a way, it probably was.

“Gojo,” Nanami says, voice low but firm. “This is—”

“The perfumer,” Gojo cuts in, turning toward you with a slow grin that’s far too pleased with itself. “From the boutique. Finally.”

You blink. “How do you—?”

“He told me,” Gojo waves vaguely at Nanami. “Which, by the way, is basically the loudest thing he’s ever said about anyone that wasn’t tire pressure or lap data.”

Nanami exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t listen to him.”

“I always listen to me,” Gojo replies, then leans toward you slightly, conspiratorial. “We met once, didn’t we? No—wait. You look like someone I bumped into in a hotel lobby in Tokyo. Summer of ’52?”

You stare at him. “I… don’t think that was me.”

“Shame,” he sighs, settling back with a wink. “That woman smelled amazing.”

Nanami levels him with a look.

Gojo just shrugs. “Anyway. Welcome to the circus.”

He offers a hand, and despite yourself, you take it. His grip is firm, warm.

“She’s staying for the rest of qualifying,” Nanami says, not quite a question.

You glance at him, then back at the chaos of the garage, the speed of everything moving around you.

And then back at him.

“I suppose I am.”

Nanami gestures for you to follow him as Gojo is swept up by a mechanic calling out lap times from a clipboard. You catch Gojo’s parting wave over his shoulder, sunglasses slipping back down his nose.

“Don’t let him scare you,” Nanami says, his voice low as he walks beside you again.

You glance over at him. “He doesn’t scare me.”

“Good,” he replies, eyes flicking ahead. “That’s half the problem with him. Too many people act like he’s untouchable.”

You walk in step with him through the maze of garages, wires coiled along the walls, tires stacked chest-high, crew members brushing past with focused urgency. Every space buzzes with energy, but there’s something methodical in the chaos—every movement part of a larger rhythm.

“Where does all of this go when the race is over?” you ask, sidestepping a cart full of tools.

“Crated up and shipped out. We’re in Spain next week,” he says, barely needing to raise his voice over the din. “Every week, a new city. A new setup. Then we do it all again.”

You nod slowly, trying to imagine the weight of that repetition. “It’s a lot.”

“It is.” A pause. “But it doesn’t feel like much when you’re the one in the car.”

You glance at him, curious. “What does it feel like then?”

Nanami’s quiet for a beat. The sounds of the paddock move around the two of you but he doesn’t rush his answer.

“Still,” he says finally. “Everything else gets very quiet.”

You let that settle for a moment as he leads you toward one of the support trucks—open on one side to reveal rows of spare parts, stacks of helmets, and a row of posters outlining engine diagnostics.

Someone calls his name as you step inside—an engineer, tall and lanky, clipboard in hand.

“This is Ino,” Nanami says. “He keeps the car alive.”

Ino nods in greeting, then glances at you with faint curiosity. “You’re not press.”

“No,” you say. “Perfumer.”

He smiles slightly. “Weirdly, that makes more sense.”

Nanami shows you the tire wall next, different compounds lined up in rows, all marked with coded paint. He explains the differences simply, clearly, the way someone does when they’re used to being misunderstood but still want you to get it.

Then it’s on to the telemetry station, the broadcast trailers, a corner of the paddock where someone’s quietly eating lunch beneath a fan. It’s a strange, moving village of its own, temporary, but entirely self-contained.

When he finally circles you back to his garage, the quiet between you has settled into something softer. Familiar, even if it shouldn’t be.

He checks his watch, then glances at you.

“You have about ten minutes before we’re called for briefing,” he says. “You want to stay?”

You lift a brow. “Would it be strange if I did?”

He considers this.

“No,” he says. “But it would be rare.”

You smile, just a little. “I’m not here to be common.”

That earns the barest flicker of something at the corner of his mouth—close to a smile, but not quite.

He nods toward the back of the garage, where a spare stool sits tucked near the wall.

“You can wait there,” he says.

You settle onto the stool, your bag tucked against your side, the sounds of the paddock humming around you. Nanami moves a few steps away to speak with one of his engineers, his posture instinctively straightening the closer he gets to the car.

And as you sit there—watching him shift from man to machine, you realize you’re not just seeing him differently now.

You’re seeing the whole world he lives in. And you’re not sure yet if you belong in it.

He returns fifteen minutes later, his undershirt now slung casually over one shoulder, his upper body bare beneath the suspenders of his racing overalls.

His skin gleams faintly under the garage lights—golden, lean, traced with the kind of strength built over years, not months. There’s a scar low on his left rib, pale against the skin, and a thin trail of oil smudged near his collarbone, like he’d wiped his hand without thinking.

You look up as he approaches, and he doesn’t say anything right away and just runs a towel across the back of his neck and tosses it over a nearby crate.

“You alright?” he asks, voice quieter now, the edge of work still clinging to him.

You nod. “Warmer here than I expected.”

“Heat’s worse inside the suit,” he mutters, half to himself. “You forget how heavy it is until it’s already on.”

He reaches for a bottle of water, twists the cap off, and takes a long drink. His throat moves with the motion, and for a moment, the rest of the garage noise dulls around you.

There’s something oddly private about it all, this glimpse into a world just behind the curtain.

He catches you looking and offers a small, wry smile. “You’re staring.”

You raise a brow. “You walked in half clothed.”

“I didn’t realize it was a problem.”

“It’s not,” you say simply, and his smile deepens just slightly.

Then someone calls his name again and he sets the bottle down.

“I have about twenty minutes before I’m in the car,” he says, glancing toward the pit lane. “You want to stay and watch?”

Your fingers brush the edge of your satchel.

“Wouldn’t have come if I didn’t.”

Nanami nods once, then starts pulling his sleeves up.

And you sit back, quietly, as the man becomes the machine again.

“So what’s this race about?” you ask, your voice low beneath the hum of the garage. “If it’s not the official thing.”

“Qualifiers,” he says, adjusting the strap on his glove without looking up. “We run laps. Fastest time gets pole position for the main race.”

You nod slowly, watching the way his hands move—calm, practiced, every gesture deliberate.

“And you… want to be in front?”

He glances up at that, something flickering behind his eyes. “You always want to be in front. It means clean air. No one kicking dirt up in your face.”

You study him for a beat. “You sound like you’ve done this a few times.”

That earns you a look. Not annoyed—more like amused that you’re still pretending not to know.

“I read the papers,” you admit, softly. “After you left.”

Nanami’s mouth twitches at the corner. “And?”

“And now I know who you are.”

He pauses. “Do you?”

The question lingers between you, but you don't answer. Not right away.

Then someone calls five minutes, sharp and clipped. Nanami gives a short nod in return, then looks back to you.

“You’ll hear the engine before you see anything,” he says. “It’s loud. Stand near the monitors if you want to see times come through.”

“What’s a monitor?” you ask, brows lifting slightly. “Is that like a… television?”

He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder. There’s a brief flicker of something in his expression—half amusement, half recognition that yes, you’re definitely not from this world.

“Sort of,” he says. “It’s a screen that shows lap times and sector data. Mostly numbers. Nothing exciting unless you know what you’re looking at.”

You nod slowly, trying to picture it. “Right. Numbers on a screen. Riveting.”

That earns the smallest twitch of a smile from him. “I’ll explain after.”

He turns back toward the car, and you watch as he steps into the flurry of activity—crew moving in sync, tools being passed, someone crouched near the front wing checking tire pressure. There’s an energy that builds as he gets closer to the machine, like the whole space subtly shifts to meet him.

Someone helps him zip up the rest of his suit. He pulls on his gloves, then his helmet, and his goggles go over his eyes. And just like that, the man you’ve been getting to know is replaced by something sharper.

And then the engine starts.

The sound rolls through the garage in a low, thunderous growl. It’s not just loud—it’s alive, rumbling through your ribs, climbing the walls, spilling into your chest like heat.

You take a step back, instinctively.

A mechanic gestures for you to stand near a small viewing station along the wall—a curved screen behind glass, the numbers already flickering in and out as the first cars begin their laps.

You find your spot, heart racing, eyes flicking between the screen and the blur of motion as Nanami’s car pulls out of the garage.

The moment Nanami’s car slips onto the track, something changes.

The garage doesn’t go silent, but the energy shifts. People move with more purpose, eyes fixed on equipment, radios crackling with clipped phrases and calm urgency. One of the engineers stands near the viewing station, arms crossed tight, murmuring lap times under his breath as they roll in.

You stay near the edge, just far enough not to be in the way, watching the monitor like you’re learning a new language in real time.

Sector one: green. Sector two: yellow. Final: green.

You’d asked someone what the sectors meant. They’d explained it simply enough: the course is divided into three parts—sector one, sector two, sector three. Each car is timed in each section. Green means faster than their last run. Purple, fastest overall. Yellow means slower.

“Clean run,” someone mutters. “Grip’s holding better than yesterday.”

You don’t really know what that means, but you watch the screen anyway, Nanami’s name appearing third on the timing list after his first flying lap. Cars continue to cycle through, all streaking past the garage entrance with a high, sharp whine that cuts clean through the air.

Nanami’s back into the pits quickly. The crew swarms the car—adjusting tire pressure, checking suspension, brushing dust from the body with gloved hands. You don’t see his face again, not under the helmet, but you can tell he’s speaking to the team lead—his gestures are quick but calm, head tilted just slightly as he listens.

Then he’s back out again.

The next run is faster.

Sector one: green. Sector two: green. Final: green.

The board updates. He’s holding at P4 now—provisional fourth on the grid. Two tenths off the lead. Half a tenth behind Gojo, who he manages to overtake at the next corner.

“Car’s tighter through the chicane,” the engineer murmurs beside you. “Still losing time on the back straight.”

You squint at the monitor. “That’s… bad?”

“Not bad,” he replies. “Just not pole.”

You glance toward the track again, watching Nanami slice through a corner at full speed, barely a whisper of tire screech. Everything about his driving looks effortless—fluid, precise, like he’s threading a needle at 150 miles an hour.

He finishes his final lap with just two minutes left in the session. The board doesn’t change—still P3.

Someone exhales beside you. “That’s probably it.”

The engine sound fades as Nanami pulls back into the garage. The moment the car rolls to a stop, the team moves in again, but it’s calmer now. More routine. The kind of silence that follows a job well done—even if it wasn’t perfect.

He removes his helmet a beat later, raking a hand back through damp hair before he steps down from the car.

His eyes find you immediately.

You don’t say anything—just offer a small nod, not quite a smile.

And he nods back, a quiet kind of understanding passing between you.

Gojo’s name flashes up on the board a few minutes after Nanami’s final lap—P8.

You don’t know much, but even you can tell that’s not where he’s supposed to be.

The garage doors roll open again and Gojo storms in before the car fully stops, tearing off his gloves and helmet in one motion. The second his boots hit the floor, he throws the helmet with a sharp thud across the cement, where it bounces once before spinning to a stop near the tire racks.

“No way Fushiguro got pole,” he snaps, voice loud and sharp, echoing off the concrete. “I was two tenths up before that last sector—two tenths!”

No one responds right away. The air in the garage has shifted again, but not like before. This time it’s thick with heat, frustration hanging like humidity in summer.

Gojo paces in a tight circle, running a hand through his hair, eyes wild behind his sweat-slicked fringe.

Nanami doesn’t flinch. Still suited up, still standing beside his car, he watches Gojo calmly, like this is just part of it. Like he’s seen worse.

“Maybe next time don’t overcook turn six,” Nanami says, evenly.

Gojo whirls around. “I didn’t overcook turn six.”

Nanami raises a brow.

Gojo exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay. I slightly overcooked turn six.”

One of the engineers edges over, muttering something about cooling down the car. Another crew member discreetly retrieves the helmet and sets it back on the bench like it never happened.

You stay quiet in the corner, watching. It’s not tense, not really. Just charged. Like everyone here knows this is what it means to want to win badly enough that losing stings even in practice.

Eventually, Gojo turns and catches your eye, as if just now remembering you’re still there.

He points a finger at you. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy.”

You blink. “I wasn’t.”

“You were. That was a judgmental blink.”

Nanami sighs. “Satoru.”

Gojo throws his hands up. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” Then, grinning despite himself, “I’ll just crash his car tomorrow and sleep better at night.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Ino, the engineer from earlier, walks over to the two of them, clipboard tucked under one arm, a streak of grease smudged near his jaw like he hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.

He nods at Nanami first. “Your second run was tighter. You’re still dropping a little time on the straight, but sector one’s clean now. You hold P3 unless someone pulls something stupid in the next three minutes.”

Nanami gives a small nod, already half-aware.

Ino turns to Gojo next, raising a brow. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

Gojo groans. “Is there any good news?”

“You didn’t blow the engine,” Ino offers dryly.

“Comforting.”

“And the telemetry’s clean. Your brakes were cooking, but not catastrophic. You need to ease off.”

Gojo snatches a water bottle off the table behind him and takes a long drink. “I hate this track.”

“You said that about Imola.”

“And Spa.”

Ino doesn’t even blink. “And Monza.”

“Don’t act like Monaco isn’t cursed,” Gojo snaps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That kid getting pole? That’s not talent, it’s voodoo.”

“Fushiguro is fast,” Nanami says simply, checking his gloves before slipping them off. “He always has been.”

Gojo looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. He just slumps back onto the nearest chair like he’s aged ten years since stepping out of the car.

Ino gives you a brief glance, like he’s reminding himself again that there’s a civilian here, then gestures to the side of the garage. “They’re clearing the lane. Both your cars will be inspected in ten.”

Nanami nods, and Ino disappears back into the chaos, already flipping through the pages on his clipboard.

Gojo leans his head back, eyes shut now, voice low.

“You’re not going to be insufferable if you finish ahead of me again, right?”

Nanami doesn’t answer.

You glance at him. “Is he usually insufferable?”

“Without trying,” Nanami replies, calm as ever.

Gojo lifts a hand and flips him off without opening his eyes.

“We have to go get weighed,” Gojo says after a beat, still sprawled in his chair. “Then we’ve got that fan event on the south side of the track.”

“I’m not going,” Nanami announces, without looking up from where he’s unfastening the top of his suit.

Gojo lifts his head. “You have to. It’s in the contract.”

“I’ll take the fine.”

“You always take the fine.”

Nanami doesn’t respond.

Gojo swings his legs down, sitting upright now, like he’s actually considering arguing. “Nanamin. Come on. Just an hour. You stand there, you sign a few things, you pretend to smile. That’s it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Nanami finally looks up, then glances briefly in your direction. “I have other plans.”

You blink, unsure whether that was for your benefit or Gojo’s.

Gojo raises a brow, follows the look, then slowly leans back again, smirking like he’s solved a puzzle no one else was playing.

“Ah,” he says, dragging the word out. “Other plans.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Fine,” Gojo says, standing up and brushing off his pants. “I’ll just tell the team their golden boy’s brooding in the garage with his perfume girl.”

You open your mouth to say something but Nanami speaks first.

“They already know.”

Gojo grins. “Of course they do. They know everything.”

He points at you as he walks off. “Try not to ruin him. He’s delicate under all that quiet.”

Then he’s gone, whistling to himself as he disappears toward the weighing station.

The garage is quieter now, less crowded. Most of the crew has scattered, radio chatter fading into static, the sharp edge of the session giving way to a lull that feels oddly intimate.

Nanami glances at you again, his suit still half-open at the collar, hair damp, posture loose in a way it hadn’t been when you arrived.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, voice lower now, not quite private, but close to it. “Wait for me?”

You nod. “Alright.”

He watches you for a beat longer, as if making sure you mean it, then gives a quiet nod and turns, heading toward the far end of the garage, where the weigh-in area sits just beyond the barriers.

You watch him go until he’s out of view. Then you settle back on the stool, the noise around you muted now, the space oddly warm despite the open structure of the paddock. The smell of fuel and rubber still clings to the air, but it’s familiar now. Like the room’s adjusting to you as much as you’re adjusting to it.

Outside, the sun is starting to dip, casting long shadows across the asphalt.

He returns when the sky’s gone pink and orange. The energy of the paddock has dipped with the light. There’s less urgency now, more clean-up and conversations echoing faintly from somewhere down the row of garages.

You spot him before he says anything.

His hair is damp, pushed back neatly, still drying at the temples. He’s changed, traded the fireproof suit for a loose linen shirt and khakis, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. A pair of worn-in Sperrys on his feet. It’s the most relaxed you’ve seen him look, and somehow, the quiet suits him just as much as the control.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly.

“My apologies. Medicals took longer than expected.”

You glance up at him, letting your smile show this time. “It’s okay. I told you I would wait.”

He shifts his weight slightly, glancing around the now-sleepy garage. “You’ve been sitting here all afternoon. You hungry?”

You blink. “Are you… asking me to dinner?”

“I’m asking if you’ve eaten,” he corrects, but there’s something dry and just barely amused in his tone. “There’s a place across the water a local recommended to me last summer.”

You pause like you’re considering it, even though you already know your answer.

“Alright,” you say, pushing up from the stool. “But only if you tell me what it felt like out there, while you were driving.”

He looks at you for a moment, unreadable. “Dinner first.”

You fall into step beside him as he leads the way out of the garage, the last of the sunset slipping across the marina, and the rest of Monaco humming quietly in the distance.

He walks you down a narrow path past the quieter edge of the paddock, the fading light stretching long across the concrete. A few lingering crew members nod at him in passing, but no one stops him. He moves like someone used to being observed, but not interrupted.

At the edge of the lot, he unlocks the door to a sleek, low-slung car and drops a duffle bag into the small trunk.

It’s a Maserati A6G/54 Spyder Zagato—all smooth curves and polished chrome, deep navy blue with cream leather seats. Even idle, it looks fast.

You blink at it, then glance at him. “Courtesy of the team?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Technically.”

You trail your fingers lightly along the passenger door before he opens it for you. “It’s beautiful.”

You settle into the seat, the leather soft and warm from the sun, and watch as he slides into the driver’s side—steady hands, relaxed shoulders. He starts the engine, and it purrs to life.

The car winds through Monaco’s narrow streets with a grace that feels effortless, the engine low and smooth beneath the hum of the evening. Streetlights flicker to life as you pass beneath them, casting soft, golden glows across shuttered windows and balconies dripping with summer flowers.

You don’t talk much on the drive, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Nanami drives like he lives: measured, focused, never wasting more than he has to. Every so often, you catch him glancing toward you at red lights, like he’s still not entirely sure you’re real.

You arrive at a small restaurant tucked into the hillside just past the marina, a little hidden terrace overlooking the curve of the coast. No sign out front. Just warm yellow lights strung low and the scent of wood smoke and garlic wafting into the street.

“This doesn’t look like the kind of place they put the drivers,” you murmur as he helps you out of the car.

“That’s the point,” he says simply.

The hostess greets him by name, not even surprised to see him. No fanfare. Just familiarity. You’re shown to a small table near the edge of the terrace, the kind with worn wooden chairs and a view that makes you sit back a little slower. The sea stretches wide and dark below, the harbor glittering quietly behind you.

Nanami orders without looking at the menu, something in practiced French. A bottle of wine, too, and water without ice. You watch him as he leans back slightly in his chair, fingers resting on the rim of his glass. The linen shirt clings slightly to his arms now, still damp from the heat of the day, his collar open just enough to soften the edge of him.

The server disappears, and the quiet settles again.

“So,” you say after a beat. “Is this your idea of recovery?”

His mouth lifts slightly. “Better than the fan event.”

You take a sip of wine. “Still sounds like a fine to me.”

“I’ve paid worse.”

You smile, letting the moment breathe. The food arrives not long after—simple dishes, local and warm, the kind that taste better outside under fading light with someone who isn’t pretending to be anyone else.

For a while, you talk about everything but racing. And perfume. The things in between. Where you grew up. The first time he crashed a kart. How you used to try and match scents to people you passed on the street.

“You still do that?” he asks, eyes flicking toward you over the rim of his glass.

“Sometimes.”

“And me?”

You pause, considering. “Something sharp, like cut stone. On the cleaner side of things.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That sounds... impersonal.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. You don’t budge for anyone, but you don’t need to.”

He doesn’t answer, not right away. But he doesn’t look away either.

And under the soft clatter of dishes and the far-off hum of the city below, something between you begins to settle into place.

“So,” you ask, taking a bite of your food, letting the wine smooth out the edges of your nerves, “how’d you get into racing in the first place?”

Nanami exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “You’re not going to sell me to the press, are you?” he says. It’s meant to be a joke, but it lands a little flat, like even he knows it’s just a deflection.

You offer a small smile. “I make no promises,” you joke back. “With the kind of money I’d make from that I wouldn’t need to sell another bottle of perfume for years.”

He chuckles, then he reaches for his glass and finally says, “I didn’t mean to. Not really.”

You look at him, waiting.

“My best friend growing up, Yu, he was the one who was obsessed. We started at this little track near his family’s house. Mostly on weekends and summer breaks. He was the one who read all the specs, memorized every pole position, begged his parents for a secondhand kart.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“When we got older, he wanted to go pro, but I went to law school. Thought I’d grow out of it, eventually. And there’s no guarantees in motorsport, I needed something stable.”

You don’t say anything. Just let the space fill in with the hush of cutlery, the low murmur of other tables.

“He was hit by a car,” Nanami says quietly. “Week before his twentieth birthday. Didn’t make it. I wasn’t even in town for his funeral.”

You mouth hangs open, just a bit.

“I dropped out after that. Took every yen I had, moved to Europe, started over. Didn’t really care about the politics or the sponsors. Still don’t. I just… liked the feeling of being behind the wheel. It was the only thing that made sense.”

You set your fork down, gently.

“And the interviews?” you ask, softer now.

He shakes his head. “They never asked about him. Just about me. And I never had anything worth saying if it wasn’t about him.”

You watch him for a long moment, the lights from the harbor casting soft golden arcs across his features.

“You could’ve walked away,” you murmur. “And you didn’t.”

He looks at you, really looks at you then, and there’s something quiet and raw in his expression. Not grief, exactly—but something that lives just beside it.

“I think,” you say carefully, “he’d be proud.”

He doesn’t reply right away. But then he lifts his glass slightly, toward you.

“Thank you,” he says, voice low.

Your hand finds his across the table, your delicate fingers resting atop his larger ones. The touch is light at first, but he doesn’t move. Just lets your warmth settle there, grounding him.

Nanami glances down at the contact, then back at you. His hand shifts, not to pull away, but to turn beneath yours so your palms meet. His fingers curl gently around yours, like he needed that touch just as much.

The noise around you fades into something distant. The clink of glasses, laughter from a nearby table, the sound of the sea brushing against the marina wall—all of it softened beneath the weight of the moment.

“You didn’t have to tell me any of that,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

He doesn’t speak. There’s a kind of peace in his stillness now. A quiet that feels less like restraint, and more like understanding.

Outside, the sky is deepening into navy blue, the last hints of color giving way to the shimmer of early night.

Nanami gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “You want to go for a walk?”

You nod.

And this time, when you rise from the table, it’s with your fingers still threaded through his.

He walks beside you down the narrow path that winds along the edge of the hill, the restaurant fading behind into soft music and clinking cutlery. The air smells like salt and warm stone, the city lights flickering gently across the bay below.

“How about you?” he asks after a minute. “Why become a perfumer?”

You glance at him, then out toward the water. “My dad was one,” you say delicately. “My dad and my great-aunt. They ran a small lab together in Grasse. I grew up in it. I helped stack blotters in jars, labeled things in terrible handwriting, and got scolded for messing up the oils.”

Nanami doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, eyes on the cobblestone ahead, but tuned completely to your voice.

You pause before continuing.

“But when I was ten, my dad left. Cheated on my mom. Moved to America with his new family.” You exhale, slow and controlled, like you’ve said it before but it still costs you something. “He took the name with him. My mom didn’t want to fight over it. She and my great-aunt started over with what was left.”

His hand tightens around yours—not sharply, just enough that you feel it. Like a presence rather than a reaction.

“They raised me,” you say. “And I guess I always wanted to prove something. That we didn’t need him to keep doing what we loved. That our name wasn’t the only one that meant something in a bottle.”

You look at him then, half expecting pity, but he offers none.

Just understanding.

“You did,” he says softly. “You are.”

For a moment, you’re quiet again, the path ahead lit in gold from a streetlamp clinging to the curve of the road.

Then he adds, a little drier, “Though I’m biased. I helped with your last one.”

That pulls a quiet laugh from you.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Nanami.”

He glances down at you, that same subtle pull at the corner of his mouth.

“Too late.”

You’re mid-laugh, brushing his shoulder as you say something teasing, when the sound of wheels suddenly cuts through the air.

A child rockets down the hill on a bicycle, his laughter echoing off the walls as he barrels past, too unbothered by the curve ahead.

Nanami reacts before you do.

One hand wraps around your waist, the other steadies the small of your back as he pulls you in, tight against him. The bike zips past, barely missing you, the gust of it brushing your skirt.

Your breath catches from the nearness of him.

His chest is firm under your palms, his shirt still faintly warm from the restaurant, smelling of clean linen and the barest trace of something woodsy, something sharp. His hand lingers at your hip, fingers splayed wide like he forgot to let go.

You tilt your head back, eyes meeting his.

He’s close. Closer than before. His brow still slightly furrowed from the reflex, his jaw tight. But it’s his eyes that give him away.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

“I should’ve pulled you sooner,” he says, voice low. “You almost got hurt.”

You shake your head slightly. “No harm done.”

Except your pulse is doing a slow, traitorous thrum beneath your skin. And he still hasn’t let go.

Nanami’s gaze drops, not far. Just to your mouth. Then back up again.

A breath passes between you.

And then, slowly, he steps back. Releases you with the same care he took holding you. His hand brushes along your waist as it slips away, a ghost of contact that lingers longer than it should.

The moment’s over.

“Shall we?” he asks, voice perfectly even.

You nod, heart still a little too loud in your chest. “Yeah. Let’s keep walking.”

You walk for a while without speaking, your footsteps falling in sync as the road curves lower along the coast. The air smells of sea salt and something faintly sweet—maybe someone baking, or citrus trees behind gated villas. The city is quieter now, softened under twilight, Monaco’s usual shine turned more golden than blinding.

You don’t reach for him again, but you’re aware of every inch between your bodies. A distance that feels deliberate. Measured. Like you’re both pretending not to feel the gravity tugging you closer.

“I don’t usually do this,” you say eventually, voice barely above the hush of the waves below.

Nanami glances sideways. “Walks?”

Your mouth quirks. “No. Let strangers pull me into their garages. Let them buy me dinner. Tell them about my father.”

A beat. Then, softly: “I don’t usually tell people about Yu.”

You glance up at him. “So we’re even.”

His eyes catch yours, the quiet understanding still there, but something warmer now underneath it. He nods once.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

You don’t answer right away. The truth is, you’re not sure why you did—at least not in any way that makes sense. You just know that when he looked at you in the garage, oil-smudged and serious, asking if you’d wait… you wanted to.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you admit. “But then I read the papers. Saw your face everywhere.”

He raises a brow. “Recognized me then?”

“No,” you say, teasing. “Still don’t really know who you are.”

That gets a rare smile—something softer, not as carefully managed as the others. “Good.”

You walk in silence again, your shoulder brushing his once, then twice, before either of you adjusts your pace.

“Come on,” he says suddenly, cutting left onto a narrow path that veers uphill. “I want to show you something.”

You hesitate only a second before following. The path is steeper here, lined with ivy-covered stone walls and shuttered doors. You climb higher, the sounds of the street fading below.

When you reach the top, the view opens like a secret—Monaco spread out beneath you, lights glittering against the dark, the sea stretching endless and black beyond the bay.

You breathe in, quiet awe catching in your throat.

“It’s not a podium,” Nanami says beside you. “But it’s close.”

You turn to look at him, but he’s already watching you.

“Step up on that rock,” he says, nodding to a flat stone nestled against the overlook’s edge. “You get a better view.”

You glance at it, then at him.

“You just want an excuse to look at me from below.”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth. “I am nothing but a gentleman.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s heat crawling up your neck as you step up anyway, the stone cool under your heels. He was right—the extra height shifts the whole scene, widening the scope. The harbor glows below like a spilled string of lights, the sea calm and endless beyond it.

But it’s not the view that keeps your attention.

It’s the way Nanami’s watching you.

His hands are in his pockets now, but his shoulders are relaxed, chin tilted slightly back to keep you in frame. There's something unguarded about the way he looks at you now, like he’s not pretending not to want you anymore.

“You were right,” you murmur, gaze flicking back toward the bay. “It’s beautiful.”

He steps closer, just enough that you can feel the heat of him through the soft night air.

“So are you,” he says.

Your eyes meet his again, and this time, neither of you looks away.

The silence stretches.

Then his hands are at your waist, steady and warm, guiding you gently back down from the rock like you’re something fragile, like you’re precious.

And when your feet touch the ground, you don’t let go.

His hands are still at your waist, and yours have found their way to the front of his shirt, fingertips brushing the fabric like they’ve been meaning to settle there all evening.

“Forgive me if I’m reading into this wrong,” he murmurs. His face is mere inches from yours, breath warm against your cheek. “But I can think of nothing else other than kissing you.”

Your pulse flickers, your breath catching.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, your thumb brushes lightly against the collar of his shirt, just above the first button. “You’re not wrong.”

He leans in slowly, giving you space to change your mind.

You don’t.

When his mouth meets yours, it’s careful at first, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to want this.

But you kiss him back, softly at first, then deeper, until the quiet restraint that’s defined every shared glance, every half-smile, finally gives way.

His hand slides up your back, fingers anchoring at your nape, while your body leans into his, instinctive and natural.

The city glitters on, indifferent to your moment.

The kiss deepens with a slow, deliberate ache.

He tilts his head slightly, lips moving against yours with a patience that only makes you want him more. There’s nothing rushed about it—just quiet, measured hunger, like he’s been holding back all day and only now letting it show.

You curl your fingers into the front of his shirt, his chest warm and solid beneath your palm. One of his hands slides to your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek as he coaxes your mouth open, like he’s memorizing the way you taste.

A soft sound escapes you, too quiet to echo, but enough that he hears it.

His mouth lingers just a second longer, before pulling back—barely.

And then: “Ahem!”

The sound snaps you both apart like you’ve been caught stealing something.

You glance to your right.

An older man, walking his tiny dog along the path, gives you both a disapproving squint as he continues past, muttering something in French about “young people” and “no shame.”

Nanami clears his throat, one hand falling from your waist, the other smoothing his shirt like it might help him recover the last minute of composure he just lost.

You stifle a laugh behind your fingers, cheeks flushed.

He looks at you again, jaw ticking, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well,” he murmurs. “That was… untimely.”

You nod, still trying not to laugh. “Very.”

But even as you start walking again, your shoulder brushing his—you know neither of you has forgotten the kiss. Or the way you’ll be thinking about it all night.

By the time you make it back to the car, the night has settled in fully—quiet and warm, the scent of the sea curling in through the open passenger window. Nanami opens the door for you without a word, the gentleman in him never missing a beat, and you slide into the passenger seat with a sigh that’s softer than it should be.

He circles around, settling behind the wheel. The engine hums to life beneath his hands, low and sleek, and the Maserati rolls forward like it’s barely touching the ground.

“Where can I drop you?” he asks after a few quiet blocks, his eyes flicking over to you before returning to the road.

You glance at him, then out at the empty streetlights glinting off shuttered windows and balconies. It feels too early to say goodnight, and too late to pretend this was just dinner.

“My boutique,” you say at last, voice gentle.

He nods, shifting gears like he already knew you’d say that.

“I want to know more about you,” he says, eyes still on the road.

The words aren’t dramatic. They don’t land with a crash. But there’s something about the way he says them—calm, intentional—that makes your breath catch a little.

You glance over at him, finding only sincerity in his profile. The strong line of his jaw. The slight furrow between his brows, like he’s thinking too hard about something that matters more than he’s willing to admit.

“Like what?” you ask, your voice softer now, quieter with the windows rolled down and the wind lifting strands of your hair.

He takes a beat.

“What your favorite scent is,” he says. “What you dreamed about when you were twelve. If you like mornings or if you hate them. If you’re planning on staying in Monaco after this commission’s done.”

You smile—slow, surprised.

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“I have time.”

“Okay,” you say, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Ask me one by one. But you have to answer too.”

Nanami hums in approval, turning onto a quieter street, where the lamplight stretches long across the pavement. “Let’s start simple.”

You glance over at him, waiting.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Twenty-three,” you reply.

He nods once. There’s a pause, brief but noticeable.

You tilt your head. “Your turn.”

“Thirty-one,” he says, eyes still on the road.

The numbers settle between you like a quiet marker. Not alarming, not awkward—just honest.

You glance at him again, thoughtfully. “That’s not so bad.”

He raises an eyebrow, just enough for you to catch it. “Were you expecting it to be?”

“No,” you murmur, smile curling at the edges. “Just… not surprised.”

He doesn’t answer right away. But the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s holding back something wry or self-deprecating.

“Your turn,” he says.

You think for a second.

“What did you want to be when you were little?”

He exhales a short laugh, like the memory surprises him. “I think I wanted to be a writer,” he says. “Or maybe a detective. Something quiet.”

You glance at him, slightly amused. “And instead, you chose the fastest, loudest job imaginable.”

His smile finally breaks through. “I was six.”

The car slows as he nears your street, engine humming low beneath your feet.

“Your turn,” he says again, voice quieter now. “What scent do you love most?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you look out the window, eyes tracing the familiar turn toward your boutique.

“Ambergris,” you say eventually. “It’s rare and very expensive, but it smells exactly like the ocean. It just lingers without asking for attention.”

He pulls up in front of the boutique, shifting the car into park. Then looks at you—really looks.

“That makes sense,” he says.

You glance over. “Why?”

He studies you for a moment longer, his voice soft.

“Because you linger, too.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy and neither of you moves to open the door.

"Do you want to come in?" you ask, fingers resting lightly on the strap of your satchel. "I have work to do, but it's only six… and I think I have a bottle of champagne left from when I signed the lease."

His gaze lifts to the windows of your boutique, still dark behind the shutters. Then back to you.

“You’re offering me cheap champagne and the scent of plaster dust,” he says, the faintest trace of a smile at his lips.

You arch a brow. “That’s the offer, yes.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I’d be an idiot to say no.”

You slide out of the car, footsteps quiet against the cobblestone as you move toward the door. He follows without a word, hands tucked into the pockets of his linen slacks, the evening light soft on his face.

When you unlock the door and step inside, the familiar scent of wood, resin, and unfinished plaster greets you. You flick on the light—just one lamp near the counter—and the space glows with a quiet, golden warmth.

He steps in behind you, gaze drifting across the shelves still half-stacked, the walls still bare.

“It’s different at night,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You slip off your hat by the door, already moving toward the back room, calling over your shoulder, “Make yourself at home. I’ll find the champagne.”

You find the bottle tucked away behind a box of sample vials—still wrapped in the tissue paper the landlord had given you when you signed the lease. A single champagne flute sits in the cabinet above, and you pull out a second, mismatched one from a crate marked “to unpack.”

When you return to the front, Nanami is standing by your workbench again, one hand resting lightly on its edge, eyes scanning the scattered bottles and handwritten notes you’d left from earlier in the day. He hasn’t touched anything, but you can tell he’s paying attention.

You set the glasses down and start working the cork loose.

“It’s not cold,” you warn, tilting the bottle.

“I won’t hold it against you,” he says.

The cork pops a little louder than you meant it to, echoing in the quiet of the boutique. You pour, handing him the less-chipped glass before settling on the stool you’ve claimed as your own over the past few weeks.

Nanami remains standing, sipping carefully, then nods once in approval.

“Not bad.”

You smirk. “You expected worse.”

“I expected something flat. This is… charmingly mediocre.”

You raise your glass. “To mediocrity, then.”

He clinks his against yours.

A quiet stretches between you. He takes another slow sip, then glances around the space again.

“It suits you,” he says.

You swirl your champagne once, letting the bubbles settle. “It’s still a work in progress.”

“So are most things worth doing.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his, and for a moment, neither of you looks away.

Outside, the street is quiet, the world soft with the hush of early night. But in here, there’s something warm building between you—measured, patient, but undeniable.

You take a slow sip and set your glass down. “Do you want to see what I was working on earlier?”

He sets his drink beside yours, stepping closer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Show me.”

You walk him toward the back of the boutique—past boxes of hand-labeled vials, scattered strips of scent blotters, and an old drafting table repurposed into your mixing station. There’s a small amber bottle sitting near the edge, uncapped, waiting.

“I started reworking an old formula after you left,” you explain, reaching for a clean blotter. “I want something I can put on shelves that everyone knows about.”

You hand him the strip, freshly dipped.

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you, like you’ve offered him something more intimate than a piece of paper.

Then, he brings it to his nose.

The reaction is small, just the soft lift of his brows, the almost imperceptible way his eyes narrow, like the scent has caught him off guard.

“It’s familiar,” he murmurs.

“It should be,” you say, offering a small smile. “You inspire finish it.”

You move beside him, shoulders almost touching as you lean forward to adjust the proportions on a handwritten note. “The base is the different, but I added more of what you picked yesterday. I think it finally feels… real.”

He looks down at the bottle again, but then his eyes are on you.

“And what will you call it?”

You pause.

“I haven’t decided,” you admit. “Names come last.”

He studies you for a long moment, the air between you thick with something that isn’t just perfume.

“I think,” he says, voice quiet now, “you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

You blink, unsure how to respond.

“You have a talent for making things feel like they’ve always existed, like they’ve just been waiting to be found.”

You don’t look at him right away. You can’t. Your throat is too tight, your pulse too loud.

Instead, you move to cap the bottle, fingers steady despite the warmth rising in your chest.

And when you do finally turn back, he’s still watching you, like he’s not in a hurry for you to say anything at all.

“I haven’t known you very long,” he says, voice low, the kind of quiet that draws your attention even before the words fully register. “But I really like you.”

You look up at him, caught between surprise and something warmer that’s been building slowly since the night began. His expression is steady, unreadable in that maddeningly calm way of his—but there’s something in the set of his jaw, the way his hand flexes against the edge of the workbench, that gives him away.

You set the capped bottle down between you. “That’s… honest,” you murmur.

“I don’t see the point in anything less.”

His gaze drops briefly—first to your mouth, then lower, to the exposed sliver of collarbone just visible beneath your blouse. When his eyes rise to meet yours again, they’re darker. Focused.

It sends a subtle wave of heat up the back of your neck.

You don’t step away. Neither does he.

The air between you tightens, thrums.

“What is it you like?” you ask quietly, almost a challenge.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a single step closer, close enough now that the scent of your work mixes with the crisp linen of his shirt, the faint trace of his skin beneath it.

“I like that you don’t fawn over me,” he says, his voice lower now. “That you looked me in the eye before you knew who I was.”

You tilt your chin, breath catching. “And now that you know I know?”

His hand lifts—slowly, deliberately—brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, feather-light against your jaw.

“I like that you still look at me the same way.”

Your pulse flutters beneath his touch. You’re sure he can feel it.

Neither of you moves for a long, suspended second.

Then, barely a whisper, “Do you want me to stop?”

Your breath slips out shakily.

“No,” you say, almost too quickly. “I don’t.”

His hand slides fully to the side of your face now, fingers curling behind your neck—not rough, but sure. His thumb brushes along your jaw as he leans in, eyes flicking to your mouth just before his lips meet yours.

The kiss is warm at first. Controlled.

Measured.

Like everything else he does, it starts with intention.

But then you respond.

Your hand lifts, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt just over his heart, and something in him shifts. The restraint breaks.

He kisses you deeper—his other hand bracing against the workbench behind you, caging you in. His body presses in closer, firm and solid against yours, and you gasp softly into his mouth when his lips part yours with a heat that steals the breath from your lungs.

His mouth moves with purpose like he’s been waiting for permission and now refuses to waste a second.

You pull him in harder, your side hitting the wall. His hands slip to your waist, fingers splayed, gripping you like he needs the anchor, like the scent of your skin is something he’s desperate to memorize.

You’re not sure how long it lasts.

Time loses shape.

There’s only the brush of his mouth, the soft catch of your breath, the quiet sigh that escapes you when his tongue strokes against yours—and the low groan that rumbles from his chest in response.

By the time you break apart, your lips are kiss-swollen and your breath comes in shallow pulls.

His forehead rests lightly against yours, breath still uneven, but his hands steady now—one still on your waist, the other resting just beside you on the bench, giving you space even as he stays close.

“I won’t go farther if you don’t want me to,” he says, voice low, nearly a whisper against your lips. “I really do like you. And I am a patient man. I can wait.”

Your fingers are still curled in his shirt, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. He hasn’t pulled away. But he doesn’t press in either.

Just waits.

Your gaze lifts to meet his, and what you find there makes your pulse trip all over again—want, yes, but tempered with something gentler. Something careful.

“I won’t make you wait,” you say, pressing a peck against his jaw. “Not when I want you just as badly.”

You feel the way his breath hitches slightly at your words. His hand at your waist tightens, fingers flexing as if he's grounding himself, resisting the urge to close the space between you again too quickly.

He turns his head, brushing his nose against your cheek, lips ghosting over your skin. “Say it again.”

You tilt your chin, letting your mouth find his ear.

“I want you, Kento.”

This time, he doesn’t hold back.

His mouth finds yours, hungrily, with none of the earlier restraint. His hand slides up your spine as his tongue slips past your lips, tasting, claiming, like he’s been waiting all day for this—like he’d kept it bottled somewhere deep behind his calm exterior until now.

You gasp softly against him, your back arching as his body presses flush to yours, the heat of him making your head spin. The scent of him floods your senses, grounding you even as everything tilts.

His hand cradles the back of your neck, holding you there as he deepens the kiss, slow but intense, lips moving against yours like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, desperate to pull him closer, to feel more.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, your lips are tingling, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, voice rough against your skin, “since the moment I walked into your shop.”

You smile, dizzy and breathless.

“I knew you were trouble the second you touched that bottle,” you whisper.

His mouth brushes your cheek, your jaw, your throat—hungry again already. “Then it’s mutual.”

He works his way down, peppering slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your jaw, then lower, down the column of your throat, to the soft slope of your collarbone. You tilt your head back to give him space, your breath catching each time his lips meet skin.

His hands are patient, practiced. They find the buttons of your blouse, undoing them one by one, with the kind of care that feels more intimate than haste. When the last button gives, he eases the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind you.

What’s left is your slip—a delicate, lace-trimmed undergarment in soft ivory, the kind worn beneath dresses in the summer, structured yet feminine. It hugs your figure in all the ways that matter, the satin catching the low light of the workbench lamp.

He exhales like he’s just seen something sacred.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, not in awe, but reverence like the word was made for you.

You reach for him again, tugging him closer by a belt loop on his pants.

“Come here,” you whisper.

His mouth finds yours again. You respond in kind, hands fisting in the linen of his shirt as your back hits the edge of an unfinished cabinet behind you. It’s half-constructed, shelves still bare, wood unpainted, the scent of sawdust lingering in the corners of the boutique.

You stumble back together, tangled in each other, laughter catching in your throat before it’s swallowed by another kiss. His hands slide to your hips, gripping firmly, guiding you up as you shift—half-sitting, half-leaning—against the wooden structure, your legs parting instinctively to let him settle between them.

The hard edge of the shelf presses into your thigh, but the only thing you feel is the heat of him, his palms skating over your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your slip. His lips drag along your jaw, your neck, the place just below your ear where your breath stutters.

You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the room.

“I need to sit,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch his breath. His voice is warm with affection, but there’s a touch of gravel in it now—strained, uneven. “Forgive me… my knees are going to give out.”

You smile against his mouth, breathless, lips tingling. “I thought race car drivers had stamina.”

“I do,” he says, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “But I also crashed yesterday.”

Fair enough.

He lowers himself onto the stool again, settling with a soft exhale as his back meets the wall. You follow without a word, slipping sideways into his lap, your knees bracketing his thigh, one arm looping around the back of his neck.

He lets out the faintest groan when you settle against him, hands instinctively coming to rest on your hips. His palm slides up, slow and steady, until it rests just beneath your ribs, anchoring you in place.

For a moment, you just look at each other, your breath mingling in the space between you, your fingers toying with the buttons near his collar, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath heavy lashes.

“I could stay like this,” he says quietly, voice close to your ear now, rougher with honesty than heat.

“So stay,” you whisper, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “No one’s asking you to go.”

You nip gently at the soft skin of his earlobe, and he exhales sharply through his nose. Your mouth trails from there, slow and unhurried, pressing wet kisses along the strong curve of his jaw.

His skin is warm, still carrying the faint trace of whatever cologne clung to the collar of his shirt.

Your hand slides up into his hair, fingers curling tight for a moment, before you loosen your grip, moving down to the buttons of his linen shirt. One by one, you undo them with quiet precision, the fabric parting beneath your fingers to reveal the hard lines of his chest and the soft rise and fall of his breath.

He watches you closely the entire time, eyes dark, jaw set, but not stopping you.

When the last button gives, you push the shirt open, your hands resting lightly against his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heartbeat under your palms.

“You’re very quiet,” you murmur, pressing a kiss just below his ear.

He swallows, voice rough when it finally comes. “I’m trying not to lose my mind.”

His hand lifts gently to your chin, fingers warm beneath your jaw as he coaxes your gaze away from his chest and back up to his eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs—low, steady. There’s a softness in the way he looks at you, like he wants you to feel everything, not just rush past it.

And then his mouth is on yours again.

His lips move against yours with a kind of quiet urgency, like he’s afraid of forgetting how you taste if he stops for even a second.

His hand stays on your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge gently as your mouth parts for him again, and you feel him sigh—into you, through you—as if kissing you is the only thing anchoring him right now.

You shift in his lap, drawn closer by instinct, and his other hand slides down to grip your thigh, grounding both of you in the middle of the barely-finished boutique, between scent bottles and blueprints and dust.

Your legs bracket his, one tucked between his thighs, the other hooked snugly over his left leg. The position draws you closer, chest to chest, your breath mingling as the kiss deepens.

“Need more,” you murmur, the words slipping out between kisses, barely coherent.

Your hips shift on instinct, a slow, investigative roll against him, and his grip on your waist tightens in response. His breath catches, a stifled sound that makes your stomach twist, and when he breaks the kiss, his forehead drops to yours.

“You’re going to ruin me,” Nanami whispers, voice ragged.

His hands slide down to your hips, fingers firm, guiding your movements as you rock against him. Even through layers of fabric, the friction is electric, every shift sending sparks up your spine. Nanami’s eyes are half-lidded, gaze fixed on you with a hunger that makes your pulse race.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “Just like that. Let me feel you.” His voice is low, rough with restraint, and the way he holds you makes you feel cherished and wanted all at once.

Your breaths come faster, mingling with his as you move together, the press of your bodies and the heat building between you. His thigh flexes beneath you and you can’t help the soft sound that escapes you as the coil tightens in your belly.

Nanami’s hand slips up your back, drawing you closer still. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, and the sincerity in his voice makes your heart flutter.

As pleasure finally begins to rip through you, Nanami’s hands move gently. He brushes his lips along your jaw, then trails them down to your shoulder once again. With a soft question in his eyes, he slides his fingers to the straps of your slip, giving you a moment to nod your consent.

Slowly, he eases the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall away and leave your upper body bare to the cool air and his admiring gaze. His breath catches, his eyes drinking you in. His hands trace lightly over your skin, his touch feather-light, as if committing every detail to memory.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I have had the privilege of seeing,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. He presses a gentle kiss to your collarbone, then another to your heart, holding you close as you come down from your high.

His lips find their way back to yours, each kiss a gentle promise. “Let me taste you,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice deep and intent. With surprising strength, he rises, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. He lowers you to the floor with careful precision, his movements both protective and yearning.

As you settle beneath him, Nanami pauses, a rueful smile touching his lips. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

“I must confess,” he says softly, a hint of dry humor threading through his words, “this isn’t quite how I imagined our first time—on the floor, of all places.”

He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, then meets your gaze.

His eyes flash with something you haven’t seen before.

“But I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.”

His hands roam delicately over your skin, exploring as if memorizing every detail. The floor may be hard and the moment unexpected, but the warmth between you is undeniable. He lowers himself, lips trailing along the outline of your breasts.

“Tell me if you’re uncomfortable,” he whispers, his voice a gentle invitation. “I want you to feel safe with me, always.”

You nod, your hands coming up to his face, bringing him back down toward you.

Your legs fold under you, allowing space for Nanami’s larger body to fit atop of yours.

Nanami’s gaze searches yours, patient and attentive, as if he’s reading every unspoken word. He leans in, his forehead resting gently against yours, and you feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breath.

“I trust you,” you whisper, your voice soft but certain.

His hand lifts off of the ground, cupping your breast, and delicately massaging the underside.

His lips curve into a gentle smile, and he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his fingers lingering with care.

Your head tips back, feeling a warmth blossom in your chest. With every touch, every look, Nanami makes it clear that your comfort comes first. The world outside seems to fade away, replaced by the quiet intimacy you share.

His mouth finds your nipple, latching on and suckling on the bud gently. Your hands are tangled in his hair. Around his neck. On his shoulders, your nails digging into him slightly.

And when he licks his way down your body—your dress and slip discarded somewhere in your boutique—your back arches off of the ground, trying to find more friction. Any friction.

“Lift,” he whispers, a roughness in his voice you haven’t heard before. Two of his fingers tap at your hips, and you comply, pushing your feet into the ground as you raise your hips.

Nanami’s index fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to pool at your ankles. His lips, now wet and swollen, make contact with the skin at your pelvis, trailing open mouthed kisses down toward where you need him most.

Your hand moves slowly, from the ground up toward his head, pushing him down more aggressively than you had initially meant to.

He breaks contact, sitting upright on his knees, and his eyes meeting yours.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he says. “Good things come to girls who wait.”

You groan at the loss of contact. “Please, Kento. I can’t wait much longer.”

Your hips lift again, this time wiggling upward toward him, begging for him to touch you anywhere.

Nanami’s eyes darken with desire as he watches your pleading movements, the air between you thick with anticipation. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his gaze back to your exposed skin, his breath warm against your sensitive flesh. His fingers trail lightly along your inner thigh, sending shivers through you, before he finally leans in again.

His thumb glides gently along your center, gathering your arousal with a slow, deliberate touch that sends a shiver through your whole body. He brings his fingers to his lips, tasting you with a quiet, appreciative hum before letting them slip free, glistening in the low light.

His gaze meets yours before he lowers his hand again. With exquisite care, he slips a finger inside you, the movement unhurried and attentive, as if he’s savoring every reaction you give him. He sets a steady rhythm, his touch both patient and purposeful, coaxing pleasure from you with every gentle thrust.

His free hand rests on your hip, grounding you, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your skin. Each sensation is heightened by the way he watches you, utterly focused, as if you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“So wet,” he murmurs.

His lips linger on your skin, each kiss a gentle promise that leaves your nerves tingling. The teasing is exquisite—every touch, every press of his mouth against your knee, stoking the fire building inside you. When his tongue finally traces a slow, deliberate path up your inner thigh, your breath catches.

He pauses, teeth grazing the soft curve of your thigh in a playful bite, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. The warmth of his breath fans over your most sensitive skin as he peppers kisses closer to where you need him most, each one drawing out a fresh wave of longing.

When his mouth finally finds you, the sensation is overwhelming. He takes his time, savoring every reaction, every gasp and shiver. The world narrows to the press of his lips, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue, and the way his hands anchor you.

With every caress, he’s not just exploring your body—he’s worshipping it, making you feel cherished and seen. The pleasure builds in slow, steady waves, each one higher than the last, until you’re lost in the rhythm of his devotion, the world beyond the two of you fading away completely

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as waves of pleasure build. The world narrows to the two of you, your breaths mingling, hearts pounding in sync. He’s now three fingers deep, stretching out your cunt, showing you just how much he’s captivated by you.

His name tumbles from your lips as you come undone.

Nanami slows, grounding you with gentle touches as you ride out your orgasm.

He withdraws his hand with care, then shifts back, reaching for his belt. The sound of his zipper is quiet but electric, anticipation humming between you as he slides his pants down and off.

His cock springs free— long and thick and angry at the tip. It slaps against his lower stomach with a vulgar noise, precum leaking down his length slowly.

You catch your breath, eyes widening as you take him in. He notices your hesitation, pausing to search your face. “Is this your first time?” he asks quietly.

You nod, cheeks flushed. “I want to… I just— I’ve never—” Your gaze drops, lingering on the space between you.

He moves closer, cupping your cheek. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he murmurs, voice low and reassuring. “But if you want this, I’ll go slow. I promise.”

You glance down, nerves fluttering in your stomach. “You’re… bigger than I expected,” you admit, a nervous laugh escaping you.

Nanami smiles, gentle and understanding, a soft laugh escaping his mouth. “We’ll take our time,” he assures you, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Tell me if anything hurts, and I’ll stop. I want this to be good for you—only if you’re ready.”

He leans in, kissing you softly, letting you feel his patience and care with every touch, making sure you know you’re safe, wanted, and never rushed.

Nanami’s hands cradle your thighs, spreading them. He settles between you, his gaze searching yours for any sign of hesitation. You nod, giving him silent permission, and he positions himself at your entrance, the anticipation making your heart race.

You feel the gentle pressure as his tip begins to enter you, your breath catching at the unfamiliar stretch. Instinctively, you tense, a soft wince escaping your lips. Nanami immediately stills, his hands soothing over your hips, his voice calming.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a reassuring kiss to your forehead. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”

You bite your lip, nerves and anticipation mingling. “Is it in yet?” you whisper, glancing up at him.

He lets out a low, shaky breath, his restraint evident. “We’re about halfway,” he admits, his voice thick with both concern and desire. “You’re so tight… it’s almost too much.”

A flicker of doubt crosses your face. “It won’t fit,” you say, your nails digging into his arms as you try to anchor yourself.

He meets your gaze, his eyes full of warmth and encouragement. “You can take it,” he assures you, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Just relax for me, yeah? I’ll take care of everything.”

He moves slowly, his hands never leaving your skin, grounding you as he begins to press forward. The stretch is intense, and you tense instinctively, a small gasp escaping you. Nanami pauses, brushing your cheek with his thumb, his voice a soothing anchor. “Breathe with me,” he murmurs, waiting for you to relax, his patience unwavering.

You focus on his touch, the warmth of his body, and the trust in his eyes. Gradually, you adjust, your body yielding to him. The discomfort fades, replaced by a new, overwhelming sensation—pleasure blooming where there was once tension.

He moves with care, watching your reactions, letting you set the pace. Soon, the pain is a distant memory, replaced by a deep, rolling pleasure that makes you cling to him, your breaths mingling as you move together.

“That’s it,” he whispers, awe in his voice. “You’re perfect. Just like this.”

Nanami’s head rests near your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back, grounding yourself in the overwhelming sensations. The room is filled with the sounds of his grunts and your screams. The world outside fades away and your vision goes white.

If anyone were to look through the window, they’d find you an unclothed, cock-drunk mess on the floor— courtesy of Nanami thrusting deep in places you didn’t know existed inside of you.

“It’s too much,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you shift beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of sensation.

Nanami’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he steadies you. “Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes, his tone gentle and encouraging. “You’re doing so well for me.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. When you instinctively tighten around him, he lets out a shaky laugh, his control wavering. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “If you keep that up, I won’t last much longer.”

You meet his gaze, a flush rising to your cheeks at the vulnerability in his eyes. He slows his movements, giving you time to adjust, his thumb tracing comforting circles on your hip.

“Just focus on me,” he says softly.

Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps as the pleasure builds, overwhelming and all-consuming. “I’m close,” you manage, voice trembling. “I think—I don’t know, it just feels so good.”

Nanami’s grip tightens on your hand, his own restraint slipping as he meets your gaze, eyes dark with longing. “Me too,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Just hold onto me.”

The rhythm between you grows frantic, both of you chasing that final, shattering release. His words—soft, encouraging, reverent—anchor you as the sensation crests, your bodies moving in perfect sync. In one breathless moment, the world falls away, and you both come undone together— his name on your lips, your on his, his arms holding you close as you ride out the aftermath side by side.

He pulls out of you, the sensation leaving you feeling empty. With gentle care, his hand moves between your thighs, rubbing once more at your clit, his touch lingering as he traces the evidence of your shared release. He brings his fingers to your lips, his gaze locked on yours, warm and intent.

“Open for me,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Taste the mess you’ve made.”

You part your lips, letting him press his fingers gently to your tongue. Afterward, the room is quiet but for the sound of your mingled heartbeats and gentle, contented breaths. Nanami presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your back.

“You were perfect,” he whispers, awe and affection in every word.

You rest against him, cheek pressed to his shoulder, limbs boneless and warm. He wraps an arm around you carefully, protective without being possessive, the pads of his fingers tracing idle shapes along your spine as your breathing slows.

After a beat, he leans back just enough to look at you, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

“Are there any towels in the back?” he asks softly, voice low, grounding. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”

You nod sleepily, pointing toward the curtained hallway near the rear storage room. “Stack in the cabinet beside the sink.”

He kisses your forehead, then slips away with quiet efficiency, disappearing into the shadows. You hear drawers opening, a tap running briefly, and when he returns, it’s with warm water and soft linen.

He kneels in front of you without a word, gentle and unhurried as he helps you feel like yourself again—caring for you in a way that says more than any compliment ever could.

When it’s done, he helps you slip back into your clothes, fastens the buttons with surprising care, and reaches for the bottle of champagne you’d been drinking earlier.

“You still want that toast?” he asks, raising the bottle slightly, a rare glint of playfulness in his eyes.

You nod, smiling as he pops the cork. He hands you your cup and sits beside you, your bare knees brushing.

“To your boutique,” he says softly, raising his glass.

“To your first place finish tomorrow,” you counter, clinking it against his.

The champagne is warm and flat, but neither of you seem to mind.

You lean your head against his shoulder, and he tips his glass back, his free hand finding yours again.

“Come tomorrow,” he says, quiet but sure, the way everything he says is. “To my race.”

You take a sip of the warm champagne, eyes still on the rim of your glass as you reply, “Can’t,” a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve distracted me far too much, Mr. Nanami.”

He lets out a soft laugh, low and almost private, as if he’s not used to being told no—but is strangely delighted by it when it comes from you.

“Is that what I’ve done?” he asks, turning slightly to face you better. “Distracted you?”

You finally meet his gaze. “Completely. And I do have a boutique to finish setting up, you know.”

“Right,” he nods, but the glimmer in his eyes betrays him. “Don’t let me get in the way.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, the gentle clink of glass against wood filling the silence as you tidy up the space around you—folding a stray cloth, straightening a few scattered bottles. Your hands move on autopilot, but your mind’s already slipping ahead, out of this room, out of this night.

He watches you, then breaks the stillness with a question that lands heavier than you expect.

“When do you leave?”

You pause, your fingers brushing over the rim of a glass before curling into your palm.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Soon, I think.”

Nanami shifts on the stool, his eyes following you as you move. “I can extend my stay,” he says, steady and certain in the way only he can be. “I want to see you again.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“That’s not the best idea,” you say softly.

His brows furrow, not in anger, but confusion. Maybe even hurt.

“Why not?”

You exhale through your nose, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you’ll be gone again in a week. And I’ll be back in Grasse.”

He opens his mouth, like he wants to argue, but you hold up a hand.

“I’ve seen how this works,” you continue. “You live on tracks and in hotel rooms and in front of cameras. I’m simple, and we’re both busy, and you live this fancy life, and we… We don’t exactly… fit.”

There’s a long pause.

“But it felt like we did,” he says, and it’s so quiet, you almost miss it.

You turn away, suddenly too aware of how close he still is. “It’s not that simple, Nanami. You and me—it’s not real. Our lives are too different.”

You hear the stool scrape against the wood floor, then the soft hush of his footsteps crossing the boutique. They stop just a breath away.

“Why won’t you at least try?” he asks, voice low but unmistakably strained. “We can make it work. I can write letters, send postcards. I’ll fly you out for all the European races. Hell, I’ll take the train if you hate flying. Just—don’t walk away from this before it even starts.”

You turn to face him, your mouth already drawn tight with the ache you’ve been trying to swallow since he kissed you the first time.

“It’s not about trains or flights, Nanami,” you snap, sharper than intended. “It’s about reality.”

His brows crease. “Reality is whatever we decide to make of it.”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head, “reality is that you’ll be gone again in two days, and I’ll be here, sweeping dust off the floor and trying to get this place to open before summer ends. While you’re on podiums and avoiding magazine covers, and getting asked to dinner in every country you visit.”

“You think I care about any of that?” he says, incredulous now, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Do you think I want champagne parties and interviews and—being chased down the street? I hate that part of this.”

“Then why do you do it?” you fire back. “If you hate it so much, why not just leave?”

“Because I love racing,” he says, like it costs him something to admit it. “Because I made a promise to someone who never got the chance to chase this dream. And because it’s the only thing that makes sense most days.”

You stare at him, and something inside you twists.

“And I love what I do,” you whisper. “But I don’t expect anyone to wait around while I chase it.”

He steps closer, jaw clenched. “I’m not asking you to wait. I’m asking you to try. That’s all. We met a few days ago, and I already know I’ll regret it if I don’t fight for this.”

Your voice is quiet now, but no less sharp. “And I already know it’ll hurt more if I let myself believe you mean that.”

The silence that follows is thick like the whole room is holding its breath.

Finally, he says, softer, “So that’s it?”

You look at him, and for a moment, it feels like your heart might break under the weight of his gaze.

“I don’t know,” you say. “But I need space to think. And you… you have a really big day tomorrow, so you should go.”

He nods, jaw tight, the muscle ticking as he turns slightly—like he might leave. But then he looks at you one last time.

“I meant it,” he says. “All of it.”

And then, without waiting for a reply, he walks toward the door.

Nanami’s hands are sweaty, his gloves damp despite the leather’s grip. The temperature in the car is really hot.

He rounds turn eleven during Q3, the tires screaming just a little too loud as they catch the edge of the curbing. His jaw tightens.

The engine roars in his ears, but his mind is sharp, steady. There’s only one lap left. One shot.

He calculates it in a heartbeat—Gojo, Fushiguro, and Zenin are ahead. Barely.

He’s P4.

Just tenths of a second separate them, and he knows their driving styles as intimately as his own. Gojo overdrives the straights, Fushiguro’s quick through tight corners but burns tires fast, and Zenin is ruthless, but predictable.

If he plays his cards right—tightens his line through the chicane, keeps the throttle steady through the tunnel, shaves time off in sector three—he can catch up. Maybe not all of them. But at least one.

Maybe two.

And maybe, if the universe doesn’t hate him today, all three.

He exhales once, eyes narrowing beneath the visor. The blur of Monaco’s cityscape whips past him, but all he sees are his marks. His gaps. His openings.

Turn twelve—tight, downhill, dangerous.

He brakes later than he should, later than anyone else would dare. The tires scream, the rear twitches under him, but he holds it. Just enough grip to slip past Zenin, who’s forced wide and loses the line.

P3.

He doesn’t celebrate. No time. He’s already recalculating.

Gojo is ahead, quick as ever, but messy under pressure. Nanami takes the tunnel clean, narrows the gap by half a second. Gojo swings wide, Nanami takes the inside.

P2.

His heart hammers, sweat trailing along his spine. He doesn’t blink.

Sector three now.

Fushiguro’s precise. Even though it’s his first season, he’s almost too perfect. But perfection is brittle under heat.

Nanami pushes the engine harder, clips the apex like muscle memory, tires barely grazing the barrier. He knows this car and it listens to him now like it was made for this moment.

The final corner comes and goes in a blink.

He’s inside. Fushiguro tries to defend, but there’s no room. Not unless he wants contact. Not unless he wants to lose everything.

He lifts.

Nanami’s through.

P1.

The straight opens ahead. The crowd is a blur—flashes of white gloves and waving flags. The checkered flag rises into view.

The engine’s screaming at redline, and Nanami crosses the line with a full car length to spare.

First.

The radios burst to life—his engineer yelling, the garage roaring, someone laughing through static.

But Nanami says nothing.

He exhales again, slower this time.

Under the helmet, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

He won.

Mechanics swarm the car before the engine even cools, team radios barking, photographers he’s trying to avoid already jostling for angles.

He unclips the wheel, hands trembling slightly. He’s soaked through, suit clinging to his spine, chest rising and falling under the weight of it all.

He climbs out slowly, methodically—no fist-pumping, no yelling. Just the quiet stillness of a man who doesn’t need to scream to know he earned this.

The cheers roll down from the stands like thunder. But he doesn’t really hear them.

His helmet comes off.

His blond hair is flattened with sweat, face streaked with grit, but his eyes sharp— looking for you.

“Nanami!” a team member shouts, clapping him hard on the back. “You fucking did it!”

He barely nods before being pulled away.

First stop: the weigh-in station. Every driver is weighed post-race to ensure minimum weight requirements. He steps onto the scale, tired but upright, and a steward records the number before waving him off.

Then the media zone. Bright lights, too many microphones. A blur of questions he half-hears, and avoids.

“Nanami, how does it feel—?”

“Three back-to-back wins—what changed this weekend?”

“Talk us through that pass on Fushiguro—”

He waves them off, refusing to answer.

And then he’s moving again—past the cameras, through the tunnel of crew members offering slaps on the back, hugs, champagne flutes shoved into his hands.

There’s a podium ceremony to prep for.

The white Maserati race suit is peeled off and replaced with a clean one, zipped halfway as he walks out into the golden hour light of Monte Carlo, sun dipping toward the sea.

Gojo’s already on the second step, grinning like a lunatic. Fushiguro stands on the third, jaw tight, refusing to look anyone in the eye.

Nanami takes the top step.

The anthem plays. The flags rise. He doesn’t blink.

When the champagne sprays, he lifts the bottle, but barely raises his arm.

The moment protocol lets him breathe, he’s gone, pushing through the maze of garages and crew tents, pace urgent but composed.

He only stops once—at a little flower stall tucked beside the marina. The woman behind the cart recognizes him immediately, mouth agape, but says nothing as he gestures toward the simplest bouquet she has: cream roses, lavender sprigs, something fragrant and soft.

“For someone special?” she asks, eyes twinkling.

He only nods.

He drives fast—quieter roads now, the Grand Prix chaos receding behind him, the Maserati gleaming under the falling sun as it winds through the narrow city streets toward your boutique.

The windows are dark when he gets there. Still half-built, still quiet. But the door is unlocked—just slightly ajar—and that’s when he sees him.

The architect. The same one from that first day. He looks up from a blueprint, blinking at the sound of the bell.

Nanami steps inside, bouquet still in hand.

Your name falls from his lips when he walks in, posed more as a question.

“She’s not here,” the man says gently. “She left this morning. Said she had to return to Grasse to finalize something.”

Nanami’s lips part. “She didn’t—she didn’t say goodbye.”

“She said she’ll be back next weekend,” the man adds, scratching behind his ear. “Didn’t mention much else.”

Nanami stands still for a long beat. The bouquet hangs loosely at his side, the scent of the flowers mixing with faint traces of dust and wood glue still lingering in the air.

Next weekend.

He nods once, quietly and then he leaves, the door closing softly behind him.

By morning, he’s already on a plane to his next race—another country, another city, another track.

But the bouquet?

He leaves it behind on your workbench.

TO BE CONTINUED...

taglist: @bluukive @callme-naomi @seellove @southrasiansandas @roresgf @bxnfire @seokjinfairy @araveticazx @mylilsodapop @nanasrambelingsons @dilfkentolover @papoiyu @hannibuttered @cherryredkissez @tqrxi @angelkiyo @caffine-exe @meikstv @crustyaintdusty

#tbr

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cupc4keics · 14 days ago

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MOMMY ISSUES ?!?

cw: megumi with mommy issues, age gap, mommy!kînk, milf!reader (in a way), landlady!reader, subby gumi, hàndjob, he's a mess, usage of “good boy” (all the characters are 18+)

megumi thought he was untouchable. a sorcerer. disciplined and sharp-edged.

at nineteen, he’d faced curses without blinking, summoned shikigami with a steady hand, and moved into his new apartment near college like it was just another mission.

he was in control. always.

until you. you, his landlord, with your soft curves and warm eyes. you, with that motherly smile that unraveled him like a loose thread.

the first time he met you, cookies in hand, your sundress clinging to your hips, he’d choked on his own tongue. tried not to stare at the swell of your breasts as you leaned close, pointing out the apartment’s quirks. your scent—vanilla, soft, home—lingered in his head for days.

he was screwed. his mommy issues, buried deep, clawed their way out.

now, weeks later, he’s in your apartment, on your couch, head in your lap, your thighs, plush and warm, cradle his cheek.

he’s shaking, not like the first time, when he played it cool—a shrug, a lazy lean, all casual. now? he’s a mess.

your fingers weave through his dark hair, slow and gentle, each stroke sparks down his spine, your other hand rests low. too low, right on the waistband of his sweats.

“you’re so tense, megumi,” you murmur, voice warm, low, a lullaby with teeth. “always carrying so much, aren’t you? no one teaches boys like you how to let go.”

he swallows hard, can’t speak, just breathes you in—your scent, the silk of your robe brushing his skin.

your fingers dip under his shirt, grazing his stomach. his muscles jump. his cock twitches, already straining against his sweats. don’t look at her tits, he chants in his head. but they’re there, spilling soft against your robe, so close he could turn his head and—

no. he won’t. he’s not that guy.

“you’re always doing so much for others,” you say, your hand sliding lower. “let mommy take care of you for once.”

mommy.

the word hits like a curse, searing through him. his breath stutters. your fingers press down, right over the ache in his pants. he chokes, body stiffening, thighs tensing under your touch. you smile. like you’ve found a secret you’ll keep forever.

“already so worked up,” you whisper, brushing over the bulge. “been holding this in all day, haven’t you? just waiting for mommy’s attention.” he nods, barely, shamefully. his face burns, pressed into your lap.

your hand slips under the waistband, warm and sure, wrapping around his cock. he gasps, a soft noise dying in your thigh. slow, gentle strokes. his hips twitch, desperate for more.

“such a good boy,” you praise, your voice velvet. his cock throbs in your grip, leaking precum, slicking your palm. you pump him with long, careful strokes, watching his face—brows knitting, jaw clenching, legs twitching. he’s trying so hard to be quiet.

“you can make noise, baby,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss his temple. “it’s just me. mommy won’t mind.” he doesn’t. he bites his knuckle instead, body shuddering as you stroke faster, tighter. you squeeze near the tip, and he whines, breath ragged.

“does that feel good, sweetheart?” he nods, eyes squeezed shut, too embarrassed to meet your gaze. “good,” you hum. “then be a sweetheart and give it to me. just like this.” your other hand keeps petting his hair, grounding him.

your breasts are so close, the robe slipping, revealing soft, heavy curves. he wants to bury his face there, lose himself in your warmth. the thought alone has him throbbing harder. your strokes quicken, slick and steady, the wet sounds filling the room.

“look at you,” you coo, bending close, breath hot against his ear. “so pretty like this, all needy for mommy.” he’s unraveling. “m-mommy,” he gasps, voice breaking, hips bucking into your hand.

“that’s it,” you soothe, twisting your wrist just right. he’s done for. ropes of tension snap, and he spills, hot and thick, coating your hand, his stomach, your fingers. he gasps into your lap, voice hoarse, low, broken.

you stroke him through every twitch, every shudder, soft praises falling like a lullaby. “there we go, baby. that’s mommy’s good boy.”

he doesn’t flinch at the word anymore. not when it’s true. not when he’s safe, soft, yours. you slow your strokes, letting him catch his breath, his head still nestled in your lap. your thighs cage him, warm and steady.

he opens his eyes, dazed, to find you licking your fingers clean, eyes locked on his, hungry and fond. “feeling better, sweetheart?” you ask, all sweet mischief. he nods, too wrecked to speak but you’re not done. you lean down, lips brushing his ear.

“next time, mommy’s gonna take you in her mouth,” you whisper. “you’ve earned it.” his cock twitches again, half-hard already.

he’s doomed.

and he’s never felt so safe.

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cupc4keics · 14 days ago

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Knight of Roses - G.S.

Synopsis. You, heir to the throne and fated to be married off to a royal you’ve never even met. Gojo Satoru, your personal knight and the one man that will not let this happen. He will not.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! princess! reader, knight! Gojo, childhood-friends-to-Iovers, PINING, arranged marriages, Naoya is awful, Gojo YEARNS, flower language, politics, slight víolence, slight angst, matíng presses, cervíx kíssing, creampíes, cúmplay, PÚSSYDRÚNK GOJO, oraI (fem rec), he goes FÉRAL, cúmming in his pants, manhandIing, spítting, biiig stretches, dúmbifícation, cúmflation, p talking, p sIapping, overstím, proposals, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 12.7k

A/N. What happens when ya let a girl listen to Golden Brown by The StrangIers.

“You are not to speak, you are not to look.” The king intertwines his decadently ringed fingers on his lap, the royal signet glinting pointedly amongst them. “You are not to so much as breathe in the princess’s way from tomorrow onwards.”

And it’s only with his hard-earned years as your knight that Gojo stops himself from shuddering where he knelt, head bowing to hide the clench in his jaw.

Though, surely something must have flashed across his features - because the next few words have a familiar warmth that twisted Gojo’s heart much more than his royal timbre, “Satoru, my boy, you understand that this is your duty? Yes?”

“I understand.” The answer is instant, as is the raise of the other man’s brows.

“And do you understand that this marriage is my daughter’s duty?” Your father barks out a disbelieving laugh into the barren throne room. “We wouldn’t want Prince Naoya getting the wrong idea between the princess and a- a knight.”

The words make his eyes prick wetly, and Gojo can’t help but bend even lower as he whispers. “I…I understand, sir.”

After all, it was the second thing that Gojo Satoru had drilled into his mind from the very moment he first met you.

The first being that he’s loved you ever since.

Which - retrospectively speaking - might’ve been an incredibly bold declaration coming from the scrawny, fidgeting six-year-old you happened to catch sneaking in and stealing lilac blooms from the royal garden all those years ago.

He remembers how you’d giggled, looking positively like a little blossom in all those gauzy layers of gown. Piping up from under the lilac tree he was latched onto, “My father says that’s not allowed.”

Gojo had fallen then - literally, startling about six feet from the branch he’d been straddling and straight into a scratchy pile of leaves with a dull thud! Back hurting, head spinning, it was a wonder that he hadn’t sprained anything, but right then and there he remembers thinking he was in heaven.

Because here was a pretty lil’ angel his age ogling down at him, speaking in a regal accent so different from his. “My father says that’s not allowed either.”

Your grin beamed down on him and warmed his skin even more scorchingly than the balmy rays of sunlight filtering in through the leaves. And for the first time ever in his life, Gojo Satoru had stuttered.

“Yer- yer father sounds stupid.” He had spit out, chubby cheeks puffing out the more you stared at him. What? He was sure he looked ridiculous with all those stray sticks and leaves stuck in his cloudy locks, but did you really have to look at him like…that?

“My father…” Your lips curled even further, as if you knew something he didn’t. “-the king.”

Oh.

And it’s only then that Gojo notices the thin, silver tiara on your head, a delicate wreath of jeweled flowers that twinkled almost as bright as your eyes. It reflected specks of light into his gaze almost mockingly.

Idiot- it felt like someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over him that chilled him to the very bone.

Even at the tender- well, wise and sensible age of six, Gojo had heard from the adults in town all about the torture chambers and p-prisons that the royal palace was home to.

Just why did he feel the need to escape from his mother at the market to bring her a batch of those wispy, amethyst flowers anyway?

Sure, they were her favorite but- the royal family would have his head before even she did. And he didn’t even get to butter her up with the lilacs!

“Forgive me!” Gojo had squeaked out in a cry so shrill that you hurriedly took a step back, eyes widening once the interesting boy in front of you dropped to his hands and knees. “Ah- I mean uh- forgive me, your highness- your princessness.” Drooping into a bow so low that his soft tufts of hair brushed the warm ground. Words tumbling out a mile a minute, “It was an accident- I must’ve been um sleepwalking and I pinky-promise won’t do it again-”

“Those lilacs haven’t bloomed yet, y’know?” You’re cutting him off smoothly, and Gojo remembers feeling a pang of irritation- let him recite his apologies before you throw him in a cell, dammit! Right before flooding with confusion, eyes snapping up to meet yours hesitantly.

Pointing at a pretty white gazebo, overlooking the lake only a few meters away, you’d shrugged your shoulders. “The garden staff puts the best ones in a bouquet over there.”

At which, he’d replied with an exceptionally eloquent, “Huh?”

“Well, what my father doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

It’s only after hours upon hours of picking every lilac flower in sight and chatting about all the worldly topics a pair of six-year-olds knew that you were dragged away by one of your worried attendants.

And he almost felt…sad about it. Weird.

The yolky setting sun that day cast shadows for Gojo to hide himself in behind one of the gazebo pillars as he peeked at your retreating back. In-step with an older woman muttering about “losing her job oh- the king will banish her.”

And if there was one thing that he would never forget - well, amongst everything else - it was the way his heart banged selfishly against his ribcage with a repeated turn around turn around turn around-

You did. And you’d smiled, and Gojo hasn’t been able to step away from your side since.

Well, he had to - to go home that evening and proudly proclaim to his thoroughly cross mother how he’ll become a knight, that is.

Honestly, even the colossal lilac bouquet did little to deter her scoldings about running off. But despite how bad it was - and the fact that he was sentenced to be confined to his room for a whole month - it didn’t matter.

Gojo visited you the next day, too.

And the day after that, and the day after that- and again and again no matter how many times you’d teased him about coming so often to see you. Because you were right there no matter what royal duties or lessons dictated, waiting in the lilac garden for him.

Every day.

When Gojo was eighteen he’d applied for a position in the royal guard, breezing through the demonstrations of physical strength because of course, he did. He’d been training for his very day for years.

And it showed - oh, how it showed.

It showed in the way he stood almost a head above every other man lined up there, veering numerous inches above six feet. All sculptured, Herculean muscles and arms toned from years spent climbing the palace orchards with you. The strongest.

He considered himself exceedingly humble, too, of course.

Humble enough to not brag outright in your face once Gojo had climbed the treacherous way into being your personal knight before the age of twenty.

“Hah, I can tell your father- erm, his majesty all about where you sneak off to now.” Gojo snickered, flicking your forehead in a way that a princess simply shouldn’t be treated. “Perhaps I’ll bargain titles with him- tell the courts about the way you climb trees, and ride horses and-”

“Snitch”

“Harlot.”

“Knave.”

“Hobgoblin.”

“Satoru.” You’d deadpanned up at as six foot four inches of white-haired nuisance clinging onto whimpers out a dramatic ouch, that one hurt. Desperately trying to keep the smile off of your face, “You’re with me each and every single time.”

Well, was.

It seemed like the king was to be putting a stop to that very, very soon. With your looming- he gulps to keep the leaden ball of tears away from his throat, your engagement.

“Toru—” Your voice snaps him out of his hazy little reverie, and he finds himself straightening his back into a respectful posture outside of the throne room. Warily eyeing the way you bound up to him, “What did my father want to talk to you about so suddenly?”

“Ah…” Gojo’s throat feels hoarse. Parched. The smile plastering onto his face wobbly, “Just- just security measures for the visitor we’re going to have, your royal highness.”

Your brows quirk upwards, pretty lips falling open just enough for him to realize you were about to comment on his use of that. That title.

“Now if you pardon this knight, ma’am-” Gojo pipes up before you can bludgeon him with questions, striding down the luxurious hallway to his newly-assigned post at the royal treasury. Far, far away from your chambers. “-I have been called by Knight Commander Yaga to my-”

“Satoru- wait.”

He should’ve known better than to have thought he could escape you - not when even his own heart didn’t want to.

Lurching up in an almost-nauseating swoop the moment your voice echoes from behind, hitting his glinting armor. “You…are you okay—? You haven’t called me any of those silly formal titles since we first met.” Words practically dripping with concern, fuck- he was sure your face was furrowing. And if it was up to him he would kiss away every tense crevice.

But no, that was not his place.

His place was to stand rooted to the spot, face turning only a half-degree to grace you with a soft bow. Gojo knew it wasn’t the epitome of respect, but a singular look in your face right now and he would break.

“I am in perfect condition to carry out my duties, ma’am.” He’s nodding, voice oh-so-brittle in his throat for how hardened it thundered.

“That’s not what I mean.” Stubborn.

Gojo turns back to the winding corridor in front of him, “Then if that is all, I shall be on my way. I hope you have a good day, ma’am.”

“Satoru.”

And if his cheeks were cold and encrusted with a few streaks of salty tears when he reached the treasury, Gojo was only grateful that his fellow knight Ijichi was too afraid of him to say anything.

Gojo Satoru was avoiding you - marching the other way if he glimpsed you, running around the palace for menial tasks, he wasn’t even your personal guard anymore, for goodness’ sake! Your best friend was ignoring you and you weren’t sure why.

Was it because you had to skip out on your daily walks in the lilac garden to greet the visiting Zenin royals?

No, he was always so understanding of the royal responsibilities that you couldn’t skive off. Besides, his strange attitude had sparked up even before Prince Naoya and his family arrived at your kingdom - ever since that meeting with your father.

You were dying to ask the king what exactly was talked about that day, a meeting so confidential that he didn’t even have the royal advisor transcripting it. But your father was always so busy with the older Zenin couple these days, cooped up in office rooms surrounded to the brim with official documents.

And that left you with…him.

Naoya Zenin. A prince if there was ever any, who couldn’t talk about anything but that.

“So…um.” Your eyes dart around the palace gardens, you always did love it here - that comforting smell of flowers wafting in clouds around you. But right now you felt anything but comforted. “How are you liking the garden, Prince Naoya?”

He shakes his brown-tipped locks, eyes narrowing. “Rather plebian for a royal palace, if I do say so myself.”

“R-right…” You’re sputtering in an unlady-like fashion, “We do have orchards too if you wanted to-”

“Of course, the gardens in my palace are much bigger-” He’s waving a gloved hand loftily, nose crinkling into a sneer at the bustling gardeners planting beautiful white blossoms everywhere. Honestly, you were informed there was a grand ball soon - but wasn’t this a bit much? “And we teach the help to stay out of sight.”

“Well, I think they’re really nice.” You’re huffing, brows marrying together.

He scoffs, “Nice- or useful?”

“Both.”You fight the urge to just storm off then and there - it wouldn’t do good to start a war between the two most powerful kingdoms right now.

“Ah yes yes- nice.” Naoya repeats airily, words warbling as if he was biting back a laugh. “Suppose the low-borns are tolerable if they’re nice.”

A vision of Gojo - tiny and trembling into a bow in front of you - flashed through your mind, and you find your pretty heels digging hard into the dark soil. That was it.

“Perhaps.” Your voice comes out dangerously even, dangerously. Naoya only raises his brows in faint interest, “Yet, even the least tolerable tch- ‘low-born’ would be more tolerable than a pompous, arrogant-”

“There you are, your highnesses!”

Satoru.

You would recognize that low, lilting baritone amongst a thousand others. And before you can turn around to face your best friend that had been missing for days, he plows on, “A little gift- from this lowborn.”

Thud!

Before you can even blink, pale hands reach out to unceremoniously dump a radiant yellow flower crown on Naoya’s blond bangs. And you swear Gojo pushed down on his head harder than necessary.

The first thing you register is the warm wall of muscles pushing up against your back, lecherously counting every ladder of washboard abs and Gojo’s plush pecs in your mind. Mindlessly, you’re leaning back even closer, savoring the way his breath hitches. Harlot.

The second thing you’re realizing is that Naoya Zenin - for the first time in twenty-something years - had gone quiet. Very, very quiet. Suspiciously so.

You force your words into some semblance of levelness, “Are you…are you alright, Prince Naoya?”

But Naoya didn’t speak - you didn’t know if he was even breathing. Long face growing greyer and greyer by the second, he doesn’t answer you.

No, instead he’s pointing a trembling finger behind you. “You there…you- what shrub have you placed upon my royal head?”

“Laburnum.” Comes the answer - and just as soon comes a drawling, strangled squawk.

Your first instinct is to look towards the shimmering lake not too far away from you, eyes searching for any trace of those familiar ducks- before gasping in surprise and looking back to the prince. Mouth ajar, still making those undignified noises.

Him?

“You- you will-” He hisses, so furious that you have to take a step back - right into Gojo’s waiting arms - to avoid his flecks of spit. “-you will pay for this.”

In only a split-second, Naoya had thrown the flower crown onto the ground and wheezed his way up the flowery pathway back to the castle. What a sight it was.

But nothing compared to the way that Gojo comes into your line of sight and preens. One hand tapping at his cheek in thought, the other held behind his back. “Whoops- I forgot that the king specifically informed me that our honored guest was allergic to laburnum flowers. Guess, low-borns aren’t of good memory. Right, my princess?”

“Satoru- you- you ass.” You’re yelping through fits of laughter, not caring for the way the rest of the gardening staff smiles knowingly. “What if that bastard gets deathly sick? The blame would be on you.”

He rolls his summer blue eyes, “Proudly.”

“I should send you to the gallows for this.”

Gasping in faux shock, “Most salacious indeed!”

And for the first time in so long, it feels normal.

The breezing heat of Gojo’s body against yours feels normal, and you couldn’t bring yourself to think too deeply about it. Too enchanted by the sheer lack of armor - all billowy white poet shirt and flattering cotton pants.

“Y-yeah well-” Shit- why was your skin burning this way? The sun wasn’t even at peak temperature for today. Absentmindedly, you’re playing with one of his silk lapels, “Thank goodness we’re losing him in a few days, I asked mother and she said the Zenin’s are only visiting until the fast-approaching ball.”

“Princess-” It all comes out in a rush, “-that ball. The reason for it is actually-”

“Your highness! The queen is asking for a conference with you!” The curious voices of your maidservants drag you away from Gojo’s arms, into a much less scandalous position.

And yet, with only a nod behind - you still stay standing in front of him. You stay.

“Right…” Gojo’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a deep gulp. Shadowy gaze darting away, “I should get back to my duties, ma’am. Suguru has been abusing his position as head gardener to work me like a mule.”

The way your face crumples with disappointment makes Gojo’s heart feel sliced open. And raw. “Of course. I’ll see you around, Gojo.”

Gojo. Gojo.

And of course he couldn’t let you walk away - of course he couldn’t let you leave his life just yet.

So without thinking, without even realizing, he’s clasping a slender hand around your wrist to pull you back. To reel you in. To him.

Velvety strands of snow-white curtain Gojo’s eyes, and the doughy fingerpads on your skin shiver. Mumbling, “Before- Before you go, my prin- ma’am. I just wanted to give you-” And you don’t know what makes your heart race more - the cherry-red blush painting all over Gojo’s cheeks and up to the very tips of his ears, or the sunny flower crown clasped in a hand pulled from behind his back. “-this.”

Your mouth drops into an awe-struck oh! It was beautiful - trickling blossoms of every shade of yellow entwined gently together. Embedded with celestially dainty buds of an amber so pale it looked almost white, diamonds on a tiara fit for a princess.

You had a feeling it would be your favorite one.

All you could think of was Gojo with his staggering hands, and his battle-worn fingers, making something so delicate for you.

“Is…is this one just as allergy-inducing as the other, Satoru?” You’re breathing, rustled by a breeze so gentle that it almost hurts.

“No.” Gojo whispers, just as quiet. As if the slightest sign of a raised voice would break whatever saccharinely thick moment this was, “Yellow acacia and yellow carnation. For you, my princess.”

For the way he’d be losing you just as soon as he loses that asshat.

And even once you’d adorned his crown and been hurried off by a few palace staff, Gojo stared. Even once you were nothing but a speck of royal satin and yellow crowns, he stared. Even once you were gone, and he was left so very alone, he stared.

Only thanking the heavens above that you always slept through your flower language lessons.

Over the next few days; wherever you were, Naoya Zenin was to follow.

And Gojo was sure that it was pushing the young royal closer and closer to a spectacular aneurysm any time that you called specifically for him to accompany you. Blatantly refusing any other knight that came your way.

The pointed third during “romantic” boat rides on the lake, always the guard overseeing dinners, the one to step in with a blunder if your future fiancé got too…opinionated. Gojo was always there.

It was more like you spent your time trying to make his dutiful façade crack than supposedly entertaining your guest.

Sneaky princess.

After all - Gojo found himself pacing and arguing out loud with himself any time you did - he was simply doing his job, right? Even if the aforementioned job went against just a few direct orders from the king himself.

But these were a direct order from the princess. His princess. And Gojo had stopped his procedural traversing and ranting since realizing this.

Although- the head chef, Nanami’s, veiled threat about turning him into pig feed the next time he heard stomping may have played a slight part in this, as well.

And it was on such a day that Gojo found himself stationed to guard the inside of the royal drawing room. Spine ramrod straight, eyes flooded with steel while he took in the sight of you and that bastard- Naoya sketching the other in silence.

It was a dainty, sunlit room, and the hours might have almost been peaceful - if it wasn’t for the split-haired bastard, that is.

After that flower fiasco and a thorough telling off for misremembering the prince’s allergies, this was meant to make up for a “bonding activity” according to the king; which to him read more like a desperate attempt to push the two of you together before the grand ball tomorrow night.

Gojo’s chest caves in with a sudden spike of pain, tomorrow night. Your engagement ball, where you will surely be handed off to a man who wouldn’t be worthy of you in a thousand different lives.

Fuck, had it really been days since already?

It hurt too much, and so he looks towards the prince’s parchment- how insulting. Hundreds of royal art lessons, yet Naoya still couldn’t capture the exact curve of your smile. And those pretty crinkles by your eyes- they were entirely the wrong number! And Gojo’s sure that any fool could see the way your lips-

He was getting ahead of himself. And reminded embarrassingly of the hundreds of sketches of you over the years stowed away underneath his bed alongside a stubby piece of charcoal.

And he was leaning over the prince in a way that he was sure would get him strung and quartered in the Zenin palace. Or, at least, that’s what Naoya’s daggered glare was telling him.

With a sheepish smirk, Gojo snatches a glimpse at your artwork. Stifling a laugh at the way you’ve given up on drawing the other man and started engaging in idle scribblings of weasels and hollies.

“That one looks like him, don’t you think?” He can’t help but whisper from the corner of his mouth, stomach swooping in delight as soon as your eyes light up.

Tacking on a familiar hairstyle and sneer onto a particularly shoddy caricature of one of the weasels, giggling. “He does.”

Gojo points at another drawing - this time of a bullfrog- honestly, what interests for a princess. “And that’s-”

“That Jinichi.” You’re finishing off for him, carelessly drawing away a few more - quite frankly, Gojo finds everything you do beautiful, but these were appallingly ugly - scribbles of foxes and goats. “That one’s Oji Zenin, and that’s Gakuganji and that’s-”

“Ahem.”

There was only one person who could make the clearing of a throat sound so snobbish. And that was Naoya Zenin.

Brows raised, feet tapping impatiently on polished marble as he snatches the parchment from your grip.

Schwing–!

“Toru- no.”

Gojo doesn’t even realize he’s pulling out his famed, silver sword until you’re stopping him with a hand to his tense bicep. Shit.

Growling through clenched teeth once more at Naoya while he nestles it back into its scabbard with unsteady fingers - only because you asked.

But the other man doesn’t even flinch - wearing that perfect mask of regal stoicity, though Gojo manages to catch the way his eyes flicker nervously down at the hilt of his sword. Doesn’t show anything other than the tightening of his thin lips as he gazes upon your humorous drawings.

The impatient tap! tap! tap! of his feet slowing down, stopping - before Naoya throws your paper down onto the floor and stomps. Gojo would’ve almost found it comedic if it hadn’t been for your startled demeanour.

“Excuse me-” He’s hissing, angling his broad body between you and this unseemly sight. Gojo looks dead-on into Naoya’s spit-fire red face, “-but I would have to hope not to remind a young prince of royal etiquette.”

“Excuse me, sir.”

“No need to call me ‘sir’, your highness.”

Naoya looks up, death in his eyes.

Gojo thought this might be the end. The missed trip to the dungeons all those years ago was finally catching up to him, and he would be thrown in today for drawing his weapon on a royal but goddammit- if he wasn’t going to keep you safe from his ire for as long as he breathes and then some.

But - to both you and Gojo’s surprise, and perhaps even Naoya himself - he simply turns swiftly on his heels and walks out of the room. Letting the heavy double-doors SLAM! deafeningly behind him.

It takes a beat. One. Two.

He counts every raging ba-dump–! of his heart against this ribcage- before the terse silence shatters with laughter.

“Toru- To- Satoru—!” You’re wiping away genuine tears, “‘No need to call me sir-’ where did you even come up with that-”

“Fuck! You can laugh but I thought I was headed to the gallows.” He’s exclaiming, and it was quite difficult to act as if your laugh wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d heard in his entire life. “Although- it would have been a killer last line. Wouldn’t it, my princess?”

The two of you stare at each other for one singular ba-dump–! Before bursting into peels of undignified cackles that could make an entire court shiver in scandal.

“Killer- killer alright-” You’re rolling your watery eyes, “This is just as bad as the time you caught Yaga in his interpretive rain dance routine- I thought you were surely dead then.”

Please, Gojo’s stomach and his heart were hurting - though, for very different reasons. “Not as bad as when you wanted to play dress-up with the sacred royal crown and lost it.”

“Don’t remind me, my father was-” That’s when your tear-lathered lashes flutter, a hand coming up to swat softly against your cheek as if to jolt back your senses. You’re groaning over Gojo’s whine, “-my father. Oh no! What will he say about this?” You almost knock your cushy stool over with how fast you’re teetering into a stand, “I must go apologize to weasel- Naoya right away lest relations with the Zenins-”

“Let me.”

Your brows raise, “What?”

“Let me.” Gojo’s repeating, more firmly this time. Thumb grazing briefly down your knuckles as he pulls you back into your seat.

Just for a split-second - like he couldn’t even think of letting himself touch such a precious treasure.

He knows you will argue this, he knows your stupidly selfless self will fight to apologize; which is why before you can say a word, he’s marching hastily out of those same doors and towards the luxurious guest chambers.

Truthfully, Gojo Satoru didn’t give a fuck about Naoya Zenin - but he’ll be damned if you, his beloved, was cast in a hameful light because of his childish actions.

He has to do something for you, while he still can. While he still has you. While he can still love you.

The corridors are winding, decadent. He takes a deep breath when nearing the slightly-open gilded door of the Zenin suite, that distinctly nasally tone of Naoya drifting in conversation from within. Shuddering in a deep breath, “Pardon m-”

“-drew me as a weasel!” The prince bursts, fury seeping into every hard syllable of his. Gojo stills where he stands outside, hand on the cool metallic doorknob. “I have never met such a vulgar, unrefined-”

“Oh, do bear it until the engagement Naoya.” The gruff voice of a man responds - and he recognizes it from all the recent chiding at palace staff to be the prince’s cousin, Jinichi Zenin. “After that ya can take your time breaking ‘er in.”

What?

“A boor telling me to break in a wench.” The younger man scoffs, though he sounds much calmer than just moments before.

Gojo thinks he could throw up all over the gleaming floors, he thinks he wants to keel over and beg at the king’s feet to keep this from happening to you. He thinks he just might.

But right now, he can’t bring his feet to move a single inch. Pressing himself up closer against the adjacent patterned wall, sharp ear yearning for more shards of the conversation.

“They’re all the same anyways.” Says Jinichi, “Just give ‘er something sparkly or flowery and keep her sated. Don’t want another one running off before you can dig your claws into the crown, now, do we?”

And perhaps he’s a hopeless fool for praying that Naoya might say something - anything - else. Wishing for the non-existent good in your soon-to-be fiancé, who only grits out a displeased, “Fine. Only because I want to see her pretty lil’ face when I break her to my will.” There’s the sound of urgent footsteps, “But if father doesn’t give me the throne for my efforts then I’m killing her and you, you brute.”

Stood stock still.

Gojo doesn’t think he could move even if he wanted to - and right now, ice-cold spikes of anger were the only thing latching him rooted to the spot, not even flinching once Naoya closes the door behind him and walks- seeing him.

His jaw clenches, eyes harrowing. “You.”

And Naoya had very clearly taken the opportunity to arm himself in his family chamber, because his spindly fingers itch towards the hilt of his dangerously glinting sword. Just seconds away from-

“Please.”

Gojo drops onto one knee, the tendons of his neck aching with how far downwards he had it bent into a pitiful bow. “I ask his highness to please let the princess go- to call off this impending engagement. I- I will bear the brunt of committing an offense, and will gladly take any punishment that is bestowed upon me. I just please beg of you to-”

“The same hand.”

“What?” Gojo forces himself to look up with tear-filled eyes, to face the prince squarely in his chestnut gaze. His delighted chestnut gaze.

Pointing towards his right hand, “The same hand you were to raise your sword at me, the same hand you used to put that wretched toxic flower crown on me-” And then his blade, “-I order you to repent.”

The other man breathes, “Repent…”

“Repent.” Naoya stands up taller, perhaps the most self-confident that Gojo has ever seen him. A barbarous curl of his lips starting to form, “Repent, and I shall consider ending my engagement with the princ-”

CRUNCH!

Pain. Blinding pain was all that Gojo could feel, and…relief.

He couldn’t even register the steady trickle of warm crimson on his skin and onto the floor in rose-like splotches - even though he could see it through bleary eyes. Head still spinning to catch up with the nanosecond events of drawing his sword and slicing a wide gash down his forearm.

Through half-lidded eyes, he puts back his bloodied blade into the scabbard and looks up at the stricken prince.

Repentance.

“So you love her.” Is all that Naoya hisses. And Gojo can’t lie, nor can he muddy your name.

So he simply waits quietly, silence speaking enough for eons. Waiting for you to be set free. And if he tried, he could even manage a smile-

Sniffing insolently - though, it sounded more like a snicker. “How valiant, for a low-born.” All that is said before he spits furiously at Gojo’s feet and breezes past in a swish of capes - as if nothing ever happened. “I might even invite you to the princess and I’s wedding ceremony.”

In a palace of thousands, it was only Gojo Satoru that could manage to stand out.

None of the royal jesters could make the court laugh quite as loud. None of the other knights - no matter how muscled, or chivalrous - could make the ladies-in-waiting swoon just as much. And none of the other reputable men could make you seek him out in every chamber, state room, or training ground just like this.

It was strange not to see even the barest glimpse of Gojo for an entire day, and the palace didn’t quite feel like a home without him.

“I’m telling you, Nobara–” You’re wheezing out in condensed puffs as your eager right-hand attendant continues mercilessly tightening away the undergarments of your ballgown. “Something’s probably happened to him or-”

“-or he’s being locked up for offending some uppity duke.” She’s rolling her honeypool eyes, one of the few who wasn’t afraid to express themselves this way in front of you. Flitting about the opulent dressing room you rarely liked to use, “You know how that eugh- Gojo is.”

“Which is precisely why I’m worried.”

Honestly, you didn’t even care for a grand ball when you didn’t know where your best friend was. Whether he was in the dungeons or…worse.

But Nobara wasn’t here to hear you ramble about Gojo Satoru - you oftentimes got the impression that he irritated her too much for her own liking - she was here to doll you up in costly pale blue silks and muslins that draped off of you prettier than a painting.

And you felt dizzy by the time she let you be escorted off towards the emanating music of the ballroom - with an excited goodbye and a reluctant promise to keep an eye out for Gojo.

Hair done more intricately than you could’ve even imagined, your jewelry caught every light in the room, a bejeweled flower tiara weighing heavily on your head. Adorning your face in a crown that reminded you of the one Gojo had made you only a few days ago.

It was almost a struggle to keep your face held high as you took the first few steps down the winding imperial staircase. To the ball.

You have to stop yourself from tilting your head down at the thrumming masses of decadently dressed-up nobles and clinking champagne to check whether Gojo was hidden away somewhere down there.

Manners. Posture. Eye contact.

It was all painfully practised, and so was the tightening of your features as your own father started reading off your introduction. He never took on this task - what was happening?

“And now, for the most important guest of all-” Booming voice thundering in your ears almost as loud as your heartbeat was. The king addresses the congregation in the middle of the dancefloor, more ruler than father at this point. “-my daughter, princess of our beloved kingdom. And the queen of the next!”

Your hand stills where it had been helping you balance in your heels down the stairway- what?

Thankfully, your father carries on - or rather, not thankfully, considering what his next words are.

“Yes, my people, this may come as a surprise to you all.” He chuckles above the deafening murmurs, and you slowly find yourself scurrying onto the raised platform your father’s throne was seated on. “But tonight is not only a simple celebration of our nation, it’s a celebration of love. Of two nations.”

There’s a beat of silence as he reaches out a withered hand to you, and you find yourself wordlessly taking it.

“F-father, what-” you whisper, but there’s no response. Your skin bristles with goosebumps, and you’re not sure whether it’s from the summer breeze wafting from the gardens, or from the speech’s implications.

Letting yourself be pulled right into the middle of the stage,right into the spotlight - where Naoya Zenin was waiting for you. Dressed in his finest suit of white silk, adorned with layers upon layers of military accolades and velvety medals.

The bright, blazing light of the chandelier was scorching, and your hands clench in unease. What was happening?

“That is right, my people.” The king drags your hand up to mesh in an entwinement with Naoya’s clammy ones, holding it up for the eager public to see. “After much consideration and forethought, our royal families have decided that today my daughter is the beloved princess of our nation. But tomorrow, she will be the future queen of the Zenin kingdom.”

There’s cheering - but you can’t hear any of it. In fact, the entire world could be falling upon you and you don’t think you would have noticed.

All you can feel is the queasy churning of your stomach, and the stern whisper of Naoya’s voice against your ear. Fingers tightening around your own, bruisingly. “Dance with me before I break this pretty hand, princess.”

You’re like a ragdoll, being puppeteered in a rigid beeline onto the dance floor.

If it wasn’t for one of Naoya’s hands bracing onto your waist, you wouldn’t even have realized that the royal orchestra had started up a gorgeous waltz. A slow, romantic melody that you might’ve otherwise loved if you weren’t trapped in the arms of a fiancé you never asked for.

“Looking pretty out of it there, princess.” The prince sneers after a few practised motions of your dance, making your dazed eyes stray from the swooning crowd and onto his pointed features.

And despite it all, you can’t help but feel betrayed. You thought that the two of you might have rapport at your obligation, if nothing else. “You- you didn’t even tell me. An entire engagement and you didn’t even bother to-”

“As a husband, I don’t owe my tch- wife anything.” His nose crinkles at your wandering eyes, the way your feet itched ever-closer to the surrounding people rather than the dancefloor. “Wishing it was someone else dancing with you?”

“Yes.” You’re spitting out before you can stop, trying oh-so-hard not to let your face twist into even a semblance of the fury steeped inside of you. “Anyone but a husband that I never wanted and never will want.”

“As if you deserve any bett-”

Your nails dig into one set of his fingers enough to engrave deep craters, almost enough to make him bleed. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on Earth.”

Naoya seems stunned for a few seconds - but, alas, just when you’re hoping that you’ve shut him up for good, you’re faced with the fact that the universe isn’t that kind to you.

“You mean you would marry the tch- low-born.” He pulls you into an incredibly rough twirl when the music crescendos, pulling you even closer. It’s all you can do to not fight his grip- “I’m not below finishing off his other hand if that’s what it takes to break you.”

“What are you even talking about?”

Each word jagged. “The knight. You love him, don’t act stupid.”

Raising your chin in defiance, “So what?” And just as much as confusion filled you, as did panic. Because Naoya’s grip was only getting firmer, his moves much harsher. Opening his mouth to spit out-

“Pardon me, your highnesses.” A deep bass cuts in, startled- you almost give yourself whiplash peering up into those fathomless mahogany eyes. Yaga’s thin brows furrowing into something heavily-set, “May I cut in for a dance with the princess?”

You don’t wait for an answer from Naoya - and neither does Commander Yaga. Swiftly sweeping you into his engulfing embrace as the orchestra changes into something slightly more upbeat.

Dressed in a thick suit adorned with even more medals than Naoya - ones you knew for sure were real, unlike his. And you couldn’t help but wonder just how good Gojo would look with his own.

“So…” Yaga starts, once more couples join the floor and his words can’t be heard over the shuffling of feet by anyone other than you. His calloused hands let you lead him through a waltz much more mellow than what Naoya had with you. You always did think that the leader of your knights was a gentle giant. “Begging you to forgive my indiscretion, ma’am but ah- trouble in paradise?”

“Trouble in hell, as expected.” You’re shuddering, gaze bouncing off of any flash of sapphire blue around the room.

The man in front of you nods gravely, “Right right. I might not be a married man, but even I know that times like these often call for a walk in the lilac garden. You know, to- ah, clear your head.”

Quirking a brow, you stare at him. “What?”

And oh, Yaga simply looked like all the gold in the world couldn’t pay him enough for this.

“Times like these-” He’s emphasizing, boring deeply into your eyes as if to mean every syllable to strike your very core. And it does. You don’t know why, but it does. “-call for a walk in the lilac garden.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

Yaga’s lips twitch upwards into an almost-smile, and his rumbling voice is soft for the next few words. “Go, your highness.”

So you do.

You’re realizing, with an ache of such gentle appreciation, that the commander had danced you two until you were practically teetering on the massive veranda. Open to the garden; where every prim hedge, bush, and tree was gorgeously decorated until your eyes sparkled.

Your breath bates…a choice. Head turning back to the luxuries of a royal ball that was none-the-wiser.

Then, with a brief hug you bully Yaga into, you run - as much as the delicate heels digging into your feet would allow. Faster.

If this was any other time, you might’ve felt disappointed at how you weren’t even stopping to admire the beauty of the moonlight-bathed garden. But right now, your heart was only pounding to go faster and faster.

Nothing else mattered.

Gojo was leaning on one pillar of the same white gazebo - and he was beautiful. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was a faerie of the night.

Just a lone, tall silhouette that you could recognize so well; azure eyes twinkling, ivory strands of his hair shimmering with the silvery blue of the moon swimming amongst a dark sky. One he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of until he jolts his head towards the sharp snap! of a twig underneath your rapid feet.

“My…my princess.” He falls onto one knee.

It all comes out in a whisper - as if Gojo had dreamed of this moment so many repeated times before and wasn’t sure if this was a dream, too.

“Satoru-!”

It wasn’t.

Gojo stands up to embrace you like it’d be the last time he ever would, like you were the one thing connecting him to this life and he was a dying man desperate to breathe.

Strong arms winding around your waist, you’re pushed against one of the closed-off walls of the gazebo before you can even realize it. Arching off of the cool wooden surface and into his blistering heat. Into every ravenous, panted-out cloud of breath against your ear, “You came.”

He sounded pained. And you were sure you did just as much when you’re whimpering, “You disappeared.”

Gojo lets off a choked-up noise that could’ve been anything from affirmation to blatant shock. Half-lidded eyes boring deeply into yours, he shrugs off the jacket on his non-dominant arm to you with a low bow.

“May I have this dance, my princess?”

You’re gasping at the sight of starchy white bandages around his other hand, fingers hesitantly falling into Gojo’s heated flesh. “S-Satoru, what happened ah-”

But he drifts you gently into a soundless dance, the distant crickets and swish! of lilac branches your only tune.

And you never even understood just how much Gojo was a part of your life until he was moving through the exact same steps of waltzing that you’d learned growing up. The exact same once that you used to force him to sit through.

“I thought you were here because you read my letter.” Gojo mutters, lips so close now that they grazed the sensitive shell of your ear.

You’re having trouble finding your voice, “What letter?”

“The- the one that I left-” Just for you. His long lashes flutter open in shock, features contorted into something almost devastated. You wonder what made him feel this way. “-the one that I left in your chambers- about the- the prince, and the engagement and-”

“I got prepared for the ball in the dressing room today, I didn’t go to my room.” You’re continuing, voice small. Scared. “Satoru…you knew about the engagement?”

And Gojo’s voice told you everything you needed to know.

You feel your angry flare up hot and red, fists curling into Gojo’s delicate lapels. But that only proves to inch him even closer and make you sound much more breathless than you intended, “You knew about it and- and you didn’t even think to give me a hint that I was being carted off like a prize for some pompous asshat?”

He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, lips still so pink in the night, wobbling. “I…I couldn’t let you be married, I just couldn’t. I would give my life if it meant you get the freedom to choose who you wanted.” Your dance had stalled, and you almost feel disappointed. “But I’m a coward, and this-” Gojo throws his hands across, voice hitching, “-sneaking around, hiding, running away is the only way I could ever-”

“You should have told me. Not just in the letter.” You’re insisting, running your hands through your hair. Suddenly, something strikes you, “That arm- it’s because of Naoya, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t even have the energy to protest, and that only spurs you on even more. “I-I could have talked to my father- maybe the council and we could have made it so that…”

“So that what?” Gojo’s voice hardens as much as it could with you, which wasn’t very much at all. His fists clench and unclench at his sides like it was taking everything in him to not just…“So that you can be the laughingstock of the kingdom when you marry a low-born knight?”

He was right. They would never accept him, no matter how much you did.

You’re rendered speechless, shivering at the way he rubs his wet eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh, I don’t want you- I need you.” And he was so beautiful like this, just centimeters away from you in the escape of the night. “I need you. I need you, I need you- I need you more than the sun above my head, and the air that I breathe, my princess. You have bewitched me, and I am yours. But you cannot be mine-”

You breathe out, “Satoru…”

“-and maybe in another life-”

“Maybe in this one.”

Soft hands rover their way onto the sides of your arms, and Gojo shakes you feebly as if to snap you out of this hypnosis and urge you to run. Eyes wide, yearning. “I have always been yours, body and soul.”

You always have wondered whether there was a method to shut Gojo Satoru up. And, right now, you think you may have found the perfect answer.

Because his entire towering figure just melts into your touch the very second you press your lips onto Gojo’s plump ones. Soft. Velvety.

His nostrils flare through a breathy sigh when you tilt your head mere sultry degrees to deepen the kiss. You were addicted to the honey-coated taste of him, the flat drag of his scratchy tastebuds rolling over your loosening maw.

“Ngh- my princess…” He’s puncturing your kisses with kiss after sloppy kiss, heavy hands wrapping around your body to wrangle you flush against his hardened ones. And you could count every glissade of his washboard abs through that thin poet’s blouse, “I love you.”

You’re not sure if it’s a fragment of your imagination, or- it’s not.

Gojo manhandles you - and himself - to sit on the opulent gazebo bench with you plopped into his manspread lap, without breaking the kiss for a split-second. Because it hurt to part from your pretty, candied lips, to let those slippery strings of saliva break in the clouded air between you two.

Even if it was to purr out—

“I love you I love you I love you-” The straight edges of his pearly white teeth sinking into your lower lip, groaning from the back of his throat. And your jittery legs shift needily on his warm, meaty thighs, “-I love you.”

“Satoru—” Just about the only thing that you can say right about now, your tone resounds in Gojo’s ears and makes him grunt. Your fingers tangle into his cushy locks, “T-touch me.”

He snickers, one hand clawing onto the crown of your sweat-dampened scalp and wrenching your face away until you’re huffing and puffing cutely for more. “Mmm, how about we use those princess-y manners of yours, hm?”

“Please-”

“Louder.”

“Please.”

“Harlot.” Gojo slides in a looong few digits past those impossibly endless skirts of yours, making your thighs dampen with treacly webs of needy slick. Letting those doughy fingerpads fringe over the covered mound of your pussy, just the very edges. “That was my f-first kiss, y’know?”

He had been hopelessly saving it for you, after all.

Your eyes roll all the way to the back of your weighted lids as soon as he teases you, mewling. “Was mine too, so we’re even-” Your hips shift in a lazy back n’ forth on top of his heated core, “-just- just want you to touch me.”

“I dunno…” Gojo drawls - drunken. And you feel the edges of his kiss-bitten lips warp around the very tip of your plummy tongue to suck on like his favorite gummy candy, “Wanna kiss my princess just a lil’ bit more.”

Panting, “K-kiss?”

“Mhm.”

Your eyes shutter in a heady blink, oh-so-cutely ready to crash back into a filthy, filthy French kiss once more, Gojo pulls away-

A noise of disappointment fresh on your lips and just about to spill out, before he lifts you up easily with only a single beefy hand underneath your body. Splaying you out on the sprawling wooden table right beside you, your back hits the ice-cold surface and makes you gasp into the crisp night air.

The lecherous sound of it almost as loud as the sudden clack! of Gojo’s knees collapsing down onto the floor. Your face contorts into a wince because surely it sent a stinging pain up his legs?

“M’quite used to being on my knees for you, my princess.”

But he didn’t seem to care - didn’t even seem to notice when he was much more enamored with the heavenly sight down there.

“These lips-” He smears away your lacy layers upon layers, budging up to nuzzle the soft skin of your inner thighs. And shit- the filmy glaze over his eyes told you that Gojo doesn’t even realize the way his bubblegum pink tongue lolls out over the splotchy spatters of your juices. “-were tellin’ me they feel a little…left out.”

Your mouth waters with a syrupy lamination of saliva as soon as his murked breath strikes your cunt. And the drag of his rumbling bass is so delicious – you couldn’t help but imagine just how it would feel on you.

“Just- just get it on with it-” you’re hissing, fingers latching onto a few thick locks of ivory to drudge him ever-closer.

“Impatient.”

As if Gojo himself wasn’t impatient.

As if he wasn’t just leaking out thick wads of drool from the parted sides of his twisted grin at just the thought of tasting you. Sliding the pointed tip of his button nose languidly up the crevice of your puffed-up slit, he breathes you in and feels his cock twitch-

“Oh, princess.” Gojo can’t move, he can’t breathe if it wasn’t around your needy cunt right now. He’s ignoring those shooting bites of pain up the sides of his arm to tug on your useless garments.

Pulling- shit, he always did fucking hate how many layers you royalty had to wear.

Pulling and pulling until the slow trawl of your undergarments by his nimble fingers wasn’t enough, and he just had to lunge his cottony head over to plummet his pearly whites into your panties and rip—!

A proper, gaping hole where your teary pussy was- and you looked even more gorgeous down there than he could’ve imagined.

Gojo’s face was blank, eyes wide and locked right at your geysering orifice like a man starved. For eons it felt like, until you were bucking up with pure need.

You’re humming in concern, struggling up onto your elbows to stare down at him. “Sa…Toru?”

And at your pretty voice, Gojo twitches. He gasps - full-bodied, like you’d just sent a zillion volts of shock down his sloped spine just by speaking to him. And he was well and fully intent on acting on it-

“Princess…princess princess princess—” Leaking from between his lips like he couldn’t stop, he hits the cute target of your cunt instantaneously with a fat thud of spittle, one. Two. Three, until your entrance was overflooding. He’s drawling the plummy end of his spit-glossed maw across your folds, “Oh, my princess. Just look at you.”

You feel his mess drool off the side of your plumpened pussylips and smear all across your peaked clit with only a simple touch of Gojo’s round-ended thumb.

Just down-right filthy when he crashes forward to slot the curvaceous nub of his sweltering hot tongue over the brim of your hole. Drawing all over that snug orifice with slow patterns round n’ round-

“Toru–!” It’s the only thing you know at this point. “Toru.”

“Whaaat? Jealous, my princess?” The words clang in your head- and the realization hits you at the same moment Gojo’s thickly viscous swab of spit does on your own tongue. A soft nudge at your slackened chin urging you to swallow-

And he can’t waste a second, can’t spend even a mere moment away from his favorite spot between your legs. Because now that Gojo got a taste, he wants alllll of it.

Stumbling back down in haste to plant so many uncountable smooches on your bawling pussy folds. Skimming his tastebuds just along your quivering hole.

“Shit- shiiiit–” When you’d heard court ladies giggling about this, you didn’t think it would feel this good. Or maybe that’s just because it was Gojo stuffing himself impossibly deeper between your legs. “M-more, Toru–”

Your voice was cracking just as much as his fucking sanity was.

Trilling out into frenzied shrills when Gojo swerves his eager thumb to pry open your gluey folds even further and give your fattened clit a flick!

You swear you feel Gojo depart his jaw with a giggle when your hips are bucking up pliably off the splintered table and into the bustling hot cavern of his mouth. More. “Easy there, your royal highness-”

“D-don’t call me that–” You’re whimpering, fingers tugging on Gojo’s bangs in some form of retaliation. But, of course it backfires on you just as soon as the force makes your knight moan.

“Wasn’t calling you that.” Gojo rolls his eyes, and your heart races in anticipation when the pointed edge of his chin strikes the drowned ends of your cunt. Lathering his pretty features in all the collective beads of slick raining fountaining out of you. His summer blue eyes flick downwards - and you can’t help but follow. “Was talking to her. Isn’t that right?”

Fuck.

You were fucked.

And you were losing your mind when Gojo drags you roughly towards the edge of the table with only an ounce of his strength. Mouth making out greedily, heels digging into the fleshy mounds of his back, you can only sob and beg for more more more-

“S’fuckin’ chattier than my girl.” He’s nodding along with every saturated squelch after squelch! resonating in his eardrums - as if it was a full-on conversation with your noisy pussy. “Let’s hope that fiancé of yours doesn’t hah- f-fucking hear.”

But Gojo was acting like he wanted him to.

“Hope the- the king doesn’t find his princess bein’ eaten out by- ngh- a knight.” Barrelling long, slender inches of his index and pointer past your tight ring of mushy muscle.

Your head throws back when he digs into the velvety depths of your pussy with just a single quirk-

“O-oh my god, Satoru–” You’re gasping in the flowery night air, tummy aching with every pump deeper because he was just so close to where you wanted him. “More- j-just a bit more.”

And yet, he acts like he doesn’t even hear you right now.

Cupping over one massive palm over his ear and drifting ever-closer, “Wha’s that? C-can’t hear ya, girl- ngh ya gotta be- louder.”

Louder and louder he was getting with the vulgarly fast thrust graced upon your gummy walls. The sound only makes him giggle all drunk on you, “What’s that? Here? That turn you on? Hmmm…”

And just when you’re letting your vision blur with stars- just when you think it couldn’t get any better-

“Mmmm– wan’ another taste-”

It’s the last thing your ringing ears hear before Gojo’s lurching forwards and burying his nose into your sensitive clit to give your overstuffed entrance a leeengthy lick. Right at the very split-second the globular edges of his digits scratch at that magical spot.

“W-woah.” Your head snaps up blearily to steal a glimpse at what had Gojo Satoru’s voice so airy n’ cracking in awe.

Only to see him fluttering his lathered lashes, the slick-gleaming apples of his cheeks blushing. Like some maiden in love. “Got even wetter f’me, your highness.” He’s breathing out, spitting out another voluminous cobweb of drivel and watching the way it sliiides across with the ribbons of slick pouring out of you. “Ohhhh, even b-better than any candy- better than a-any dessert.”

You yelp when one rugged and grabs a rough handful of your ass and latches his lips even sloppier against your hole. “T-Toru your arm!”

“Oh? This?” He’s glancing down at the bandages as if he’d forgotten they were ever there. “S’nothing for your- hah- personal knight. Doesn’t even hurt, I’d- I’d rather die than let a stupid injury get in the way of what I’ve been dreaming of for aaaages.”

The dual points of pleasure make your toes curl, every part of your body shaking-

Gojo was out of control now. Crazed.

High-pitched bouts of giggles escaping him, muffling around where his candy-glazed cerise lips were latched around your clit and sucking. He makes sure to hold fatal eye contact while he hollows out his scorching cheeks and drags the fleshy nub.

“M-making out with your pussy- your pretty, pretty pussy, my princess.” Your heartbeat echoes in rapid staccato with the vicious thud! thud! thud! of his neatly crowned fingertips pecking your g-spot. Each of his puffed-out gruffs making your tongue loosen in a please, “Making you s-so loud, making you feel so good.”

And without even realizing it, he’s rovering the papping brims of his fingers to give your clit a spank. Letting the syrupy beads slide allll the way down his tongue - letting you watch.

“S’all me.” Gojo slurs out. “Me- me me me me–” Steady rivulets of slick bubbling from the edges of his tongue when his sinful motions get faster. Harder. “Gonna ask who m-made you feel this way n’ it’s me. Your Satoru.”

More ravenous.

Swirling around slow probes of his sensory tips, it glazes his skin all the way down to his knobbly wrist in a thick coat of sap. Memorizing every gooey ridge and crevice inside your tight channel - shit, Gojo feels his ruddied tip spurt out a jetstream of buttery pre in his pants.

He thinks he might just burst in his pants if you don’t finish right this second.

But luckily - or unluckily - for him, you do. Right this very second, after being wrung dry underneath only a few more lapping slashes of his ferocious tongue, tweaking your buttony clit until you cum.

And oh, you’re so pretty when you do.

Your head throwing back with a broken moan of Toru–! It takes every ounce of trained will in his drunken body to not break off from your gooey pussy and watch the way your beautiful face twists.

Fucked out.

“O-oh, shit–” You’re practically sobbing at this point, wrist aching with just how hard you were pushing Gojo’s readily used face into your fluttering core. Your vision blurs with sparks n’ stars, “-H-how are you so good. Unfair, unfair—”

Babbling away such nonsense with that smart mouth of yours, Gojo thinks he sees utter heaven when your hot juices flood inside his mouth in generous heaps.

Lugging down an open palm underneath his chin to greedily collect the leaking beads that sprinkly in a shiny sheen off of his chin, he finds himself moaning. “Shhh, your knight’s here. Give it t’me– use me, my princess.”

And use him you were.

Riding out each white-hot peak of your high with slobbering grinds all across Gojo’s beautiful features. Your clit catches on the poking ridges of his mouth and nose and you squeal- “Ngh- b-better when you’re shut up like th-this, Satoru–”

Just for that, he’s spanking your goopy pussy thoroughly.

All the way until those shots of electricity down your bowed spine are nothing more but prickly tingles, all the way until your thundering ears calm down and you can hear each damp thwack!

All the way until your high has bated and yet, Gojo is still snogging each swollen fold of your pussy like a feast. “M’sensitive–” You sniffle, and he doesn’t even seem to hear you. “Fuh-fuck, Toru, keep doing that n’ m’not gonna let you ngh fuck me.”

That’s what finally gets his attention.

You can feel your lips burst with a slight giggle when all it takes is a quick nanosecond for Gojo’s plumpened mouth to jerk away from your cunt with the snap! of wiry slick.

Scrambling onto unsteady feet, he’s teetering over the edge of the wood ever-so-slightly. Muscular body casting a shadow on yours, and you think he’s never looked sexier.

Fawny strands of frosty white curtaining Gojo’s half-lidded eyes, thick thighs pressing against yours shivering; and even from your position homed towards the end of the table, your eyes catch sight of such a massively outlined bulge.

Staggering.

One that made your hands ghost down Gojo’s tensed abs, and he’s throwing his perspiration-dampened head with a whine.

“Need you, Satoru–” You’re managing out, strangled and messy. You’re sure you sound just as yearning as you feel. Fingers tug-tug-tugging impatiently on his gauzy clothes, “Want- you- out of these-”

And whatever the princess wants, the princess gets.

It’s as if on command - Gojo’s shedding his billowy shirt like it burned him. And very, very soon were his snug pants to follow, your layers, his sanity-

“Hngh- please.” He’s gruffing out, flinching just as soon as you cup his cheeks to smear away the remaining traces of slick glimmering on top of his blushing skin. Your touch was electric. Tonality painfully hoarse, “Let me fuck you- wanted it for so long. Let me fuck you please.”

Your drenched pussylips stream out a damp spot right across where you could feel his inflated vein poke between your folds. And he felt so…long. “Yes- yes, please.”

Getting the princess to say please?

He’s nodding his head shakily - Gojo could pass out, he could cu-

Oh, just a few taps of his mushroom tip on the outer edges of your pussy and he spots something creamy topping over your mound like icing. Sweat-slicked brows furrowing, Gojo nudges in even closer to where pooling splotches of cum pours from the strawberry pink divot right in the middle of his head.

He’s cumming and he couldn’t stop.

Couldn’t do anything but whine at the tender bolts of bliss aching all the way from his toes to his fuzzy head.

“S-Satoru did you just-”

“Shut up.” Oh, you would have his head later for this. “Shut up- shut up and just…”

N’ so he curls a hand at his bulky base and draws out a thick swab at the torrents of seed decorating your cute cunt. Making sure the milky sap formulated a glossy cap on his crownhead, before pushing rigorously in-

“F-f-fuuuuck–” he keens out, a thin line of sweat trekking down the side of his temples. And if he pushed just an inch further, Gojo could feel his hooded eyes well up with fucking tears- “Tight so tight s-sooo hot- so…”

You’re mewling, “Deeper- c-c’mon.”

He was fucking you like he didn’t even realize it - like he was enchanted by each mindless rut pulled from the carnal depths of his hips.

Two warm hands latch on in a vice-like grip on the delicious curve of your hips, and he’s holding your body still and pushing and pushing and pushing-

“Sh-shit!” Gojo’s voice pitches up embarrassingly high at the end of his slew of swears, buttering up your insides in a muggy few ribbons of pre in response. “But s-so tight- dunno if it’ll even…even fit.”

He sounded hypnotized.

“Are you- ngh! are you alright, Satoru?” You’re musing out, eyes glassy with a solid combination of lust and utter concern. Before you know it, your hand is reaching out to stroke the ba-dump–! thudding against his pecs.

“No.”

And it takes only the slightest graze of your doughy fingerpads against his flaming hot skin, the slightest touch from you before Gojo rudely swats your hand away and bottoms out-

You don’t even know what you were mad at- were you mad?

You really can’t even remember. Not when the crowned tip of Gojo’s incredible length was planting a sweet peck right into the sponged ends of your cervix, the entirety of his shaft spearheading you so deep that you think he might just be fucking into your lungs.

So big that he didn’t even have to try to rub the puffy zig-zag of his veins along your sweetest spots, even the most minute gyrations made your toes curl.

Splitting you apart. Stroking the weepy base of your slit with the hot, rounded sack of his breeder balls so right that it made you putty in his hands.

“Don’t t-touch me, my princess.” Gojo’s nuzzling his tear-stuck cheek against your own, you could feel the warble of his unsteady confessions. “Don’t touch me or I’ll…I’ll cum.”

And when has Gojo Satoru ever lied to you? Well, the upturned jolt of his split-ended tip right into the target of your mushy cervix told you that he wasn’t.

Gojo’s sinking down the edges of his teeth into his wobbly lower lip, he’s forcing his eyes to narrow down n’ obscure his crystal clear image of you to stop himself from cumming.

“So beautiful, can’t help it–” His breath hitches once he’s pushing apart your trembly thighs and stretching them over the two ends of his broad shoulders. Your ankles pitching down onto the rippling plush of his toned deltoids. “So perfect.”

“S-sweet-talker.” You whisper, mouth as dry as the Sahara with how his thick circumference was stretching out your rubbery walls until they were seering.

But if Gojo heard then he didn’t snap back - he was too pussydrunken to.

Moving on instinct, on that carnal twinge inside his brain that forced his powerful limbs to lock your ankles with one hand behind his head. To brace an engulfing palm right beside your head and lower himself down, down, down into a-

A mating press.

Gojo Satoru had you in a fucking mating press.

“So mine.”

And he was pounding all his aching inches into you like it would be the last time. Like he was mazing through your adhesive-like walls and plummeting the leaky end of his cock to knock against your very womb.

Gojo’s nose crinkles at the sheer warmth you were coating him in, dripping fresh slathers of slick in rings ‘round his hilt. He shivers as it drools down his tight balls, “I’m…I’m really fucking you- ngh! I’m fucking you, my princess.”

“Yes- yes yes yes—” Your mouth parts ajar, and you don’t know what it floods more with - your pathetic whines, or saliva. Coating a treacly river from each curl of your lips, “More. More, Toru.”

Oh.

You might have just broken him with that.

Even through your fucked-out stupor, you’re gaping at the way that the hand beside your head curls into an unyielding fist. It has to.

Otherwise, Gojo’s plump cockhead would be sugarcoating your sloppy hole in much more than just copious amounts of sticky precum. He would’ve cum.

“M-more?” You hear from above you, your knight’s bulging pecs vibrating with the plea. Oh, was it a plea - strained, shaking. Gojo sounded as if he was two seconds away from simply bursting into crazed laughter, “More…more. My princess wants- fuck! More?”

Fat ends of his fingers lock around the sides of your cheeks and force you into such an unladylike pout. “Say it- say it, little royal.”

“Shit!” Your core arches up into his hardened one, just as Gojo knew it would when angling his hips juuust right to give your bulging g-spot a long, hard swipe. Your throbbing clit scratching against his pale happy trail. “Yes- ngh yes I want more. Want more, Satoru!”

More.

And more was exactly what you were going to get. More than you could handle.

Your thighs ache with the struggle to stay open when Gojo tightens his lock around your ankles. Gruffing out a tight, “Take it then.”

He was so sexy, the swelling flex of his biceps enough to make your pussy drool and him slip n’ slide pliantly. Jackhammering away rugged pumps that you feel all the way in your leaden throat.

Your most favorite spots are so bruised that they’re almost tender, curling the base of your spine with tendrils of bliss that make you yelp.

“O-ohhh my god—” The side of his neck dampens as you’re leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses that make the man pinning you down shiver. His sculpted abs twinging with every massage down your front, “Just like that, a-always wanted to fuck you, Toru–”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Gojo hiccups, the expression upon his features plain pained. Voice dipping into a whine, “Don’t know what y-you’re doing t’me.”

But now that you were babbling away, you couldn’t stop. Not even when he’s speeding up his vigorous cadence until the globes of your ass are left stinging, “M’serious– I always wanted-”

“Shut up shut up- shut up- my princess.” You don’t think that either of you were even lucid at this point, and every pap! of skin-on-skin is followed by the screeching creak of the table below you. Gojo rolls his eyes down at you fondly, “Gotta m-make you cum so you can shut up.”

Otherwise you were going to drive him wild until there’s no turning back.

Before you can let off a moan - or fervently agree - he thumbs over the perked hood of your clit. Drawing- circles? Hearts? No, his own name.

A tedious little S-A-T-O-R-U that makes your gushing walls clench oh-so-tightly around his sweltering length. Tummy tightening into something so close to shattering.

And Gojo was rough. Snickering at the way you whine, spilling out wadded volumes of spittle between your parted lips. He breathes, “Gonna make you cum- g-gonna make my princess cum.” You swear he nods down at your pussy and grins, “G-gotta be a good girl f’me, m’kay? Gonna be a good- girl- and…”

His hips slap sloppily against yours, overworked thumb stuttering on a swooping U over your sensitive nub. And the tension in the air pulls tight, tight, tight like the most delicate of strings, before crashing- “-cum.”

You don’t know who cums first - you or Gojo.

All you know is that as soon as your mind explodes with bursts of bliss - his poor cock does, as well.

Head toppling backwards, overfilled pussy slopping out waterfalls of sweet, sweet juices, it’s all you can do not to sob.

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck fuck-” Your nails rake red, red lines all down his expansive back. Pulling him in even closer until all he can manage are dirty lil’ half-thrusts to pound you through your high. “M’cumming, Toru-”

“Y-yeah?” Gojo’s stuttering wetly, sloppily. Pushing the fat battering of his fountaining orifice into the groove of your g-spot over n’ over n’ over. You didn’t know how anything could feel so good. “N’ who made you cum, hm? Who’s f-fucking this pretty pussy, hm?”

“You-” You’re prattling, “You, Satoru.”

“Fuck.” Gojo gapes in wide-eyed craze, breath hitching when you lean over to drag your tongue over the sappy trickle of drool escaping his rose-red lips. “G-gonna make me cum again, swear-”

And he does.

“Can- can we hold hands while I hck! fuck you through your high, my princess?” He bats his lashes, a delicate blush taking over the tips of Gojo’s ears when you lace your fingers together.

You can feel the splat! of even more heavy seed hitting the bottom of your pussy, swashing a warm second coating to your elastic walls every time Gojo thrusts. He was so solidly inside. Pinpointing specks of pure white with each swab.

So full. So much of his voluminous ounces that it’s taken to tipping over from between your pussylips and forming a creamy puddle below you. You’re slipping all over it with every slither of Gojo’s cock.

But neither of you can even think to bring yourselves to be disgusted. To care for etiquette.

Because Gojo drifts his hand over an invisible line where your tummy was being bloated with his length and his cum- and you find yourself aching for more all over again.

“This looks…” Gojo starts, syllables scratchy and jagged. He’s practically whimpering - whimpering - at the sight of that lecherous cylindrical bulge being fucked into you.

You’re dripping with him, and his cock twitches ferally at the thought of you all round and glowing. What a pretty mama you’d make. “...looks like the n-next heir to the throne will be a Gojo, my princess.”

Oh, you liked the thought of that.

And looking at Gojo Satoru now - eyes still not fully focused with how ruined he was, skin blushed the same maidenly shade of red that his slobbering mushroom tip was, pretty smile directed at you and only you in this lilac-scented haze - you didn’t think you wanted it any other way.

But, of course, Gojo would never want it any other way, either. Never.

He clears his throat, sapphire gaze hardening; the intensity of it sending chills sprinting down your spine. Burning with a fervent I love you I love you I love you.

Massive hands intertwined with yours pull into your line of vision, and Gojo takes his dear time pressing a lingering peck onto each n’ every single one of your knuckles. But particularly on the one above your left ring finger.

This was it.

“My princess…run away with me?”

“Didya hear ‘bout that Prince Naoya?”

“Oh yes- had his bride stolen away by a knight, I hear. Put a knife to his throat n’ took her away in the dead of night!”

“Hogwash! The boy was a looker, she went quite willingly, see- I always did think that Naoya wasn’t good ‘nough for our princess.”

“Wonder what happened after? That Zenin bunch was quite furious I hear, that bratty prince is still out for blood. But ol’ Naobito and some commander came to the rescue- Somethin’ about corruption and Jinichi…”

“Bah! Who cares about that? S’the biggest royal affair of the century- a handsome knight sweeping away the beloved princess? They’re swoonin’ n’ calling him the Knight of Roses already. All I wanna know is how the young couple is doing!”

Yaga rolls his eyes at other rambunctious customers churning gossip-mill, a pint clutched tightly in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other.

Honestly, he comes to the pub for once to escape from palace duties - and the palace duties seem to want to escape with him!

And even after so many months since that engagement party fiasco? News really did trickle down slowly when royal scandals were so often covered.

Oh, whatever. He muses, thumb gliding over the glossy parchment- some new innovation from kingdoms beyond the sea, according to what the eagerly-accompanied writing had said. A…a photograph, you had called it.

And Gojo’s surprisingly intricate drawing of you fiddling with the ah- camera gave him an idea of the machinery, though- most of the sketches were of you. All of them, actually.

Yaga gazes on in slight wonderment at the perfect black and white depiction of your smile, rivalling the one of Gojo Satoru’s beside yours. Beaming, sleeves rolled up and fatigued with a day of hard work, so in love.

It was oh-so-positively sweet.

The cherry on top? Well, Yaga couldn’t quite decide between the matching bands glinting on each of your left ring-fingers, the glimpse of a pretty lil’ cottage behind you two, and the massive bouquet of undoubtedly deep red roses Gojo was presenting you with.

Or perhaps it was the hand you were resting absent-mindedly on the obviously rounded curve of your tummy.

How fortunate, he tucks away the photograph into his coat with a smile and orders another pint. Knight of Roses, indeed.

A/N. Yearning is my kink mhm. Hope you have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

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cupc4keics · 14 days ago

Text

i didnt learn eanglish for this.

A Path I Can't Follow

author's note ⸺ My Star Wars fans will be so happy with this one LOLL, well actually not happy bc its mega angst (iykyk). JUSTICE FOR ANAKIN AND SUGURU!!! I recommend listening to your favourite sad playlist while reading, makes the experience 1111000% better. pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x f!reader request ⸺ linked here content warning ⸺ violence, grief, loss, death. (yeah, I said mega angst...)

It had been almost a month since Suguru Geto abandoned the Jujutsu world, leaving behind a trail of devastation that none of you could have anticipated.

The day Gojo gave you the news…your world fractured in ways you couldn’t comprehend.

When Satoru found you in the training hall, his usually carefree expression was replaced with something grim, something haunted.

The lighthearted banter you’d come to expect from him was absent, replaced by a heavy silence that stretched between you like a void.

You had known something was wrong before he even said it, but nothing could have prepared you for the words that followed.

Suguru had cursed an entire village—men, women, children—and even worse, his own parents were among them.

Your mind couldn’t grasp it at first.

The Suguru you knew, the one who held you close on quiet nights, who used to laugh softly at your terrible jokes and talk about a future that didn’t involve exorcisms or endless battles, was suddenly unrecognizable.

How could he have done something so monstrous?

You remembered staring blankly at Gojo, your body numb, the room spinning as he continued speaking, his voice distant as you felt something hot stream down your cheeks.

You had been dating Suguru for three years—three years of knowing every side of him…or so you thought.

But this?

This was something you could never have imagined.

The ache in your chest was unbearable, it felt as if someone had hollowed you out from the inside. You shook your head violently “No…no…”

You couldn’t produce an image of the man you loved according to the monster Gojo had described.

The same man who used to trace circles on your back as you fell asleep, whispering that everything would be okay, had now left a village in ruins, and your mind couldn’t process it.

Gojo’s voice had softened when he saw the look on your face, but the pity in his eyes only made it worse, and you fell to the ground in a broken mess.

"I’m sorry," he’d said, and though you knew he meant it, those words felt hollow, as you knew he had lost someone important too in all of this.

You barely remembered what happened after that.

The days blurred together in a haze of disbelief and grief. You stayed in your room, replaying every conversation, every mission, searching for the moment when it all went wrong.

How had you missed this?

How could Suguru have changed so completely without you realizing it?

The weight of his absence crushed you.

The empty spaces he left behind—the way your bed felt too big without him in it, the quiet moments in the common room that you used to fill with laughter—were suffocating.

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t escape the truth: Suguru Geto, the man you loved, had become someone you didn’t recognize.

And you didn’t what from him, no goodbye, no I’m sorry—nothing from the man you loved.

You had been avoiding your phone, pushing the thoughts of Suguru away because they hurt too much to hold onto.

The soft knock at your bedroom door made your heart jump, only for it to fall when you realized it wasn’t him—It was never him.

But when you opened the door to see a letter laid on the ground—folded, worn edges, and unmistakably his handwriting—your world spun for a moment.

He had sent it. After everything, after weeks of silence, Suguru sent you a note.

Your fingers trembled as you opened it, heart racing, unsure whether you should laugh or cry at the mere fact that he reached out.

"Meet me."

And, God help you, you went.

—

The air was thick, and the sky was dark when you arrived at the temple.

It clung to your skin, heavy with unspoken words, with things left unsaid between the two of you.

Your feet felt like they were sinking into the earth as you climbed the steps, each one pulling you deeper into a place you weren’t sure you could return from.

And there he was.

Suguru stood by the edge of the open hall, staring out into the night, his back turned to you as the wind stirred his long hair. He didn’t move as you approached, didn’t say anything, even though you knew he had to have sensed your presence.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, willing your voice to come out steady. "Suguru."

It barely came out as a whisper, but it was enough. His shoulders stiffened, the only sign that he had heard you.

You waited for him to turn, for him to say something—anything—that would make sense of the last few weeks. But he didn’t move.

The silence pressed down on you, suffocating.

“Why did you do all this?” You finally asked, your voice cracking under the weight of the question that had haunted you every day since he disappeared.

Suguru exhaled slowly, a sound that was more sigh than breath. "I had to." He said before finally turning around to face you.

That was all he offered.

No apology, no explanation, just that hollow statement, like it was meant to answer everything.

You could see his features soften as your eyes locked.

He had almost forgotten how beautiful you were, how your features calmed him and brought him warmth—a warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time.

You shook your head, trying to hold yourself together as you spoke softly.

“You didn’t have to. You didn’t have to curse an entire village to death. You didn’t even tell me—” Your voice cracked as you felt the pain of his absence catching up to you. “You left me. You left all of us.”

Finally, he began slowly walking towards where you stood in the doorway. His eyes met yours, and the sight of him, standing there so composed, so distant, shattered something inside you.

"I couldn’t stay," he said, his voice steady in a way that made your chest ache. "This world… it’s broken. Staying wouldn’t change that."

You took a step toward him, desperation clawing at you. "We could’ve fixed it together. You didn’t even try to talk to Satoru or me. You didn’t have to leave."

He shook his head, his eyes hard, resolute.

"You shouldn’t bother yourself with Satoru…” He paused, “I’m building something new. Something better. I can’t fix this world from the inside. I can’t pretend anymore." He took a few more steps, closing the distance between you with agonizing slowness, each step erasing the space but widening the gap between who he had been and who he had become.

You felt the urge rise, the instinct to reach out, to touch him like you used to, like it would somehow bring him back to you.

But your hands stayed frozen at your sides, weighed down by the fear—no, the fact that your beautiful boy was already too far gone.

Your heart dropped.

The person standing in front of you wasn’t the Suguru you had known, the one who held you close after every mission, the one who whispered your name like it was a prayer. This man was a stranger, distant and cold.

“And what about us?” Your voice cracked again, tears burning behind your eyes as you fought to keep them at bay. “What about everything we had, Suguru?”

His jaw clenched. For a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes, something soft and familiar. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that same, chilling determination.

"I can’t go back." His voice was quiet but firm as his thumb ran over your sift skin, reminding you of the happiness you once had with this man.

Unbeknownst to you, tears began to slip down your cheeks, hot and unchecked. You leaned into his touch, your voice trembling with emotion.

“What you are doing…I-It’s insane. You, me, the others—we were building something.”

He shook his head, his expression hardening as his gaze turned distant again but still locked onto your crying eyes, his hand moving down to rest on the side of your neck, his touch was cold on your warm skin.

“No, y/n. We weren’t building anything. I was just wasting my time.”

You flinched as if he had struck you, the weight of his words slamming into you, stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Wasting time?”

You staggered back, away from his grasp, shaking your head, hands gripping your arms as though trying to hold yourself together.

“This isn’t you, Suguru. You’re not this... this person. You’re not—not a monster…” Your voice faltered, a sob finally breaking free from your quivering lips as you looked away from his once-kind eyes.

“Come home to me, baby. Please.”

You hated how desperate you sounded, how your heart felt like it was shattering in your chest as you stood there, pleading with the only person you had ever truly loved.

“I can’t,” he said softly, and that softness hurt worse than anything else. His eyes met yours, and you saw it—the finality in them.

“I’m building something new. A world where the weak don’t suffer. A world that’s right.”

Tears streamed down your face, hot and bitter, but you couldn’t stop them. “We could do that together! We could—”

“No, y/n!” His voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and cold as ice.

He had never yelled at you, never raised his voice like this, and the sound of it sent a fresh wave of pain and fear crashing over you.

“We can’t.”

You flinched at his harshness, your breath hitching as his words sank in. He looked away, jaw clenched tight, as if the mere sight of your tears was too much for him.

"I’m doing this for us," he continued, his voice lower but no less resolute. "For everyone.”

"Suguru…you’re breaking my heart, you’re going down a path I can’t follow” The words slipped out, quiet but forceful. Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at him, the man you always thought you couldn’t live without.

He shook his head softly, slowly approaching you as you moved away from him. “Y/n…everything I’ve done, has been necessary…"

“Necessary?” You spat, your voice trembling as your grief twisted into rage, angry tears streaming down your face. “You think abandoning me—abandoning everything we have worked for—is necessary?”

He shook his head, taking small steps towards you slowly closing the space between you once more.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m—”

“Then what is this?!” You interrupted, your voice breaking as the pain inside you twisted into something desperate, broken.

“What do you call this if not abandonment?!” You screamed, your tear-filled eyes locking with his, and you knew he could see the pain in your soul, the pain he caused you.

Suguru’s eyes flashed, a familiar glint passing through them, and for the first time since you arrived, you saw something close to regret in his gaze. He looked at you in a way you never thought you’d get to see again—with love.

Before you could even react, his lips were on yours, urgent and full of emotion.

The kiss hit you like a truck, your breath stolen from your lungs as his hand moved to the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair as he desperately pulled you closer.

The shock of it left you frozen for a heartbeat, but then your body responded on its own, your hands reaching up to cup his face.

Your fingers brushed against the familiar curve of his jaw, the rough stubble beneath your touch grounding you in a moment that felt both surreal and inevitable.

The kiss wasn’t gentle—it was raw, a mixture of desperation and longing, as if he were trying to pour every unsaid word, every unresolved feeling, into the press of his lips.

Suguru kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered in the world, as if he could somehow erase the pain that he saw reflected in your tears with this one act.

His lips were soft, but his grip on you was firm, holding you as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

And for a moment, you let yourself fall into it—into him. You let the world fall away, let the ache in your chest dissolve into the warmth of his touch.

Your hands trembled slightly as they moved from his jaw to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, refusing to let him slip away again.

His kiss deepened, and you felt the weight of all the emotions he wasn’t saying—the regret, the sorrow, the love that still lingered between you, even in the midst of everything.

But as your lips moved with his, the reality of what was happening began to creep back in.

This kiss wasn’t a promise—it was a goodbye, a last grasp at something that had already been broken beyond repair.

You could feel it in the way his body pressed against yours, in the way his breath hitched slightly as he pulled away, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath.

His hand lingered on the back of your head, but there was a distance in his touch, a hesitation that hadn't been there before.

When you opened your eyes and looked into his, you saw the tears welling up, threatening to spill from the depths of his deep purple gaze.

“Suguru…” Your voice was soft as you spoke,

“I love you, I have, continue to, and will forever love you.”

You watched his eyes search yours, the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air as a single tear slipped down his cheek, his lips quivered slightly, and you felt your heart shatter within your chest.

Instinctively, you raised your thumb to wipe it away, your gentle touch resting on his skin as your hands cradled his face. The warmth of his skin under your fingertips contrasted sharply with the hot tears streaming down your own face, the ache in your chest growing as you held onto each other tightly.

His fingers traced small, soothing patterns on your cheek, evoking the memories of laughter and love you once shared, of moments that felt invincible and eternal.

“Please, baby, come h—” you began, desperation threading through your voice, the plea heavy on your lips. But before you could finish, he cut you off with another kiss—this one frantic and urgent, a collision of emotions.

Your lips moved together, moisture mixing due to you both crying, it was as if he were trying to convey everything he couldn't articulate, the weight of his sorrow and regret pouring into the embrace.

His hands became tangled in your hair again as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth with familiarity.

He kissed you with a fervour that spoke of longing, a need to bridge the gap that had formed between you.

This kiss was deeper and more intense, echoing the confessions left unspoken, the promises he had broken.

In that moment, you both surrendered to the flood of feelings that surged between you, clinging to each other as if the world around you had ceased to exist.

He pulled away gently, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Please, Suguru,” you said through your tears, your voice raw. “I love you. I love you so much.”

For a long, agonizing moment, he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you, as if memorizing the way you looked right then—broken, crying, desperate.

“Love won’t save you, y/n, only power can do that.” He said, straightening his spine and letting his hands fall to his sides.

“But at what cost? You are a good person, probably the best I’ve ever met. Don’t do this!” You cried, watching his eyes darken with something you weren't familiar with.

“You don’t understand, y/n, I am bringing about the world of the sorcerers! Those monkeys needed to be taken out in order for us to survive.” He tried explaining, and you felt your heart practically tearing apart.

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing…Satoru was right…You’ve changed.” You said, taking a few steps backward to create some space between you. You noticed his eyebrows crinkle at the sound of your words.

“I don’t want to hear any more about Satoru!” He shouted, growing visibly angry as he continued, “He thinks he can take anything he wants, don’t you let him take you from me too!”

You let out a defeated sigh, but the hot stream of tears didn’t stop flowing. “I don't know you anymore Suguru…”

“Because of Satoru?” He said accusingly.

You shook you head, a look of disbelief sprawled across your face.

“Because of what you've done—What you plan to do! Stop! Stop now... come back! I love you!”

Suguru’s features softened and he took a gentle step towards you. Before you could get another word out, his eyes darted to the doorway behind you, and that dark angered look returned.

You turned your head to meet the object of his gaze and were surprised to see Gojo standing in the doorway, his shades loosely between two fingers at his side.

“You’re with him! You brought him here because you know he’s the only one who can kill me!” Suguru shouted, his eyes meeting yours with a raging fire you hadn’t seen before, sending a wave of fear through your body.

“No! I don’t know why he’s her–.” You pleaded your hands clasping together in front of you—But Suguru wasn’t listening.

All he saw was red—the overwhelming rage and betrayal clouding his judgment, twisting every word you said into something darker.

Without hesitation, his hand lifted, fingers curling into a fist. The motion was swift, almost instinctive, and before you could react, the sensation of his familiar snake-like curse coiled around your body.

Its grip tightened with terrifying speed, constricting your airway, and your breath hitched violently.

Panic surged through you as your vision began to blur. You tried to speak, tried to plead with him, but the pressure around your throat made it impossible.

Your hands flew up to your neck in a futile attempt to loosen the curse’s grip, but it was no use.

Your eyes locked onto his, searching for some sign of the man you once loved—some hint of the tenderness he used to show you. But the fire in his gaze was all-consuming, the rage overpowering the softness you had once known.

Tears streamed down your face, each drop burning against your skin as your body began to falter.

Yet, through the haze of suffocating pain, you noticed something—the glistening tears that fell from Suguru’s own eyes, tracing silent paths down his cheeks.

Even in his anger, his heart ached.

But it wasn’t enough to stop him.

Before you could let out your final breath, you managed to say one last thing as you stared into his dangerous eyes–the same ones you fell in love with, searching for one last glimpse of the man you loved.

“I will–always love–you.” You breathed, voice hoarse as you felt your body slip into unconsciousness.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, one he didn’t bother wiping away this time. The weight of your final words crushed him, cracking through the hardened shell he’d encased himself in.

‘I can’t let Satoru take her from me’ he thought to himself.

Suguru’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing as your words hung in the air like a ghost.

‘I will—always love—you.’

It was as if the last shred of your strength had been spent in those words, the way you looked at him, your eyes full of love and pain, piercing through the darkness he’d embraced.

His grip on you tightened, the snake-like curse coiling around your now limp neck with unrelenting force.

His thoughts were frantic—disjointed.

But then, Gojo’s voice boomed, snapping through the suffocating tension like a whip,

“Suguru, let her go!” It wasn’t a request—it was a command. At that moment, the intensity of Gojo's eyes was enough to shake even Suguru.

“Let her go, damn it!” Gojo’s voice cracked, desperation seeping through his usual unshakable composure.

“You’ve probably just killed her!”

Suguru’s hands faltered, his eyes widening in sudden horror.

Gojo’s words pierced through the haze of rage clouding his mind.

Killed her? No… That couldn’t be true.

He hadn’t meant to hurt you, hadn’t meant for this to happen. He’d only wanted to protect you—to keep you by his side.

“No…no, no, no…” Suguru muttered, releasing the curse, causing your body to fall to the floor with a loud thud. His hand covered his mouth as he stumbled back.

His eyes flickered between you and Gojo, and he quickly went to hold you in his arms. “No!”

Panic seeped into his gaze as he saw your limp form cradled in his arms, your head lolling to the side.

‘No, she’s not—she can’t be—’

“Y/n…?” Suguru whispered, dropping to his knees beside you, his trembling hands hovering over your neck, unsure, terrified of what he might find.

His breathing hitched, and for the first time in a month, Suguru Geto was terrified.

“Suguru, what did you do?!” Gojo's voice rang out again, fury and heartbreak mingling together.

His hands clenched at his sides, every muscle in his body taut as he fought the urge to tear Suguru apart.

But even now, beneath the rage, there was still that glimmer of hope—hope that you could be saved.

Suguru shook his head, his movements erratic, his denial absolute. “She’s—she’s fine, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to—” His voice broke, trembling as his eyes darted between your pale face and Gojo’s stricken expression.

He hadn’t meant to kill you—he never meant for it to end this way.

“I-I didn’t—” His words trailed off, his mind spiralling as he realized the depth of what he had done.

The weight of his actions crashed down on him, and for a moment, he was paralyzed by the enormity of his guilt.

Gojo’s eyes narrowed, his hands trembling as he walked towards where you laid in his arms.

“Suguru,” he growled, voice laced with cold fury.

“You’ve killed her.”

“No!” Suguru shouted, backing away from you, as if Gojo’s words were physical blows.

His chest heaved, his breath shallow as panic surged through him.

He stumbled to his feet, shaking his head in disbelief, refusing to accept what had just happened.

“No, I didn’t—she’s not—she’s still alive!”

Gojo’s pained gaze flickered to your still form, and in that instant, Suguru knew—he couldn’t stay.

Not with Gojo there. Not with the full weight of his crime pressing down on him. He turned on his heel, his heart hammering in his chest as he muttered incoherent apologies to the air, his mind fractured and overwhelmed.

Without another word, Suguru bolted from the room, his footsteps echoing in the hollow silence.

Gojo didn’t move—he couldn’t. Not yet. Not when your life hung in the balance.

The room fell into a suffocating quiet, the remnants of your final plea still echoing in the air.

There weren’t many thoughts going through Gojo’s head as he carried your lifeless body back to Jujutsy High, just one—he had lost his two best friends that night.

—

5 Days Later

Suguru had recruited a few curse users since his incident with you and Gojo at the temple. He had managed to knock you out so Gojo wouldn’t be able to stick around and kill him, he couldn’t afford to delay his plans. Or so he convinced himself.

One evening, he was approached by two girls he had adopted, Nanako and Mimiko, who claimed to have news from Jujutsu High, as they were responsible for gaining intel from the school to keep tabs.

“Let's hear it. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble for you girls,” He said softly, a warm smile playing on his lips as the two girls sat beside him.

“Not at all, Mr. Geto.” Mimiko said taking out a piece of paper from her pocket to read some bullet points, written in glitter gel pens.

“Um, no one is making any real progress on tracking you down, probably because they’re all idiots,” she said, rolling her eyes. Suguru let out a small chuckle.

“Well that’s good news, anything else?” He said, that same smile plastered on his face.

“Oh yeah, that girl sorcerer you fought with is dead, what was her name? Ummmmm, oh yeah! Y/n y/l/n!”

Suguru’s entire body went rigid, the casual warmth that had coloured his voice just moments ago draining in an instant. His heart seized in his chest as Mimiko’s words echoed in his ears.

‘Y/n y/l/n… dead.’

“No,” he muttered, his voice strained and barely audible as the room seemed to tilt around him.

“That’s impossible. I—” He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“I just knocked her unconscious… I didn’t—” His words trailed off, his mind spiralling back to that moment, to the look in your eyes as his cursed spirit wrapped around your neck.

‘I didn’t mean to hurt her. I didn’t mean to…’

“Yeah,” Nanako added, her tone indifferent as she glanced at the paper. “That doctor lady’s report said her neck was broken—shattered, actually. Sounds like there was nothing they could do. She died instantly.”

Suguru’s breath hitched in his throat, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

His mind raced back to that final moment, your whispered words replaying in his head over and over again. ‘I will—always love—you.’

‘How had it come to this? How had he let it happen?’

His hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the table, trying to steady himself, but the world was slipping through his fingers.

He hadn’t meant to kill you. He didn’t want that. He had only wanted to stop you—stop you from siding with Gojo. Stop you from leaving him, like everyone else had.

But now… Now you’re gone.

“Mr. Geto?” Mimiko’s soft voice attempted to pull him out of his thoughts, but it did nothing to soothe the storm that raged inside him.

He couldn’t hear her. He could barely hear anything but the blood rushing in his ears, the distant echo of your last breath.

He stood abruptly, pushing away from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. Both girls flinched, their eyes widening in confusion as they watched his usually composed demeanour unravel.

“Mr. Geto?” Nanako called out again, her voice small.

But Suguru wasn’t listening anymore. He turned away, his mind a tangled mess of disbelief and horror.

He had to get out—out of this room, out of this suffocating realization that he had killed the one person who had loved him enough to try to save him.

His chest heaved as he stumbled toward the door, his vision blurring at the edges. The air felt too thick, too hot, and for the first time in years,

Suguru Geto felt like he was drowning.

‘I killed my beautiful y/n…’ The thought reverberated like a haunting mantra, suffocating him from the inside.

He barely registered the sound of the girls calling after him as he staggered outside, cold night air hitting his skin but doing little to calm the chaos inside him.

Suguru collapsed to his knees, his breath ragged, his hands clutching at his head as if he could somehow block out the reality of what he had done.

The tears came, unbidden, hot and stinging, falling freely down his face as he let out a broken, anguished sob.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Y/n…” he whispered into the cold night air, his voice shattered. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

But it was too late. He had chosen the dark side…

The world he sought to create, one where the weak no longer suffered, now felt more hollow than ever.

And all that remained was the bitter taste of regret, the price of his ambition.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jjk angst #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru #jjk suguru #getou suguru x reader #jujutsu kaisen suguru #jjk #suguru x reader #suguru x you

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cupc4keics · 16 days ago

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˖ 𑣲 comments and reblogs are always appreciated ma girliees <333 part.1 part.2 part.3

you stepped inside your boyfriend's apartment, gym bag slung over your shoulder, fresh from practice—skin still warm, sports bra sticking a little too much to your back and breasts, hair up in a high bun, face flushed.

virgin!nerdjo was on his bed, jerking upright as he heard you calling after him. wide blue eyes met yours as you appeared on the doorway, his glasses slipping down his nose, shirt slightly rumpled, hugging his phone to his chest tighter. “h-hi, babe!”

virgin!nerdjo pushed up his glasses with one shaking finger, ears bright, glowing pink. “…you're okay?” you ask a bit concerned by his disheveled demeanor.

“y-yeah! i was—i was reading! science stuff…you know. .the usual.”

you dropped your bag by the door, raising a brow. “gojo.”

virgin!nerdjo squeaked as you stepped forward, your eyes narrowing slightly “did you see something weird on the internet again?”

“what do you mean…weird? y-you know—uh—weird can be interpreted differently depending on the person and—”

“satoru,” you said, tone dipping playfully as you sat beside him. " why's your face red? why can i feel the body heat from here?"

his mouth opened, closed. his glasses fogged a little. then softly, virgin!nerdjo, in that high-pitched panic laced voice asked, “…does—does it really taste better after p-practice?”

you blinked. “what?”

“I DIDNT SAY ANYTHING!!!!!” virgin!nerdjo immediately launched into a flailing mess, grabbing the nearest pillow and smashing his face into it. “FORGET I SAID THAT” his words muffled into the cotton. “i—it was a stupid reel. some guy said that!! i didn't—i didn't know what it meant at first and then—and then i understood and now i—oh god—you're back from practice—”

you burst out laughing, tugging his pillow down just enough to reveal his face—red as a cherry tomato, hair sticking up in all directions, lips parted in pure shame. you kissed his hot cheek—melting from how adorable he was.

“you little freak.”

and that's how virgin!nerdjo found himself scrambling down to the edge of the bed, kneeling on the floor in front of you like the clumsy worshipper he is. “i—i read about this,” he muttered, more to himself. “like. . .techniques. angles, pressure, even points. there was a diagram—um—never mind.” he cleared his throat. “okay, okay…i got this. i can do this.”

you bit back a grin. “satoru, baby. stay focused genius.”

and virgin!nerdjo did. sloppily, enthusiastically and completely lacking finesse but god was he totally eager. he licked into you with zero rhythm and zero patience, tongue everywhere at once, trying to map out like you were an equation he couldn't quite solve. he licked broad and flat, then sucked sharply, then messily dragged his mouth all over your folds with no direction, moaning loud and wet against you.

virgin!nerdjo gasped, nuzzling his face in deeper. "mmfff—shiit—it's…" slurp "so wet a-already—why're you—mnghh—how're you so- so wet? did i make you like this??" you barely caught half of it. his voice was muffled against your cunt, slick dripping down his chin, tongue flicking wildly and slapping against your clit in quick, frantic bursts.

“fuuuuck,” he groaned, slathering his tongue through yoru folds. “it's better, it's actually fucking better—why's it better??? why—fuck why, do you taste like this—” he was whining, his voice shaking as he smeared spit and slick across your puffy lips, blue eyes fluttering shut.

virgin!nerdjo kissed your clit with open lips like it was your mouth, then did it again, tongue swirling, lips sucking greedily, as if trying to swallow you whole. his hands clutched your thighs, trembling. he licked up the mess he made and kept going, drooling into your intoxicating scent. “'s sooo warm, s-so creamy—mmfghhh—y'shmell s'fuggin good, i c-chan't think…chink sthtraight, babe, i c-can't—fuck i cahn't, i can't, i—”

you grabbed his hair and shoved his head deeper. “shut up and eat, 'toru.”

virgin!nerdjo moaned like you'd praised him, nose buried against your clit now, tongue flicking rapidly over it in frantic, inconsistent strokes. it wasn't skillful—it was chaotic, needy, but fuck was it good. really good.

“mmhmghfmff, y're t-titchin'—sfqueezin' on m'ongue—fuhhg, i'szit thafgood? g-gonna c-cfmum? oh, plchese—fugg, plshesaes—cum on m'mouff, i-i b-behmen thinking ‘bout it since th’reel—couldn't shthop—kept i-imagining—”

you couldn't even hear the rest— your breath was ragged, ears ringing, body too busy unraveling. your thighs trembled as he slobbered on your pussy, drool and slick coating his chin and mouth, your taste smeared over his flushed face.

your climax hit fast and deep, hips stuttering as he sucked on your clit with desperate little slurping noises alterning with tongue fucking your cunt until you cried out.

“thas' it—yeahhh like haaa. gfme—gimme more, p-please,mfm're—love y'pussy, 's swo ssweft 'n swaltyy” your hand tightened in his hair and yanked his face back.

virgin!nerdjo's face was delectable—eyes glassy, Adam's apple bobbing hard, chest heaving. his white fluffy hair a total mess in yoru drip, lips slick and shining with spit and arousal. and the wet patch blooming shamelessly on his pant. “this is insane,” he panted, voice cracking. “i'm gonna fail my finals ‘cause i’m addicted to your delicious pussy. this is way too insane.”

(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)♥︎︎ᯐ

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cupc4keics · 21 days ago

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YUMMMYYYYYY I LOVE THIS AUTHOR SO MUCH OH MY GOD pls support her🤍🤍😿😿

Cook Wanted, Crisis Found: 1/2

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Two-shot: Prime!Silvers Rayleigh x reader Length: 7 K+ Rating: 16+ (Language & Slight sexual content)

All Gol D. Roger wanted was a decent cook. Unfortunately, you fed them once. Now you’re emotionally held hostage by the most chaotic crew on the sea, being aggressively courted by a half-shirted war criminal with excellent manners and terrible timing. Rayleigh doesn’t just flirt. He haunts your kitchen like a respectful poltergeist, makes eye contact like it’s foreplay, and threatens anyone who compliments your hands.

You guys see in the latest OP SBS that Rogder didn't have a cook? Congrats, you are now the cook.

@thatanonymouschocolate

“I Asked for a Cook, Not a Crisis” —as told by the Pirate King, who is clearly not in control anymore

The first time you met them, you thought they were a plague.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. A genuine, loud-mouthed, sunburnt infestation with too much gold and zero sense of portion control. The kind of pirates who walked like the world was theirs by default, and anyone not handing them a drink was an obstacle.

They arrived in the middle of the lunch rush, clattering down the dock like the worst kind of omen. You caught the sound of them first: boots on splintered wood, laughter far too confident for a group that had evidently just rolled off a ship. They smelled like the sea, sweat, smoke, and freshly acquired trouble.

Your stall wasn’t much. No sign. No clever name painted on driftwood. No chalkboard menu with quaint little sketches. Just a rusted stove, a chipped wok, and your cutting glare, which you used as both weapon and deterrent. You weren’t running a restaurant so much as defending a sacred outpost of sanity. And then they showed up.

The one in the straw hat—Roger, though you didn’t know it yet—flashed a grin like a man who thought charm could substitute for manners. He leaned across the counter and tried to flirt, completely undeterred by your dead-eyed stare.

Scopper Gaban followed suit, slinging his arms onto the counter and asking, with all the self-satisfaction of a man who’d never been hit with a ladle, whether you were on the menu.

A red-haired child knocked over an entire pot of soup in his enthusiasm, scrambling to apologize while slipping on spilled broth and yelling about how it wasn’t his fault.

The blue-haired one took a single bite, declared the seasoning overrated, then immediately choked on a rogue pepper flake and turned an impressive shade of crimson. You stood there, arms crossed, watching him wheeze with complete disinterest.

You didn’t say a word. Just kept stirring, your ladle scraping the bottom of the wok in slow, steady circles, like a countdown to something unfortunate.

And while the others filled the space with noise and ego, one man said nothing at all.

He sat at the far end of your stall, elbows resting on the counter, and ate like he had been starving for something specific and had finally found it. No commentary. No swagger. No smug remark.

Just silence, and eyes that didn’t leave you once.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t ask for anything.

He simply ate, slow and careful, like the food you’d made deserved reverence. Like you did.

And when he looked up, it wasn’t with surprise or delight. It was with something heavier, like reco, liken. Like he was seeing something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

You should have kicked them all out. Should have dumped the pot, closed up early, and let them find someone else to bother.

Instead, you slid another bowl toward the quiet one.

He called himself Rayleigh.

You should have known better than to appreciate a pirate. But gods, you looked.

Tall and broad, weathered skin weathered by sun and salt, golden hair falling over sharp eyes like something out of a myth. He wore his confidence like it had been custom-stitched to his bones, every movement unhurried, every breath measured. Swagger poured into sinew and sin.

His voice hadn’t even touched your ears yet, and already your knees were whispering mutiny.

He leaned close once, reaching for a spice jar above your head. His arm brushed your back in passing. The contact was brief, almost careless, but your soul immediately exited your body and filed for early retirement. You didn’t even pretend to be composed. Just stood there, blinked once, and tried to remember what your own name was.

Then he called you “sweetheart.”

You nearly dropped the cleaver.

Your brain hiccupped so hard it forgot how to form opinions. It was less a reaction and more a full-body short circuit, the kind of internal meltdown that made you question if years of self-discipline could be unraveled by one word in that tone from that man.

And the worst part?

He didn’t even seem to be trying.

Rayleigh just ate. Quietly. Slowly. Every bite unhurried. Like the food in front of him was sacred. Like he wasn’t just refueling after a fight or soaking up rum with starch, but discovering something rare. Something real.

He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t praise the flavor. Didn’t lick his lips and wink like the others.

He just looked up when he was finished, eyes lingering on you, and in that moment, the world seemed to tilt slightly off its axis.

He stared like a man might look at a storm rolling in over open sea. A storm he’d already decided to walk into. Calm. Certain. Almost grateful. As if he knew exactly what it would cost him and had made peace with it.

You told yourself you weren’t flustered, and that your hands that didn’t tremble a little when you turned back to the stove. That you weren’t tracking the sound of his breath behind you with every move you made.

You should have known then. Should have locked the spice cabinet, packed up your knives, and vanished before anything could slip beneath your skin.

But instead?

You fed them.

And that was the first mistake.

The next time they showed up, they were half-dead.

They staggered in just after dusk, trailing blood and seawater, limping like they had fought the ocean and lost. Clothing torn, weapons missing, one of them missing a boot. They smelled like smoke and brine and something far too close to cannon powder. You weren’t sure who was supporting who, or if they were all just leaning on each other out of stubborn pride.

Roger was shouting something incoherent about Marines, sea kings, and a completely unnecessary bet involving dynamite and a pack of wild dogs. Buggy was pale and wheezing, clutching his side like he was holding in his own liver. Shanks looked like he’d fallen off a cliff. Twice.

You didn’t ask.

You just sighed, kicked open the door to the back of your stall, and started dragging them in by the collar one at a time. You swore the entire time. Loudly. Fluently. With real creativity. Muttered something about pirates being the worst kind of customer and demanded to know if anyone had filed a damn insurance policy. No one answered.

You threw them onto spare cushions, slapped bandages over whatever was bleeding the worst, and brewed a broth so potent it might have been considered medicinal in certain parts of the world and outright illegal in others. You shoved ladles of it between cracked lips and threatened to strangle anyone who complained about the salt.

Rayleigh was the last one through the door.

He leaned against the frame like he wasn’t entirely sure it was real. His shirt was soaked through with blood, half of it his, the rest probably someone else’s. He had a deep cut along his ribs, a fading bruise across his jaw, and the same calm expression he always wore. Like none of this was urgent, like pain had agreed to wait until he was done with whatever he had to finish.

You cursed under your breath and caught him just before he slumped to the floor.

It took effort to drag him across the threshold. He didn’t resist, only blinked at you through the haze, unfocused and slow. You dropped him onto a pile of laundry that hadn’t made it to the basin yet and crouched beside him, already reaching for clean bandages and your strongest antiseptic.

The steam from the broth curled in the air between you. Rayleigh turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, and looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“My sea-blessed angel,” he whispered, voice warm and wrecked. Then his eyes rolled back, and he passed out in your laundry like he had just found heaven.

You sat back on your heels and stared at him.

And then, instead of shoving him outside or pouring cold water over his head, you exhaled slowly, pressed a hand to your temple, and muttered a curse you hadn’t used in years.

You didn’t kick him out. You didn’t even try.

That, as you would later learn, was your second mistake.

He woke the next morning to the scent of citrus soap and the low clatter of pans from the front of the stall. The light filtering through the warped wooden slats was soft and golden, catching on the fresh bandage wrapped snug across his shoulder.

Then your foot nudged his ribs.

He blinked up at you, still groggy with sleep and blood loss, and watched as you dropped a hunk of bread into his hands without ceremony.

“Eat,” you said, voice flat. You looked like you hadn’t slept, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, apron already stained from a morning’s worth of effort. You didn’t wait for a response, just turned and walked away.

Took his time, too, like the food owed him something personal.

Then he wiped his mouth, looked up at you with that smug, sea-worn grin, and said:

“So, you spoken for or did I show up right on schedule?”

That smile did something awful to your spine. You felt it crack straight through your resolve like pressure on thin ice. You cursed yourself, turned away, and made the mistake of speaking.

“I’m not interested in pirates.”

Rayleigh didn’t miss a beat. “Liar.”

You scowled. “I like smart men.”

He took another bite and shrugged lazily. “Darling, I’m the reason maps have warnings.”

You hated how that made you pause. Hated that your heart skipped, just once. He wasn’t even trying, and he still knocked the wind out of you with a single sentence and that half-lidded grin.

He was the worst kind of man: sun-gold and storm-silver, sharp-eyed and slow-moving, like the floorboards were lucky to have him. He didn’t walk so much as saunter. Leaned on doorframes like they owed him rent. Stared at you like he was letting you in on a secret just by breathing in your direction.

He didn’t talk often, but when he did, it was in that velvet-wrapped drawl, the kind of voice that made you want to spill a drink just to shut it up. Or maybe to hear more.

Once, he passed behind you to reach for the spice rack. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t touch you.

But you felt him.

The shift of air. The warmth of his arm just behind yours. The slow certainty of someone who knew exactly how close he could get without crossing a line. You burned the rice, and then glared at the scorched bottom of the pan like it had personally betrayed you.

Later, he called you “sweetheart” in passing, his voice soft and wicked, as if he were whispering something.

Your knees betrayed you. They actually did the thing.

You told yourself it was just the voice. Just the swagger. Just the smell of rum and sea wind and the kind of bad decisions that involved midnight walks, stolen kisses, and regrettable mornings.

You weren’t going to fall for him.

You weren’t.

You may have admitted, once, very privately, that you might sit on his lap. Hypothetically. For scientific reasons. But only with limits.

And then, that afternoon, he walked by shirtless again.

You dropped your knife, cursed under your breath, and seriously considered throwing the entire stove into the harbor.

He glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

Of course he did.

Roger just wanted to eat.

That was it. That was the whole goal.

A good, solid cook. Someone who wouldn’t poison the crew. At least not on purpose. Someone who understood the difference between salt and sugar, unlike Buggy, whose last attempt at stew had turned into a war crime in liquid form. Someone who wouldn’t serve the same bizarre, spotted fish four days in a row and claim it was gourmet just because it “tasted fine grilled,” as Shanks so valiantly insisted.

Someone like you.

He showed up one morning grinning like the sun was in on his joke, boots loud on the planks, hands on his hips in that ridiculous Captain Pose you’d come to associate with either disaster or persuasion. Or both.

“Join the crew,” he said, beaming. “We’ll give you treasure. Fame. A room with a locking door so men stop trying to sneak into your hammock.”

Rayleigh, standing just behind him, immediately turned away and pretended to be highly interested in a barrel. He wasn’t subtle about it. In fact, he somehow managed to radiate guilt without changing expression, posture, or tone.

You looked between the two of them.

Then narrowed your eyes.

“I already told you,” you said, wiping your hands on a dishcloth and leveling a flat look at Roger. “I’m not a pirate.”

Roger opened his mouth.

You cut him off with a raised finger. “And before you say whatever reckless, golden-hearted nonsense you’ve got chambered in there, let me clarify. I cook. I keep my head down. I like quiet. And I don’t want to be kidnapped by lunatics who chase sea kings for fun, and apparently, how to bandage a wound without using someone’s shirt.”

“That was one time,” Shanks mumbled behind him.

“Twice,” you corrected without looking. “You used Buggy’s cape the second time.”

Buggy’s voice shrieked from offscreen. “You said you liked that cape!”

“I lied.”

Roger laughed as if it were the best day of his life. “You’d fit right in!”

You stared at Roger for a long, unimpressed moment. He didn’t flinch. Just kept smiling like the sheer force of his enthusiasm might eventually wear you down.

It wouldn’t.

Probably.

And yet, somewhere in the quieter part of your brain, your eyes had already flicked toward the spice rack. Just once. Just long enough to wonder if it would travel well. Most of the jars were sealed tightly, but the cinnamon always leaked. You could fix that. Maybe.

“You’re worse than a pirate,” Scopper muttered around a mouthful, clutching one of your fried rice balls with both hands like it was sacred. “You made food taste like feelings. I cried twice.”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” you replied, folding your arms.

Scopper took another bite and muttered something reverent under his breath.

From the corner of the stall, Shanks chimed in through a mouthful of dumplings. “But what if we make it your problem? Like, permanently?”

You turned your glare on him, slow and deliberate.

He blinked, swallowed, and offered a grin so wide it was nearly apologetic. Nearly.

You didn’t answer right away. Just wiped your hands on your apron and looked at the half-devoured chaos of your lunch service, the ridiculous crew sitting elbow-to-elbow at your counter like they’d always belonged there.

You should have said no again.

Should have kicked them all out and barred the door.

Instead, you reached behind you and adjusted the spice rack. Just a little. Just in case.

After that, the crew continued to come back. Not every day. Not with announcements or fanfare. Just every so often, like a tide returning in its own time. Sometimes it was Roger, booming with laughter and trying to barter sea stories for seconds. Sometimes it was Shanks and Buggy, bickering their way through your lunch line. Sometimes it was Scopper, grumbling about something you had no context for while devouring half your stock.

But more often than not, it was Rayleigh.

He never said much. Just showed up near closing, pulled up a stool at the far edge of your stall, and sat there. Quiet as sea mist. He’d watch the wind for a while, gaze trailing out over the harbor like he was tracking something far beyond it. Then, eventually, his eyes would drift back to you.

He never asked for anything.

Sometimes he cleaned. Silently wiped down tables, stacked bowls, and swept where you couldn’t reach. Once, when your hands were trembling from exhaustion, he took the knife from you with a touch so light it didn’t feel real, and chopped the vegetables without a word.

He even took over the stove once, when you were too tired to argue. He’d watched you enough times to know the basics. Or so you thought.

He burned a rice ball so thoroughly that it resembled a fossil.

You raised an eyebrow. He stared at the blackened husk in his hand for a long moment, then turned and bowed his head in shame like he had dishonored the gods themselves.

The laugh that escaped you was loud, sharp, and completely unguarded.

It startled even you.

Rayleigh looked up as if that sound had broken something open inside him. He didn’t smile, not quite, but there was a shift. A softening in the lines around his eyes, a flicker of something quieter than joy but deeper than amusement.

From that day forward, he never tried to cook again. But he stayed longer.

That was how it was with Rayleigh. No declarations. No promises. Just presence.

And maybe a little jealousy.

It wasn’t intentional. You hadn’t flirted. The merchant had only winked. Just a passing compliment about your hands while paying for lunch, something about how they looked too soft for kitchen work.

Rayleigh hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t interrupted.

He had simply appeared behind the man. Silent. Solid. Eyes unreadable.

The merchant took one look at him, went pale, stuttered something incoherent, and practically sprinted down the dock like he’d seen a ghost in broad daylight.

You turned, arms crossed, and narrowed your eyes at Rayleigh.

“Was that necessary?”

He tilted his head, utterly calm. “They’re mine.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…My hands?”

He didn’t clarify.

He just turned away, reached for a rag, and began wiping down the counter like he hadn’t just claimed ownership of your limbs and scared a grown man out of his shoes.

You stood there, staring at his back, half-annoyed and half-flushed, and realized with quiet horror that you didn’t mind it nearly as much as you should have.

One morning, you decided to wear one of your favorite shirts.

It wasn’t a statement. Not a plan. Just a choice made halfway through wiping your forehead on your sleeve for the third time before noon. The kitchen was sweltering, the stove was relentless, and your usual apron felt like a wool blanket soaked in steam. So you reached for something lighter. Breezier. A sleeveless, low-cut shirt that clung in all the places heat liked to settle. It wasn’t scandalous. Just comfortable. Practical. Your own little mercy.

Rayleigh did not handle it well.

He bumped into three walls before noon. Missed a step on the stairs and nearly took out a barrel. Forgot how to ask for tea halfway through the sentence and had to restart twice. At one point, he turned to say something, looked directly at your chest, and went completely silent.

Ten full seconds passed.

Then he blinked. His eyes darted away like he’d been caught in a crime scene photo. And then, without meeting your gaze, he mumbled a soft, “Apologies, love,” to your sternum like it was a sentient creature he had just deeply offended.

You stared at him in disbelief.

Then you handed him a drink to shut him up.

He took it gingerly, fingers brushing yours, and stared down at the cup in his hands like it was something sacred. Something far more than citrus and ice. As if you’d just proposed. Or wrote him poetry. Or handed him a deed to a quiet little cottage on the sea.

All because you wore a shirt.

You told yourself not to read into it. Not to linger on the way his hands tightened just slightly around the glass. Not to notice the way he hovered near the stove that day, silent and watchful, like he couldn’t decide if you were real or dangerous.

You told yourself it was just the heat.

But he never took his eyes off you for long.

Even when he tried to be subtle, even when he turned his back, you could feel it. The quiet awareness, the magnetic pull of his gaze like a tide tugging at your ankles. And he bumped into one more wall before dinner. Didn’t even try to explain it.

You figured the two of you could use a little breathing room. If a glimpse of cleavage was enough to compromise the composure of one of the most infamous pirates on the sea, perhaps some temporary distance would help recalibrate whatever strange, unspoken thing was blooming between you.

You weren’t even gone.

Just slipped into the next market stall over for half an hour to help a friend clean and season a fresh catch. It wasn’t anything dramatic. You were still within shouting distance, still in view if someone had bothered to lean out far enough.

And yet, when you stepped back into the main thoroughfare, Rayleigh looked like a man who had survived three wars, a personal betrayal, and seven days of nothing but hardtack and spiritual erosion.

He turned toward you with a sharp breath, shirt halfway unbuttoned, hair a wreck from where he’d raked his fingers through it too many times, pupils wide like he’d seen God and she had refused to season anything.

“Where were you?” he asked hoarsely, like he hadn’t been sure you’d ever return.

You blinked. “Helping a friend. Living a normal life. Cooking, once again.”

Rayleigh exhaled so hard his shoulders dropped. He looked genuinely relieved.

“Thank the stars,” he muttered. “I almost had to eat something Buggy cooked.”

From somewhere across the deck, Buggy screamed, “IT WAS JUST SPAGHETTI!”

“IT WAS SWEET,” Shanks hissed, clinging to the hem of your apron like a starving child. “LIKE. ACTUAL. DESSERT. SPAGHETTI.”

You didn’t ask for clarification. You didn’t want it. The horror in Shanks’ eyes told you everything you needed to know.

Later that night, just after the lanterns had been dimmed and the waves had quieted into their usual lull, Rayleigh knocked on your doorframe. He leaned against it like he wasn’t entirely sure how to stand anymore.

His shirt was still open. His hair was still a mess. He looked like he’d been dragged backward through a wind tunnel of domestic chaos and existential dread.

“I will literally wash every dish on the Oro Jackson with my tongue if you join.”

You stared at him.

He blinked. “Okay. Maybe not with my tongue. That’s… not sanitary. But—look.”

He stepped into the light, looking tired and profoundly sincere.

“They’re trying to replace you with me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And how’d that go?”

He held up a scorched pan with both hands, as if it were damning evidence. Something black and grainy clung to the inside like the remains of a failed summoning circle.

“We had to bury it,” Rayleigh said again, holding the scorched pan like it was a war memorial. His voice was grim. Quiet. The kind of solemn usually reserved for funerals or broken swords.

Before you could respond, Roger appeared beside him like a human avalanche of good intentions and poor impulse control.

He was holding three things.

A friendship bracelet, frayed and crooked, made of mismatched string and probably tears.

A crew application form that looked suspiciously hand-drawn and entirely unofficial, signed by what appeared to be half the ship in various levels of spelling competency.

And a crayon portrait, bright, clumsy, and endearingly awful, labeled in oversized lettering: Best Cook Ever (pls don’t leave us).

Rayleigh stood beside him, arms crossed, still shirtless, radiating dignity as if this entire scene wasn’t unfolding next to a glitter-glued drawing of you holding a spoon.

“If you don’t join,” he said, voice flat and heavy, “I will die.”

You stared.

“Possibly dramatically,” he added. “Possibly on purpose.”

You squinted at him. “You’ve survived the Grand Line. Sea Kings. God Valley. An actual volcano.”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “But not without your cooking.”

You frowned. “That’s not a compliment.”

Rayleigh tilted his head, that slow smirk just beginning to curl at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a threat.”

There was a beat of silence.

You blinked.

He smiled.

Somewhere behind you, Shanks tripped over a mop bucket while trying to rewrite the last line of the crew song to include your name.

You exhaled slowly. Not quite a groan. Not quite a sigh. Something between surrender and acceptance.

Because this wasn’t a crew.

It was a goddamn circus.

And somehow, without your permission, they’d made you the main act.

You sighed. “I’ll think about it. Maybe.”

Rayleigh’s grin nearly split his face. Roger threw the bracelet like confetti.

Technically, you said maybe to joining them.

Not yes. Not yet. Not even close.

Just a vague, tired murmur at the end of a long day, muttered more out of exhaustion than intent. You’d been wiping down the stall when Roger caught you off guard, elbow propped on your counter, voice soft and far too hopeful for a man wanted on every sea.

Maybe, you said. Perhaps you’d think about it. Maybe you’d consider sailing with them. Maybe you’d figure it out tomorrow, after a night of sleep and some time to weigh what it would mean to leave behind the one small corner of peace you’d built for yourself.

You had meant to take your time.

They didn’t wait.

They took your maybe as a yes, a declaration, a done deal.

And so you woke the next morning not in your cot. Not in your stall. Not to the familiar creak of the shutters or the hiss of your stove warming up.

You woke up on a ship.

Their ship.

The Oro Jackson.

You sat up slowly, blinking in disbelief, surrounded by the unmistakable scent of sea air and aged timber. The room swayed gently beneath you, hammocks creaked somewhere nearby, and seagulls cried in the distance.

There were sacks of flour stacked neatly near the wall. Your spice rack had been bolted to a shelf with what looked like hand-carved brackets. Your knives were lined up in a row, gleaming and familiar. And your best apron (washed, pressed, and folded) sat neatly beside a tin of your favorite tea leaves, tucked into the corner like a quiet apology.

Someone had even left you a cup of warm sake.

When you stormed above deck to confront Roger, he greeted you with a wave and a grin like this was all perfectly reasonable.

“You belong with us,” he called, as if that explained everything.

You stared at him, stunned. Furious. Confused.

He beamed harder.

And when you turned, slowly, toward Rayleigh, your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t grin. He didn’t speak.

He just looked at you.

Softly. Steadily. Like you were already home. Like this had always been the end of the road, and all your resistance had been nothing more than a scenic detour.

You should have yelled. Should have demanded they turn the ship around, dock immediately, carry every damn sack of flour back to your stall by hand.

But instead, you stood there in the morning light, the wind pulling gently at your shirt, and didn’t say a word.

And, well… they had brought your knives.

They had packed your spices, folded your apron. Tucked your good ladle into your satchel like it might be needed on the road. You’d told yourself it was practical. A precaution. A habit.

But maybe it had been hope.

Maybe it had been instinct.

Or maybe it had always been him.

Roger stood at the helm, one hand on the wheel, grinning like a man who had just won a game no one else knew was being played. He waved when he saw you on deck, beaming, as if you hadn’t just woken up to find your entire life shifted under your feet.

And Rayleigh?

He was already watching.

Leaning against the mast with a calm that didn’t quite reach his eyes, arms at his sides, shirt half-unbuttoned from the morning sun. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. Just stood there, quiet and waiting, gaze steady and unreadable.

Like he’d been waiting for you to open your eyes and finally see the truth that had always been there. Not a choice, not a trick. Just something old and simple. Something that fits.

Slow. Certain. Already home.

You stared back.

And you didn’t say no.

Because, if you were honest… The decision had already been made the moment you looked up and saw him in your kitchen, eating your food like it meant something.

Maybe it wasn’t a kidnapping.

Not really.

Maybe it was fate.

Or, worse.

Maybe it was Rayleigh.

That smug, maddening bastard with a voice like honey and a smirk that promised back pain, bad decisions, and a long, glittering trail of beautiful regrets. The kind of man who didn’t steal hearts so much as unlace them slowly, carefully, with velvet hands and wandering eyes. Then pretended he hadn’t done a thing.

The kind of man who made surrender feel like your idea.

So you did the only thing you knew how to do.

You turned on your heel, marched into the kitchen, and started to cook.

Your hands found rhythm in the familiar: chopping, stirring, seasoning. The motions were grounding, automatic, built into your bones. The scent of simmering broth rose around you, thick with spices and something a little like pride.

Rayleigh was nearby.

Suspiciously still.

Too still.

You heard him sigh behind you. Deep. Long. Heavy with something that was definitely not culinary despair.

Then silence again.

And then, another look. You could feel it, that slow, deliberate glance.

Because he was middle-aged, not dead.

You tried to ignore him. Truly, you did. Focused on the stew, the pot, the way the spices bloomed in the heat. But Rayleigh was still standing there. Quiet. Too quiet.

That was never a good sign.

When Rayleigh was that still, it meant one of three things: he was calculating, remembering, or fantasizing. Possibly all three.

You glanced over your shoulder.

He wasn’t moving. Just watching you, arms folded across his chest, one brow slightly drawn like he was thinking very hard about something he shouldn’t be thinking about in the galley.

Your ladle slowed in the pot.

His eyes didn’t leave you.

Neither of you spoke.

And beneath all of it—the soft hiss of the stove, the gentle creak of the ship, the low, steady bubbling of the broth—there was heat that had nothing to do with fire.

You recognized that look.

It wasn’t curiosity. It wasn’t idle thought.

Rayleigh wasn’t thinking about navigation. He wasn’t calculating coordinates or weather patterns or where they’d be by sunrise.

He didn’t blink.

His jaw tensed, ever so slightly.

And just like that, you knew: he was losing the battle with his imagination.

You let the silence stretch, then glanced over your shoulder with one brow raised, ladle paused mid-stir.

“Rayleigh?”

He snapped out of it fast. Too fast.

Looked startled. Looked guilty. Shrugged like the answer didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just mentally undressed you six different ways and married the idea for good measure.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the pot.

Kept stirring.

And the next morning, your name was on the crew ledger.

Scrawled in someone’s best attempt at fancy handwriting, ink still drying, written directly beneath the official line for the quartermaster.

It read: Ship’s Goddess, Culinary Class. DO NOT ANGER HER.

Right where Rayleigh insisted it belonged.

Roger claimed it was a joke. Shanks swore it was a sign of respect. Buggy tried to add “Also immune to mutiny laws” until you threatened to feed him to a sea king with one hand tied behind your back.

But the truth was more straightforward. You cooked.

Not just food. Real food. Edible. Hot. Properly seasoned. Something with texture and flavor and love in it, even if you’d denied the last part.

You had made the stew.

And nobody cried. Well, Buggy cried a little, but that was more from emotion than spice.

You didn’t flinch when Gaban called you sugarcakes for the third time in a row. You didn’t bat an eye when Roger stole the entire tray of dumplings, shouted about divine revelation, and proposed to your curry. You just cooked, sighed, and kept moving, the same way you always had.

And for Roger, that was it. That was the win. The victory. The final proof that bringing you aboard had been the right call.

Until he looked up mid-meal and saw Rayleigh staring at your chest like it held the coordinates to Laugh Tale.

Not subtly.

Not briefly.

Roger dropped his spoon.

Rayleigh didn’t even notice.

He just kept looking, like your neckline was whispering secrets, like your collarbone had started a treasure hunt, and he was already halfway to drawing the map.

Roger cleared his throat. Loudly.

Rayleigh didn’t blink.

Shanks leaned in and whispered, “Should we… stop him?”

Roger just sighed, long and defeated. “He’s too far gone.”

And you?

You kept ladling soup.

Because someone had to.

It started with a look.

You were reaching for a spice jar. Nothing scandalous. Nothing theatrical. Just stretching toward the top shelf like any normal person trying to make dinner on a ship full of unsupervised pirates.

Your shirt rode up slightly.

Rayleigh choked on air.

You turned, jar in hand, eyebrows raised. “Are you dying, or just perving?”

He coughed once. Tried to recover. Failed. “Both,” he rasped. “Respectfully.”

You stared. Rayleigh looked away, as if the basil had personally betrayed him.

Rayleigh, for all his composure, had a mental list.

Not a vague idea.

Not a loose collection of thoughts.

A list.

Cataloged. Prioritized. Updated nightly.

If she trips and falls into my arms, marry her.

If she kisses me over soup, retire immediately.

If she moans while taste-testing: abandon all morals, sail directly into temptation.

If Gaban flirts again: duel to the death, consequences be damned.

He also had a backup hammock built.

You’d never seen it.

No one had.

It lived somewhere deep in the storage hold, hidden behind barrels of rum and denial. Carefully tied. Weatherproofed. Reinforced.

He called it The Matrimonial Option.

He’d told Roger once, offhandedly, during a storm.

“I’m not a complicated man,” he’d said. “I just need her, a skillet, and one flat surface big enough to build a life on.”

Roger had taken a long sip of his drink.

Then muttered, “Shouldn’t you be going a little slower?” before walking into the rain.

Rayleigh hadn’t answered.

He was too busy carving your initials into the frame of the spare hammock.

Captain’s Log: Subject: First Mate is Down Cataclysmically

Symptoms include:

– Eye contact paralysis

– Selective hearing when boobs are present

– Full-body flinch response every time she says his name in that sweet voice

– Butter knife threats at Gaban levels of violence

Roger stared down at the page, then slammed the logbook shut like it had personally insulted his leadership.

“This is stupid,” he muttered.

Gaban leaned back in his chair, arms folded, sipping something with far too much rum and even more judgment. “He’s in love,” he said, entirely too smug.

“He’s in lust,” Roger shot back.

Behind them, footsteps echoed across the deck. Rayleigh passed by in a loose shirt and sharper frown, one hand outstretched to shield your body from a gust of sea wind like it might bruise you. He didn’t even break stride.

Roger watched him go, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “See? That. That right there.”

Gaban raised his drink. “Still in love.”

Roger shook his head. “He’s just in it for the boobs.”

There was a pause.

Gaban tilted his head thoughtfully. “I mean… they are pretty nice boobs.”

Roger hesitated. “Yeah. They are.”

Both men nodded, solemn.

“But someone’s gotta tell him to stop staring,” Roger said after a beat.

Gaban took another sip. “You.”

“No, you.”

“Not a chance. He’s been sharpening that cutlass.”

Roger stared at him.

Gaban shrugged again. “I like my limbs.”

There was another silence.

From across the deck, Rayleigh paused mid-step and glanced over at you again. The same look. Soft. Starstruck. Catastrophically doomed.

Roger sighed so hard it became a prayer.

Rayleigh was doing his best not to be a lech. Women didn’t like that, so it was of the utmost importance that he showcased his other skills to entice a mate.

Truly. With every ounce of discipline honed over decades at sea, he was trying.

And you were talking about something important, probably even urgent. But he couldn’t focus. Not when your shirt had all the structural integrity of a loose sail in a storm.

Who designed that thing? Was it legal? Was it certified to be worn in the presence of emotionally compromised first mates?

He rubbed the bridge of his nose like he could massage the filth out of his brain.

It didn’t work.

You leaned forward.

The neckline shifted.

He looked away so fast that his chair tilted. One leg lifted off the floor before he righted it with a grunt, fingers tightening on the armrests like he was bracing for impact.

You, oblivious or not, continued. You were holding a map, damn it. A map. Pointing to wind currents and pressure zones, and how the Grand Line bent physics over a table and made it beg.

And he was staring at the topographical miracle of your chest.

Not even intentionally. That was the worst part.

It just… pulled his eyes. Like gravity. Or divine punishment. He tried to focus on the latitude line. He really did.

But all his brain could think was: Those aren’t just mountains on the map.

He coughed violently, trying to cover the sound of his soul short-circuiting.

You paused mid-sentence.

And caught him.

You didn’t say anything.

You just looked at him. One brow lifted, hand on your hip, the other still holding the map like it was a fan in a play, and you were definitely using it as a weapon now. A prop. A trap.

Rayleigh stared at the ceiling. Then the floor. Then closed his eyes like a condemned man making peace with the gallows.

“Sweetheart,” he said slowly, voice low and rough, scraped raw from the weight of restraint, “I have fought emperors. I have out-drunk fleets. I have escaped execution naked and barefoot in the snow.”

He opened his eyes.

“But if you don’t put a different shirt on, I am going to sin so profoundly the sea will split down the middle just to avoid watching.”

You smiled.

Didn’t move.

You were doing it on purpose.

Absolute menace.

It didn’t take long for word to spread across the Grand Line.

You had legendary tits and could make a stew that made hardened pirates weep like children.

Naturally, this was a problem.

Not for you, of course. You were fine. Thriving, even. But for everyone else—specifically, anyone with the misfortune of standing too close, staring too long, or daring to compliment the way you stirred a pot—life had become significantly more dangerous.

Because Rayleigh had entered what the crew was now referring to, in hushed tones, as feral husband mode.

It had started subtly.

A glance here. A hand resting at the small of your back when another captain passed a little too slowly. A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes when a merchant offered you a “free sample.”

But subtle didn’t last.

Not when he realized other men were looking at you the same way he looked at dessert, like you were a rare indulgence, warm and soft and just waiting to be devoured.

One poor bastard in Water 7 asked for your recipe and your measurements in the same sentence.

Rayleigh didn’t speak.

He just handed the man a spoon.

Then took it back.

And bent it in half.

With one hand.

You hadn’t even noticed the offense. You were too busy yelling at Shanks for stealing dumplings again.

But Rayleigh?

Rayleigh was watching the world like a man prepared to kill for love and soup in equal measure.

And heaven help whoever thought they could separate the two.

Exhibit A: Buggy

“Wow,” Buggy said brightly, leaning across the table with the most respectful expression his face could manage, “you’ve got a great—”

Clink.

Rayleigh didn’t even look up from his map. He simply reached out and placed his sword on the table. Calm. Precise. A gentle tap of steel against wood. The kind of motion that didn’t scream threat so much as whisper it with murderous confidence.

Buggy froze mid-sentence.

“…smile,” he finished weakly.

Rayleigh raised one eyebrow. Slowly. Deliberately.

Buggy backed away with the careful movements of a man realizing he had just complimented the moon in front of a werewolf. And the werewolf was holding a blade.

Exhibit B: Gaban (Again)

“I’m just saying,” Gaban mused, leaning lazily against the ship’s railing as you bent over a basket of spices nearby, “if she wanted to lean over me like that in the kitchen, I wouldn’t mind.”

He grinned to himself. It was a very self-satisfied kind of grin.

Rayleigh appeared behind him like a spirit summoned by lust and poor timing.

“Funny,” he said, tone pleasant, almost conversational. “I was just thinking you looked flammable today.”

Gaban turned.

Saw the look in Rayleigh’s eyes.

And promptly excused himself to go fall off the ship on purpose.

Exhibit C: A Bounty Hunter Who Looked for Too Long

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t whistle. Didn’t catcall. Didn’t utter a word.

He just stared. A little too long. A little too low. While you were hauling in a crate, bouncing slightly from the effort, sleeves rolled up, neck glistening with sweat and sea spray.

Rayleigh didn’t make a sound.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t warn.

He just picked the man up and dropped him into the ocean like a sack of potatoes that had committed a felony.

Splash.

Roger leaned over the railing, tankard in hand, and shouted cheerfully, “She’s taken, mate!”

Rayleigh didn’t look away from the water. “She’s mi—ours.”

You, five feet away, still holding the crate: “I’m literally right here. Do I get a vote?”

Rayleigh: “No.”

You: “Rude.”

Rayleigh: “Correct.”

And then he handed you a clean rag for the sweat on your brow, kissed your cheek like a man unbothered by legal definitions of ownership, and went right back to charting a course like he hadn’t just waterboarded a stranger with possessiveness.

The Grand Line got the message.

#gav story #one piece #silvers rayleigh #dark king rayleigh #one piece rayleigh #rayleigh x reader #silvers rayleigh x reader

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cupc4keics · 22 days ago

Text

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

synopsis. two weeks have slipped by since you disappeared from the emperor’s life. the palace whispers of his unraveling, but no one dares to name the madness consuming him.

contents. period piece, forbidden love, ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior, lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips

notes. not proofread once again, but at least all 8k words are finally done. until the epilogue!

series masterlist | chapter 2/2

It has been two weeks since your disappearance.

Nobody knows where you’ve gone to. Or why.

Synchronously, the palace had fallen into a hush. The kind that stretched beyond walls and courtyards, embedding itself in the bones of the imperial court. Servants whispered behind their sleeves. Nobles watched the throne with cautious eyes. The emperor, Japan’s strongest man, was unraveling. And nobody knew why.

The stench of alcohol clung to Gojo Satoru. Expensive sake pooled in ceramic cups, the scent sharp and sickly, mixing with the musk of sweat and silk. The chamber was a mess, toppled dishes, shattered glass, the remnants of a feast he hadn’t touched. A single candle flickered on the lacquered table, its wax melting into a slow, steady pool. The shadows cast by the flame twisted along the walls, stretching long and jagged, like ghosts reaching for him.

Gojo slumped against his seat, his white hair, usually snowy white, now fell in wild, overgrown tufts, obscuring his vision in uneven strands. His ceremonial robes, woven in silk and embroidered with the insignia of the Gojo Clan, hung loose around his frame. His fingers twitched over the rim of an empty goblet, a silent tremor betraying the rage simmering beneath his skin.

His breath was slow, methodical.

Himiko entered without announcement, the sound of her embroidered slippers tapping against the floor. Her robes shimmered under the candlelight, crimson and gold, a deliberate echo of the imperial crest. She was the picture of regality: poised, calculating, her scent perfumed with jasmine.

“You’ve been drinking again,” she observed, her voice smooth yet edged with unspoken frustration.

Gojo didn’t bother lifting his head. Instead, he chuckled, the sound devoid of mirth. He tipped his goblet back, only to find it empty. A scowl twisted his lips as he tossed it aside. The metal clattered against the floor, rolling to a stop against shattered glass.

“Would you like a prize for your deduction?” His voice was hoarse, his throat burned raw from drink.

She ignored his bitterness and stepped closer, fingers trailing along the lacquered table, grazing over his discarded robes. The action was slow, deliberate.

“Tell me, Satoru…” she murmured, her voice as soft as silk, as sharp as a blade. “Why do you waste yourself like this?”

His fingers curled into a fist.

Himiko’s eyes flickered, catching the movement. She stepped closer, her presence heavy in the candlelit chamber. “You were born to rule,” she continued, her words laced with honey and venom alike. “And yet, you let yourself fall into ruin over a woman who no longer wants you. A personal servant, much less.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“She has severed all ties with you,” Himiko pressed, her tone almost pitying. “After your stunt in the ceremonial hall she will never bat an eyelash at you again. And now, her clan whispers of rebellion in the capital. The elders demand retribution.”

Gojo’s breath was slow, methodical.

“The Gojo and Zenin clans must unite,” Himiko continued, watching him carefully. “For the first time in history, we will restore order. We will fulfill your destiny.”

She leaned in, her touch featherlight as her fingers trailed down his chest, the brush of her nails just barely felt through his robes.

“And,” she whispered, voice dipping lower, “you will have me.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The candle’s flame flickered, the shadows shifting along the walls.

Gojo let out a slow, shaky breath. His head tilted back against the chair, his gaze hooded, unreadable. The weight of something unseen pressed against him, pushing him deeper into his own destruction.

Finally, he spoke.

“Fine.”

A victorious smile curled on Himiko’s lips.

But then, the doors burst open.

The impact sent a gust of air through the chamber, causing the candle to flicker wildly.

A new presence entered, stepping through the threshold like ink spilling across the pristine floors. Dark robes trailed behind him, blending into the shadows. His expression was unreadable, but his golden eyes gleamed with something knowing.

“Your Majesty,” Geto drawled, his voice smooth, stepping forward. “You called.”

Gojo frowned, his gaze shifting. “Suguru.”

Geto gave a short, practiced bow, the movement fluid.

The Emperor stares at him, “You are my most trusted ally.”

“A honor that I hold dear, yes.” Suguru’s head is still ducked, waiting for permission to be lifted.

A strange tension filled the air. The kind that was razor-thin, ready to snap.

Gojo’s fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair, the sound slow, calculated. Then, his foot lifted, pressing beneath Suguru’s chin, forcing his head up until their gazes met.

A pair of icy cerulean orbs bore into plum ones.

“You would never do anything to betray my trust, no?”

The room turned frigid.

Suguru’s entire body tensed, though his face remained still. The weight of those words pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. The deadly tone, Gojo’s battle tone, was one Suguru had only ever heard on the battlefield, when his friend was overtaken with bloodlust.

He felt his blood go cold.

“No, of course not.” His head remained low, eyes staring at the spilled wine pooling along the floor, the blood-red liquid almost taunting him. A warning.

“Then tell me that the rumors are false, dear friend.”

Suguru’s eyes flickered.

Gojo pressed harder with his foot. “Tell me that you did not let my [Name] leave.” His voice trembled, cold and sharp. “Tell me that you did not send her a carriage.”

Silence.

“Tell me that you did not leave her in the hands of another man after I had worked so hard to bring her back.”

Suguru said nothing.

And that was the confirmation Gojo needed.

His hands clenched. His chest heaved.

And then,

“I TRUSTED YOU!”

The chamber shook as Gojo kicked Suguru back, sending him crashing into a wooden table. Artifacts shattered, glass shards scattering across the floor.

Himiko shrieked at the violent display.

Suguru groaned, coughing as the pain tore through his ribs. He barely flinched at the glass buried in his side. Instead, he tilted his head, wiping the blood from his lip.

“She made her choice.” His voice was eerily calm.

Gojo froze.

His breath hitched, stomach twisting

“You don’t know that.” His voice was hoarse, cracking beneath the weight of his own grief. The emperor grabbed a dagger, well hidden in his garments and held it in Suguru’s direction.

Himiko scoffed.

“Why does it matter?” she demanded, stepping between them, fury flashing in her gaze. “She is nothing now! She abandoned you. She left you for another man–”

“Shut your mouth,” Gojo snapped.

Himiko stiffened, stunned by the venom in his voice.

“You chose me!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “You made your decision.”

“Because I had no choice!” His roar was thunderous, shaking the very foundation of the palace. His breath was ragged, vision tunneled. “But if I did,” He swallowed hard, the taste of regret thick in his throat.

His voice wavered, quieter now.

“If I did… it would have never been you.”

Silence.

Suguru exhaled, tilting his head. “I told you,” he murmured, watching the scene unfold with mild amusement. “You should have let her go when she asked.”

But Gojo Satoru, Emperor of Japan, the strongest man alive, had never known how to let go.

“If you want to live, you will follow my next command carefully.”

The village was quiet in the way only forgotten places could be, tucked away between rolling green fields and a quiet forest.

Unlike the grand palaces and bustling cities, this place moved at its own pace, undisturbed by the heavy weight of politics and war. Here, the air smelled of damn earth and fresh rice paddies, of firewood burning in stone hearths, of crisp morning dew that clung to thatched roofs, mingling with the distant sound of laughter from children playing. The dirt paths were lined with modest homes, their roofs sagging under years of wear.

It had been two weeks since your disappearance. Two weeks of living as someone else.

Gone were the weight of expectations heavy upon your shoulders. Your hands, once unblemished and soft, now bored faint callouses from work you were never meant to do. And you didn’t mind.

“[Name].”

A familiar voice, steady and unmistakable cut through the quiet morning. You turned, catching sight of Nanami standing near the well, sleeves rolled to his forearms. A basket of vegetables hung from his grasp, the crisp greens contrasting against his neutral-toned kimono. His expression, as always, was measured.

A quiet sigh left your lips, “You’re back early.”

Nanami stepped forward, his glaze flickering down to your hands, observing the red marks on your palms from the rough mortar and pestle. He frowned.

“You shouldn’t be doing this kind of work,” he said, voice low but firm. “You’ll only injure yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t seem convinced. But instead of arguing, Nanami placed the basket down and gestured for you to follow him back towards the small house you shared. The villagers were already accustomed to seeing the two of you together, and while they didn’t openly question your presence, there was an unspoken distance between you and them.

As you walked beside him, you caught glimpses of their gazes, wary, guarded.

You adjusted the strap of your bag, “They won’t even look at me in the eye,” you muttered as the other villagers brushed past you without a second thought. “Why?”

Nanami didn’t look at you immediately, instead adjusting his grip on the basket. “They don’t know who you are.”

“That’s exactly why they don’t trust me.” You exhaled sharply. “I don’t blame them.”

A pause.

Then, Nanami glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “It’s not just that.”

You blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”

His steps slowed as the two of you reached the wooden house, a modest structure, small but well-kept. He set the basket down on the porch, and after a beat of silence, he gestured to you.

“Look at yourself.”

You frowned but obeyed, glancing down at your clothes. “And what of it?” You eyes trail down to the garments. The robes you worn, though simple, were still of a higher quality than the villagers. The stitching, the cut, the deep indigo dye that refused to fade even after days of wear. The silk made you stick out like a sore thumb, but surely it was not envy that caused the entire village avoid you like the plague. These fabrics were a gift from your former mentor Yaga, after all. You couldn’t simply dispose of them.

“The embroidery on your robes, the color… no one other than those of the Imperial Royal Family may be adorned in it.” He exhaled, voice lowering. “It all says one thing: you belong to the emperor.”

A chill ran down your spine.

You swallowed.

Nanami studied your reaction before exhaling, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It was always him,” he murmured.

You looked up. “What?”

“He never let you out of his grasp.” His voice was quiet but weighted. “Even now, when you’re here… Gojo still lingers.”

The name alone sent a shiver down your spine.

Your fingers clenched at the fabric of your robes, suddenly feeling suffocated by it. You had spent so long trying to distance yourself from him, from the golden cage he had kept you in. And yet, here you were.

Still marked by him.

“Well then I need to get myself new clothes,” your hands fidgeting with the rich fibers of your clothing.

“No need,” Nanami pauses his ministrations to look at you. “I’ve already talked to the local seamstress and requested a much more appropriate wardrobe for you.”

For the first time in weeks, you feel a smile form on your face, “Just what would I do without you, Nanami?”

“I wonder the same thing,” he mutters, but you can hear the jest in his voice. He turns away to hide the small smile on his lips.

“Oh, you!” You point straight at the curve of his lips, disregarding the dirt on your hands. He tries to wave them away. “If it wasn’t for the fact that you are an eunuch you would make a damn good husband.”

“That’s… highly inappropriate for you to say,” a flush of pink makes its way to his face.

“Loosen up,” you shrug. “We’re not in the palace anymore.”

“There could be listening ears.”

“Here?” You scoff. “No way. They’ll never find us.”

A gust of wind passed through, rustling the trees. The scent of rain hung in the air, thick and heavy.

You followed him onto the porch, sinking down onto the wooden steps. A comfortable silence stretched between you both.

Nanami turned his head slightly. “Did you ever love him?”

The question wasn’t unexpected. But the answer…

Your hands tightened in your lap. Your chest ached.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I did.”

Nanami hummed, as if he already knew.

You bit your lip, gaze distant. “And that’s what makes it so hard.”

Nanami nodded, his usual sharp demeanor softening. “Love is never simple.”

You turned your head, looking at him with something close to curiosity. “Have you ever been in love, Nanami?”

For the first time that morning, you saw the corner of his lips twitch upward in something resembling amusement.

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

You raised a brow. “What would you call it, then?”

Nanami exhaled, resting his elbows on his knees. “An unfortunate attachment.”

That made you laugh, genuinely. The sound was warm, familiar, a reminder of a life before everything unraveled.

The tension in your chest eased, just slightly.

The wind blew again, carrying with it the distant laughter of children, the sound of a woman calling her husband home, the rustling of bamboo trees swaying in the breeze.

For a moment, just a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to believe that this could last.

That this small, quiet life could be yours.

The village was peaceful that evening.

The last remnants of sunlight bled into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep amber and violet. The rice paddies stretched far into the distance, their golden stalks swaying gently with the breeze. Smoke curled from the thatched roofs of houses, the scent of simmering miso and fresh grain filling the air. Children ran through the dirt paths, their laughter ringing out like wind chimes, their innocence untouched by the quiet storm that lurked on the horizon.

You stood at the entrance of your small home, eyes trained on the fading sun. A cool wind brushed against your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. Something about the stillness of the evening set you on edge, like the world itself was holding its breath.

Behind you, Nanami finished setting the table, his movements practiced and efficient. “Come inside,” he called, his voice steady as ever. “It’s getting cold.”

You hesitated, something in your gut twisting.

You had felt this before. A warning. A shift.

Slowly, you stepped inside, closing the wooden door behind you. The candlelight flickered, casting soft shadows against the walls. Nanami had prepared a modest meal, steamed rice, pickled vegetables, miso soup with tofu. You sat across from him, but the unease in your chest remained.

Nanami noticed. He always did.

His gaze flickered up, studying your expression. “You’re unsettled.”

You exhaled, pressing your palms against the warm ceramic of your bowl, seeking comfort in its heat. “It’s… too quiet.”

“The village is always quiet at this hour,” he pointed out.

You shook your head. “Not like this.”

A pause. Then, Nanami set down his chopsticks. “You sense something.”

You swallowed. “Don’t you?”

Nanami didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping against the wooden table in thought. Finally, he spoke.

“There have been whispers.”

Your breath hitched. “What kind of whispers?”

He looked at you then, and something in his gaze was heavier than before.

“The kind that don’t reach villages like this unless they are meant to be heard.”

The food in your mouth suddenly tasted like dust.

Nanami continued, voice even but firm. “Travelers passing through have spoken of movement in the capital. The Zenin and Gojo clans are consolidating their forces after rumors of resistance in this region.”

Your stomach twisted.

The Gojo and Zenin clans consolidating must only mean one thing.

Your fists clenched beneath the table. “It’s him, isn’t it? He married Himiko—and now they’re coming for us, calling it treason.” No matter how powerful Suguru was, you knew his silver tongue and lofty rank could only shield you for so long.

Nanami studied you for a moment. “There’s no confirmation.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “It doesn’t need confirmation.”

Because of course it would be him.

Who else could unite the two most powerful clans in Japan? Who else had the power to move an entire army without resistance? Who else had enough obsession to still chase you after all this time?

Nanami sighed, his expression unreadable. “If it is him… then this village may not be safe much longer.”

The air around you grew suffocating.

He was coming.

The weight of that realization settled deep into your bones, into the very marrow of your being. The small, fleeting life you had begun to carve out here, the quiet mornings, the warmth of the village, the laughter of children, the routine of simple tasks. It was all temporary.

Because Gojo Satoru was coming.

And he would burn the world to the ground to take you back. Out of cruelty.

You pushed your bowl aside, suddenly losing your appetite. “We should leave.”

Nanami’s gaze darkened. “Not yet.”

Your brows furrowed. “Nanami–”

“If we leave now, we confirm the suspicions of anyone watching,” he said, voice low, calculated. “We need to be smart. We need time.”

You hated that he was right.

Silence stretched between you both, filled only by the distant sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

Then, Nanami did something unexpected.

He reached across the table, placing a hand over yours.

The touch was brief, steady, grounding. “We will figure this out.”

You stared at him, at the sharp angles of his face, at the unwavering certainty in his gaze. And for the first time since the unease settled into your chest, you believed him.

But still, deep in the back of your mind, you knew this was only the calm before the storm.

The night, you dreamt of him.

Not the kind of fleeting, disjointed dream that dissolves like mist upon waking, but the kind that wraps around your very soul, warm and golden, refusing to let go. It was the kind of dream that felt real, so heartbreakingly vivid that, for a moment, you were no longer lying in a modest village home with the scent of burning wood creeping in from the outside world, no longer burdened by the weight of the choices you had made. You were home.

Not the home you had made for yourself in exile, but the home of your past, a home gilded with silken screens and quiet whispers, with polished floors that gleamed beneath lantern light, and with delicate tapestries woven with the history of an empire you had once believed could be yours. The place where you had once walked with the quiet assurance of someone who belonged, where your voice had been heard, where your name had been spoken with reverence rather than secrecy.

It was spring. The season of renewal, of beginnings, of hope.

You found yourself beneath the vast expanse of the sky, the air thick with the heady perfume of blooming wisteria and the faint, refreshing scent of the nearby stream that wound through the imperial gardens. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, their pale petals drifting lazily through the air like whispered promises, catching in your hair and dusting the ground in a carpet of soft pink. The wind carried the sound of distant laughter, the gentle rustling of leaves.

And above you–

Satoru.

His silhouette was bathed in the afternoon light, the golden hues catching in his white hair, making him look almost otherworldly. He leaned over you, one arm braced against the soft grass, shielding his eyes against the sun’s glare, the other resting lightly beside your shoulder. His robes, though still of the finest silk, were simple today, stripped of the heavy embroidery and rigid embellishments that marked him as the heir to the most powerful clan in the land. The imperial crest was absent from his attire, and for once, he was just Satoru.

And his eyes.

Brilliant, piercing cerulean, sharp and knowing yet warm in a way that only he could be. You had spent so much of your life searching for the ocean’s reflection in them, for the endless sky in the depths of that unrelenting blue, and now, after all this time, they looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, the shadow of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You’re staring,” he mused, his voice smooth as silk, his amusement evident in the lazy drawl of his words.

You huffed softly, turning onto your side, the grass cool beneath your palms. “I’m admiring,” you corrected, your tone just as light.

Satoru chuckled, his laughter as rich and effortless as it had always been, a sound that made the world feel lighter, that made you feel lighter. “Is there a difference?” he asked, feigning innocence, though the mischief in his eyes betrayed him.

You sighed, exasperated but fond. “One makes you sound less arrogant.”

He grinned at that, finally shifting to lie beside you, stretching out as if the entire world belonged to him. And in a way, it did.

But in this moment, he belonged to you.

“Pft,” he blows a raspberry into the air. “Let me bask in it, will you? You never give me this kind of attention.”

The wind stirred the branches above, sending another cascade of petals drifting down around you, a few landing in the silver strands of his hair. Without thinking, you reached out, brushing them away, your fingertips barely skimming the silk of his robes as you did. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, only watched you with that same unwavering gaze, as if he were committing you to memory, as if he were terrified you might disappear before his eyes.

“You know,” he murmured after a moment, his voice quieter now, as though he, too, did not want to shatter the fragile peace between you, “I wish we could stay like this.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Because so did you.

More than anything, you wished for a world in which this moment, this feeling, this love could exist without consequence.

But you were not foolish. You had always known the truth.

This was never a love that could be without suffering. You were only a concubine, after all. A spoil of war. Not fit to be made an empress.

You swallowed, willing yourself to keep your voice steady. “We can’t,” you said, though you hated the way the words tasted on your tongue.

Satoru turned his head to face you more fully, his expression unreadable at first, before something flickered across his features, something softer, something pleading.

“Who says?” he asked, and his tone was so quiet, so unlike the brash, overconfident man you had known, that it made your heart ache. “Tell me who says we can’t, and I’ll destroy them.”

You laughed then, a small, sad sound, because you knew he meant it.

“Satoru.”

“I’m serious.” He propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand coming to rest just beside your wrist, close enough that you could feel his warmth but far enough that he wasn’t touching you. “What’s stopping us? The court? The elders? The weight of the empire? Let them have it all. I don’t need any of it.”

You turned to look at him fully now, your chest tightening at the raw honesty in his face, the way he looked at you as if you were his entire world.

And maybe, once upon a time, you had been.

But the world did not belong to you and Satoru alone.

You reached out, letting your fingers trail lightly over his knuckles before pulling away. “You don’t mean that,” you whispered, though a part of you desperately wanted to believe that he did.

Satoru’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to grab your hand and never let go. “I do.”

And maybe, for that moment, he truly believed it.

But deep down, you both knew better.

The empire would never let him go.

Just as it would never let you be his.

The breeze picked up again, scattering more petals through the air, the scent of cherry blossoms thick and sweet, overwhelming. You wanted to stay here, in this moment, forever. You wanted to pretend that this could last, that you could stay in his arms and never worry about what came next.

But the moment began to waver, the edges of the dream blurring, the sunlight dimming.

And then, suddenly, the gardens were gone.

The warmth, the laughter, the scent of cherry blossoms… all of it melted away into smoke.

Your dream had shifted to another scene.

It was of the familiar scene of the bustling city just outside of the Outer Palace. The capital city had always been lively, but today it seemed to hum with an extra spark. The streets bustled with merchants peddling fragrant spices and embroidered silks, laughter echoed from the open-air teahouses, and the golden rooftops of the imperial palace gleamed under the afternoon sun like something out of a story.

You had just returned from your weekly errand, fetching a fresh batch of pastries from the emperor’s favorite bakery. The baker’s son had been in high spirits as usual, teasing you for being the only person in the city who could make the imperial kitchens jealous with how often you snuck in outside food.

But it wasn’t just the pastries you carried today.

A tiny, delicate flower rested in the palm of your hand, given to you by a child, a sweet little girl who had tugged on your sleeve just as you were leaving the marketplace.

"For you, miss!" she had chirped, eyes bright with admiration.

You had accepted it with a beaming smile, ruffling her hair before she scurried back to her group of friends, giggling and chattering about how pretty the imperial concubine was.

The city loved you.

Perhaps it was because you were one of them, despite the palace silks and the golden embroidery of the Gojo clan stitched into your robes, you had never let your status turn you into something untouchable.

So there you were, practically glowing, a flower twirling between your fingers as you strolled through the palace gardens, utterly unaware that your mere existence was about to ruin the emperor’s evening.

Because at that very moment, Satoru Gojo was staring at you with the expression of a man moments away from declaring war. He had been waiting at the gates of his own palace unceremoniously, counting down the seconds until you made it back, only for his bright spirits to be crushed.

By a flower.

A single, wretched flower.

In your hand.

And you were smiling.

Satoru didn’t even realize he had stopped in his tracks. His mind, sharp and dangerously quick, was already cycling through the list of punishments he could bestow upon the unfortunate soul who had given it to you.

Banishment? Too lenient. Public humiliation? Getting warmer. Immediate execution? …No, too messy. Forced labor in the outer provinces? Perfect.

His hands flexed at his sides. His jaw ticked. His vision tunneled.

He was going to make an example out of whoever had dared…

And then, you turned, your eyes meeting his.

And you smiled even brighter.

"Your Majesty!" you called, voice light with amusement, as if he weren’t currently five seconds away from storming the dungeons and demanding names.

You all but skipped toward him, the flower still twirling between your fingers, completely unaware of the absolute existential crisis you had just caused.

Gojo’s icy blue gaze flickered between your face and the flower, as if trying to determine which offended him more.

"What," he began, his tone deceptively casual, "is that?"

You blinked. "A flower?"

His eye twitched.

"I can see that," he muttered, before stepping closer—close enough that the sheer heat of his presence sent a shiver down your spine. "I meant, who gave it to you?"

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "Why do you assume someone gave it to me? Maybe I plucked it from the fields myself."

Satoru let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Ha." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Try again, sweetheart."

Your lips twitched, but before you could answer, a voice piped up–

"It was me!"

Both of you turned to find a child, the same little girl from earlier, standing at the edge of the gates of the Outer Palace, her face alight with pride.

"I gave her the flower!" she repeated, puffing out her chest. "Because she’s the prettiest lady in the whole city!"

Silence. A long, long silence.

Gojo stared. You suppressed laughter.

His entire body visibly relaxed.

The tension in his jaw disappeared, the storm in his eyes cleared, and for a single, fleeting moment, the Emperor of Japan looked genuinely speechless.

And then, he scoffed.

"Well, I suppose I can’t punish a child," he muttered, crossing his arms with a dramatic sigh. "What a shame."

You finally let out a laugh, shaking your head as you knelt beside the girl. "Thank you, little one," you whispered, tucking the flower into your sleeve.

The girl giggled before scurrying away, leaving just the two of you standing in the palace once more.

Satoru watched you carefully, his arms still crossed, his signature smirk just barely returning to his lips.

"You looked like you were five seconds away from passing a death sentence," you teased, eyeing him with amusement.

His expression didn’t waver.

"Oh, I was."

You rolled your eyes. "And what would you have done if it wasn’t a child?"

Gojo hummed, tilting his head as if considering. "Well…" His smirk sharpened. "Let’s just say the baker’s son would have found himself mysteriously exiled to the coldest province in the empire."

You froze.

Your stomach dropped.

Because oh– oh no.

He knew.

Satoru watched, relishing in the way your posture stiffened, the way your gaze flickered just slightly, as if calculating whether it was worth denying it.

"Your Majesty, I–"

"You what?" He raised a brow, leaning in once more, his voice dipping into something dangerously sweet.

"You think I wouldn’t hear about the little romance rumors floating around the palace?" He chuckled, voice laced with something possessive, something undeniably jealous. "You think I wouldn’t know about the way the baker’s son looks at you?"

You swallowed. "It’s just gossip."

"Is it?"

Gojo’s voice was far too amused, far too smug, because he already knew the answer.

And then, just because he could, he lowered his voice even further, leaning in until his lips were barely a breath away from your ear.

"Promise me you won’t leave me."

Your heart stopped.

You turned to him, but the moment you did, he pulled back, flashing you a grin that was far too pleased with itself.

"Don’t look so surprised," he mused, turning on his heel and walking away, hands tucked into his sleeves.

Then, over his shoulder.

"After all, I won’t let anyone take you away."

And then you’re awaken.

Your chest heaved, your skin damp with sweat, your heart pounding so violently against your ribs that for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

The room was dark. Cold.

How cruel your mind was to remind you of such warm times.

The early morning light filtered through the wooden shutters, casting long golden streaks across the small room. Outside, the village was already stirring with women gathering water from the well, the rhythmic pounding of rice in wooden mortars, the occasional laugh of a child running past. The scent of damp earth and fresh grass filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of dried herbs that hung from the ceiling.

Inside, you sat on the floor, weaving together dried reeds into a basket, fingers moving deftly despite the lingering morning chill. Across from you, Nanami was sharpening a knife, the slow, deliberate drag of steel against stone filling the quiet space between you.

It was a comfortable silence, one that had settled between you both over the past two weeks, a rhythm that neither of you spoke of, yet understood nonetheless.

“You’re getting better at that,” Nanami remarked, not looking up from his work.

You snorted softly, twisting another reed into place. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

You tossed a loose strand of reed at him. He caught it midair without even glancing, setting it aside with a faint huff of amusement.

Nanami tilted his head slightly, observing you from the corner of his eye. “What?”

You blinked, realizing you had been staring. “Nothing.”

His brow arched slightly, but he let it go, returning to his blade. The light glinted off the edge, sharp and lethal. You watched the way his hands moved steady.

Something in your chest tightened.

“You don’t think this is going to last, do you?” you asked suddenly.

Nanami paused.

The scrape of the whetstone against steel stopped, leaving only the distant sounds of the village outside. Slowly, he set the blade down, his gaze meeting yours, level and unreadable.

“…No.”

A lump formed in your throat. You nodded, looking away. “Neither do I.”

Silence.

Then, a sound.

Distant, almost imperceptible. A strange sort of rumbling.

Your fingers stopped weaving.

Nanami was already rising to his feet, his entire body going rigid. His hand went to the knife on the table. His sharp gaze flickered toward the window, toward the thin slit between the shutters. His breath was slow, measured, but you could feel the shift in his presence, the quiet kind of alertness that came before a storm.

And then a scream erupted.

Distant. But close enough.

Your blood ran cold.

Nanami moved.

He crossed the room in two strides, yanking the shutters open. And what you saw fire.

Distant but spreading.

Smoke rising in thick columns from the edge of the village, black against the early morning sky. The distinct sound of hooves against dirt, of metal clashing, of doors being kicked in. Then, through the haze of rising flames, you saw banners. Not just any banners.

Gojo’s crest.

Your breath hitched.

Nanami didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the back entrance. “We need to move.”

Your heart was hammering in your chest, feet stumbling as you let him drag you forward. This was happening.

He had found you.

Gojo had found you.

Days before the raid, the palace pulsed with restless energy. Servants flitted through the corridors, their hurried steps echoing against the lacquered floors as they fastened armor, sharpened blades, and prepared provisions. The campaign was supposed to be routine, a small raid to quell rumors of insurrection in a remote village. Yet, the Emperor himself was leading the charge.

No one questioned it aloud. But the whispers wove through the palace like smoke.

In his private chambers, Gojo stood at the window, watching the courtyard below as soldiers mounted their horses, their banners snapping in the cold wind. His reflection stared back at him in the glass. His grip tightened behind his back.

"You’re awfully tense for such a minor skirmish," Himiko mused, lounging on the divan behind him. The golden silk of her robes pooled around her like a shimmering snare. She lifted a cup to her lips, watching him over the rim, her gaze sharp. "One might think there’s more at stake here than a simple village purge."

Gojo didn’t turn.

"One might."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Himiko hummed, setting her cup down with a delicate clink. "You’ve always been so stubborn. So unwilling to accept the order of things." She rose, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. "It’s a shame, really. You could’ve been content. You could’ve let go."

Her fingers brushed his sleeve. A touch meant to soothe. To remind.

His hand snapped up, catching her wrist before she could go any further.

Himiko stilled, lips parting in the slightest gasp. Not from pain, he wasn’t squeezing hard enough for that. But his grip was firm, unyielding. The weight of it said more than any words could.

A muscle flickered in Gojo’s jaw. "Do you think this is forever?" His voice was quiet, but there was something in it that made the candlelight tremble.

Himiko’s smile didn’t falter, but something in her gaze shifted. "I think," she murmured, tilting her head, "that you’re still bound by the same chains as always. No matter how strong you are, some things can’t be undone."

Gojo released her. The moment stretched, brittle as ice. Then he turned, striding toward the door, his long robes whispering against the floor.

Outside, his men were waiting. His horse was waiting.

And somewhere beyond the mountains, the one thing he had ever truly wanted was waiting.

He had wasted enough time.

The streets were already chaos. Villagers running, shrieking, clutching their children as armed soldiers stormed through the narrow paths. Houses were being torn apart, doors broken down. Soldiers clad in imperial armor barked orders, swords flashing as they cut down those who resisted.

Your breath came short, panic clawing at your throat.

Nanami’s grip on your wrist was firm. “Stay close.”

You barely nodded, your body moving on instinct as he guided you through the chaos. You ducked behind a stack of crates, pressing yourself against the wood as two soldiers passed by. Nanami’s body shielded yours, his presence grounding you even as your hands trembled.

A sharp whistle.

Nanami cursed, shoving you aside just as an arrow embedded itself into the wood where your head had been a moment ago.

You gasped.

Another whistle.

Nanami moved. He spun, his knife flashing, a throw, a sickening thud, a body crumpling.

Blood.

It hit the dirt in a slow, steady stream.

You stared.

Nanami grabbed your face, forcing your gaze back to him. “Focus.”

Your lips parted, breath shuddering. But you nodded.

He pulled you forward, weaving through the panicked masses. The exit. You needed to get to the forest to escape before it was too late.

A tall figure clad in white and blue, standing at the center of the destruction, untouched by the chaos.

Gojo Satoru.

Your feet froze.

His eyes locked onto yours instantly. Even from across the village square, even through the haze of smoke and bodies, you could feel the weight of his gaze. The way his body shifted the moment he saw you.

For a moment, nothing else existed.

Nanami saw him at the same time. His entire body went rigid.

Gojo took a slow step forward. His imperial robes billowed slightly with the movement, the embroidery glinting under the firelight, his armor forged from precious metals glistened in the sunlight. His sword hung at his hip, untouched, as if he hadn’t even needed to lift it.

Nanami’s grip on your arm tightened.

Gojo’s expression darkened. His gaze flickered between the two of you visibly irked by the domestic dynamic that had recently developed.

His lips parted, his voice cutting through the carnage like a blade. “Found you.”

Your stomach twisted.

Nanami moved.

But Gojo was faster.

Before either of you could react, a blur of motion, a gust of force, unstoppable. Nanami was on the ground. The blond man coughed out blood.

Your scream barely had time to leave your throat before Gojo was in front of you, too close, too fast. His fingers wrapped around your wrist. Unyielding.

The air was thick with the scent of smoke and blood, the distant wails of the ravaged village melding into the wind. Your hands trembled as you clenched them at your sides, willing yourself to remain still. The weight of the past, of every wound he had inflicted upon you, settled deep in your bones.

“Running from me again?” His voice was a whisper of thunder, low and dangerous. “I thought we were past that.”

You had been running for so long, but had you ever truly escaped him? Every step you took away from him, every sleepless night, every whispered prayer for his absence, and yet here he was, a specter that refused to fade.

Your heart leapt to your throat as his fingers clamped around your wrist, tightening as you attempted to yank yourself free. His other hand rose, tracing the curve of your cheek with deceptive gentleness, the callouses rough against your skin.

“Did you truly believe I wouldn’t come for you?”

Your breath came shallow. “Gojo–”

His fingers curled against your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. His expression was unreadable, but his unrelenting grip told a different story. He had always been relentless, hadn’t he? No matter how much you tried to pull away, he found his way back, like a tide that refused to recede.

“Nanami,” he said coldly. “Do your job. Lead the men back.”

A moment of hesitation, a flicker of something like pity in Nanami’s eyes before he turned away. You were glad he did. Gojo had spared him enough not to strike him down on the spot.

Soon, only the two of you remained, locked in a battle more ferocious than the ones fought with swords.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with your own. Your attempts to struggle were fruitless; his body caged you, muscles honed by years of war making it impossible to flee. The warmth of him, the sheer familiarity of his presence, made something inside you ache against your will.

“Why do you run?” His voice was softer now, coaxing.

Your lips curled in a bitter smile. “Are you nothing more than a brute?”

His grip faltered, a shadow of hurt flashing in his eyes. But you didn’t care. His pain was nothing compared to the agony he had inflicted upon you.

“You claim to care for me,” you spat, voice shaking with fury, “yet you cast me aside like a discarded pawn. You chose another, again and again, and then have the audacity to crawl back to me.”

Your voice cracked, but your anger did not waver.

“You humiliated me. You shattered my world and toyed with my heart like it was nothing more than a trinket. I hate you, Gojo Satoru. I hate you so much it consumes me.”

The tears spilled unchecked, your body trembling as the dam within you finally broke. You were certain you looked wretched, but dignity was a luxury you had long since abandoned.

His silence was unbearable. The weight of his guilt pressed between you, thick and suffocating, but you refused to let it soften you.

“You have hurt me beyond repair,” you whispered. “I always knew our love would bring pain, but I never thought it would be at your hands.”

Satoru swallowed hard, his large hands wiping away each tear as they fell.

“You lied to me,” you murmured, fists weakly beating against his chest. He lets you.

“I did.”

“You banished me.”

“I did.”

“You told me you loved me.”

His grip tightened. “I do.”

Your breath hitched. “I hate you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you insisted, though the conviction was waning. Did you? Did you truly?

His lips brushed against your temple, his hands cradling your face with unbearable tenderness, “Don’t you know that you’re killing me? That your words pierce me like no other blade?”

You exhaled shakily. “Then why aren’t you dead yet?”

A broken sound left his throat as he pulled you impossibly closer, until your bodies were melded together, until his warmth became a prison of its own.

“Take it back,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse. “Please.”

But you said nothing, staring past him to the charred ruins beyond. Nanami had rallied the men, but the damage had already been done. And so had the damage to your heart.

“Your army is leaving,” you said numbly. “Why don’t you go join them, General?”

His face was flushed, his eyes bloodshot. And yet, as much as you wanted it to, the sight did not disgust you. Instead, a sick sense of satisfaction curled within you at his suffering.

“Not until you come back,” he declared. "Until you let me explain myself."

You laughed, sharp and humorless. It did not deter him.

He continues his plea, “You can humiliate me in the palace. You can strip me of every last shred of dignity. Do whatever you wish."

He pauses.

"Just come back.”

You tried to put distance between you, but his hold remained firm.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” Your voice wavered. “I am not yours anymore. I haven’t been yours since you chose her. Since you cast me aside for the sake of your kingdom.”

By now, Satoru’s trembling lips had given way to the relentless shaking of his entire body, “I never touched her. My hand was forced. Nothing happened.” Somewhere amid your onslaught, Satoru had forgotten how to breathe. His chest rose in shallow, uneven gasps, his shoulders trembling beneath the weight of words he couldn’t take back. His fingers curled into fists so tight they trembled, knuckles drained of color. He was unraveling right in front of you.

“Everyone around me speaks of my destiny, as if it were carved into the heavens themselves. They whisper that I was born to rule Japan, to claim a throne, to take a noble wife like Himiko and secure a legacy of power.” Satoru’s voice trembles, raw and desperate, as he buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply like he’s trying to commit you to memory. His hands clutch you tighter, as if you might slip through his fingers at any moment.

“But none of that means a damn thing to me. My destiny isn’t a kingdom—it’s you. It always has been. My place is by your side, not on a throne. I would spend a thousand lifetimes serving you, worshiping you, loving you. We were made for each other, meant to grow old together, to laugh and fight and dream until the very end. To pass down our love, our story—not to this damn empire, but to our grandchildren.”

His breath is shaky against your skin, his grip unrelenting. “Please,” he whispers, voice breaking, “don’t take that from me.”

You wanted to. Wanted to reach for him, to piece him back together, but the raw ache in your chest held you still.

How many times have you stood here, waiting for him to say something, anything, that would make the hurt go away? How many times have you let yourself believe that his silence wasn’t a choice?

You swallowed hard, throat burning. “You don’t get to do this,” you whispered.

His head jerked up, eyes wide, pleading.

“You don’t get to shake and break down and expect me to forget everything,” you continued, voice cracking. “You left me. You let me believe I didn’t matter.”

Satoru exhaled sharply, like the words had physically struck him. “I never–”

“Don’t.” You shook your head, stepping back when he tried to move closer. “Just don’t.”

The silence between them was thick, heavy with unsaid things. Satoru’s breaths came fast and shallow, his entire body vibrating with something between anguish and regret.

Still, you held on to the hurt. Let it press against your ribs, let it remind you that you weren’t just here to be broken all over again. You weren’t ready to forgive him. Not yet. But damn it, you wanted to.

“If it will ease your doubts, I’ll have her head in glass by morning.”

You shuddered. “I don’t want her dead.”

“Then she lives to see another day.”

“And the Zenins?” Your teeth clenched, voice shaking with restrained fury. “I tried to warn you about them, tried to protect you, but you chose to humiliate me instead.”

His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, deliberate and lingering, as if etching you into his memory. “I am truly sorry,” he murmured, his voice softer now, edged with regret. “It was a foolish attempt to keep you safe from those damn elders. I may be the ceremonial head of this country, but their power is undeniable. Your banishment was my own foolish doing to protect you after my mistress was forced upon me. I knew I was lost when I couldn’t breathe without your presence in the palace. The days blurred together, and my duties felt like nothing but a slow death. So, I tried to bring you back as my servant. It was safer that way. You were close, within reach, but still out of grasp. At least you were there. But then... I ruined it all. ”

You hadn’t tried to bite his finger off yet. He took it as an unspoken truce, leaning in, his presence overwhelming, his warmth sinking into your skin. “Not that it matters though. I'm going to kill those geezers and have their heads strung in front of the palace.” A flicker of a smirk ghosted his lips, but his eyes held something far more dangerous.

“I may be a fool,” he admitted, his breath brushing against you, “but I am not weak. So don’t waste a single thought on them.” His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward his. “No one, not them, not fate itself, will take you from me.”

A cruel part of you savored the power you held over him. But you wanted him to suffer longer before you gave the satisfaction of knowing that your heart had softened. “I haven’t forgiven you.”

His hands trembled. “We have a lifetime for that.”

"How arrogant of you to assume I’d ever choose to spend a lifetime with you." Your voice was quiet, but the weight of your words struck like a blade.

You shouldn't feel as satisfied as you did when you watched Gojo Satoru, the strongest man alive crumpled. His breath hitched, his knees buckling beneath him as if the sheer force of your rejection had stolen the ground from under him.

Still, he reached for you. Desperation bled into his touch, fingers digging into your sleeves as though letting go would mean losing you forever. His voice, usually laced with arrogance and ease, was stripped raw.

“Then I don’t see a point in living.”

The weight of his confession clung to the air, thick and suffocating, and yet he only looked at you, as if the universe itself had been reduced to the space between his hands and your skin.

“And what of your crown?” you finally whispered.

His laugh was hollow, almost broken. “I’d throw it away if it meant keeping you. If it meant you will let me be yours.”

Then, as if surrendering himself entirely, both knees met the dirt. His hands, once accustomed to wielding absolute power, clung to your waist, not as an emperor, not as the strongest, but as a man begging to be allowed to stay.

His eyes burned into yours, pleading, unraveling.

And for the first time, you let him hold you. This time, you didn’t pull away.

A shuddering breath left his lips against your skin, as if he couldn’t believe you were real, as if he feared you might slip away the moment he let go. His grip tightened, not in possession, but in reverence.

The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of rain, of earth, of something on the verge of breaking.

"I expect you to kneel at my feet and beg for years to come." You murmured, fingers brushing against the strands of his silver hair. A handful of hair is gripped tightly, fingers digging in with purpose. "Perhaps then, I might even consider you once more."

His throat bobbed. "If that is what it takes."

This was not just an apology, nor was it a confession. It was surrender in the purest sense. The weight of his kingdom, his sins, his power. All of it, cast aside for you. It was the justice you deserved after all the pain you endured.

reblogs and comments are appreciated mwah!

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cupc4keics · 22 days ago

Text

what the actual fuck was that.

What Am I Now?

Synopsis: in which everything falls apart in one night because of a bad argument between you and Toji Warnings: angst, major character death, hurt/no comfort, f!reader, lots of swearing, grief, some description of bodily injury but nothing graphic, there's no light in this tunnel like fr, not proofread Word Count: 5.2k

“I just don’t understand why you’d rather go to the bar than sit here with me?”

Toji scoffs. “All we fucking do is sit here. What’s so bad about me taking a break and getting some air?”

“A break?” Your hands are flying, waving about as if they could get it through his head how ridiculous he sounds. “You want a break from me? So, what, I’m this horrible monster you just can’t wait to get away from?”

This argument has been going on for hours at this point, with neither of you willing to cave. It started with you, in comfy pyjamas and face mask, preparing dinner and super excited to watch a new movie on Netflix with your boyfriend, but when he came out of the shower, he was in jeans and a shirt without stains. You both looked just as incredulous as each other. He said he was going out. That he had told you. And you were sure he hadn’t because if he had, then you wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of making a hearty meal, laying out the snacks and his very own matching pjyamas.

Slowly, like he thinks you can’t understand anything when it’s said at a normal pace, he answers, “I didn’t say that. You’re acting fucking crazy, woman. Look, I’m going out to the bar, with my friends, and that’s that. You can do all the shit you wanted to do on your own.”

He’s walking to the door now, grabbing a jacket on the way. Stomping over to him, you get in the way, blocking his exit with a furious glare. There’s no way this conversation’s ending like this, with him deciding it’s the end, with him getting what he wants and your feelings being trampled all over because he’d rather drink himself to death than cuddle on the sofa with you.

“No.”

“No?”

“Yeah, I said, ‘no.’ You’re not going. We have to talk about this.” Toji opens his mouth, disbelieving and growing more irritated with every syllable you utter, and you know he’s going to ask what the fuck you mean about ‘this,’ so you get the words out before he does, “This. Us. Our night. Our home. Why don’t you want to be with me?”

Rolling his eyes, he bulldozes past you, pushing you to the side. You don’t let him. You’re tugging on his jacket, nails digging into the thick material. He can’t go. What if he never comes back?

The words that have been thrown around tonight are sharp edged swords, though they don’t dig deep, they weave several shallow cuts that sting. No ambulance to rush you away, no hospital to take you, no surgeon to sew you back up. You just bleed out, alive and wobbling away.

Clearly beyond done, Toji grunts, easily shrugging off your pathetic attempts to hold him back. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about and I don’t want to hear it right now. Just get out of the way.”

“No, answer me.”

Pitiful fists smack into his chest in a flurry. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t even flinch. You want to make him hurt. That ache inside your chest, the one that’s holding onto the tears that threaten to stream down your face, that’s driving you insane – you want him to feel it. You want him to care.

Toji doesn’t relent. Instead, he stands there, an immovable statue sculpted by someone else, and pinches his nose. “Just stop.”

“No. Why are you always leaving? Huh? Why can’t you just stay? What’s so fucking wrong with me that you don’t want to have dinner and watch a movie with your girlfriend?”

“Because you’re suffocating me!” He bellows.

You stumble back.

“I can’t fucking breathe. God, I can’t even think without you nagging me. ‘Let’s get dinner,’ ‘let’s go to a museum,’ ‘let’s wear matching shirts.’ It’s never enough for you. For fuck’s sakes, I just want to be able to put my feet up, drink beer and not have to cater to every fucking whim of yours like I’m some goddamn dog.” Combing a hand through his hair, he breathes through his nose. He’s losing steam – you can see it in the way his shoulders fall and he shakes his head, slowly, weary and fatigued. Then, with a quieter, gentler, more desperate tone, he asks, “I see you everyday and you still want more? You ain’t tired of this shit? Of all the fake coupley shit that you think we have to do otherwise we’re frauds? You haven’t had enough? ‘Cause I’m growing pretty fucking sick of all the bullshit.”

Speechless, you just keep as still as you can, feeling mighty small under the weight of his words. You’ve never seen Toji like this. Usually he’s passive, allowing you to ramble on and on about whatever’s filling your mind, even when you’re mad at him, when he’s heard your story a million times before, and even in your worst moment when you bait him into chasing after you. Through it all, your boyfriend took your insecurities and flaws like a champ.

Now he’s done. Now he’s been backed into a corner and there’s nowhere else for him to go except past you.

It’s unclear to you what expression you wear on your face; you can really only focus on that hollow sinkhole widening in your heart. Something about your eyes makes his close tight. Toji breathes once, twice, and says, “We’ll talk later. I’m late.”

And then he leaves.

His jacket is dangling from your clutches and it’s suddenly so heavy. Tears threaten to fall. You don’t let them, even when your bottom lip wobbles and so does your balance. Heaving, you lean against the wall.

How did it all fall apart so quickly?

The day had started off like normal: sweaty, dirty sex, pillowtalk, late breakfast, lazy lounging around the living room, and catching each other up on what’s happening on your phones. Weekdays are more productive, what with you both having jobs to do, but weekends are yours and his to share. Or at least that’s what you thought.

An eerie silence falls upon the apartment. It’s unlike the silences you’re used to, like being the last one to leave the house and you’re eating the breakfast Toji made for you, or waiting for him to come back from throwing the bins out, being the first to come home, sitting in bed doing your own thing as you slowly unwind from the day’s toils.

You can’t stand it – the doing nothing – so you shuffle away from the closed door that’s not going to open anytime soon. There’s a lot to tidy anyway: the plates of food untouched, the unfolded blanket you wanted to be cuddled under, face masks and snacks and dips, and the pile of clothes he probably wasn’t going to wear even if you begged.

Maybe you are too much.

Maybe what Toji was saying had some merit to it.

All those outings he would have never done if you hadn’t pleaded with a huge smile and puppy dog eyes were planned by you. The dinners reserved by you, the anniversaries, the dates, all of it. You. It wasn’t as if he didn’t love you. The fact that he did all of it, albeit begrudgingly, was proof of that. His love showed in his gentle touch, his patience, though limited, and in the fact that, through the ups and downs, he still stayed.

But he won’t forever, not when he feels…suffocated.

With a sigh, you grab your phone, snatch his jacket and decide you’re not going to let him be out there, cold and angry.

So you, too, leave.

“Go home, Fushiguro.”

That isn’t what Toji wants to hear from his friend slash handler, Shiu. Truthfully, he wanted to be validated, wanted the man to tell him you were acting crazy, and that he wasn’t wrong for walking out.

As he stomped into the bustling bar, the suited man took one look at him, shook his head with an exhausted laugh and took a huge gulp of his whiskey, knowing damn well it was going to be a long night. It always is when the scarred man looks ready to kill and for free.

Toji takes a swig of his beer. “You didn’t hear a single shit I said? I said, ‘I'm not in the mood to get into it with her again.’”

“Being a man is about learning to take the beatings life hands you,” Shiu professes mysteriously, tracing the rim of his glass.

“Fuck off.”

Sitting in the corner of the bar, they’re left alone to wallow in their problems – one man chronically alone and the other about to lose it all. They don’t remember how they found each other or why they stayed as friends when they barely like the other, but they suppose it’s really because through all the faces they’ve met, not many have ever stuck around. But they did. And that has to mean something.

The bastard is rarely not right and he knows it. He prattles off great advice with a smug face and one has to fight the urge to lay a good one on his nose. No matter how fucked up shit gets, Shiu could always make things so simple, so clear, and straightforward that he’d feel like a dumb sack of shit.

In fact, that’s pretty damn close to how he feels now.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he admits, “I feel like shit. Like I got hit by a fucking truck. Look at me. I’m sitting here talking about my fucking feelings with your stupid ass. She’s always gotta get into my head about things. Made me a chump. Fucking hate this. Me. I turned into a pussy.”

“I don’t know about you, Fushiguro, but I like the you she created.”

Toji snorts. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“You were a massive asshole,” Shiu begins, using a tone that suggests it should be obvious to the man sitting opposite him. “You were angry all the time, moody and brooding for no reason. Hours could pass and you wouldn’t say a single word. Ha, a college kid bumped into you and you knocked his shit before he could even open his mouth to apologise. Made him piss his damn pants. Got everyone scared of your big ass.”

He couldn’t deny that. Their friends, if you could call them that, often joked that he was a monster. And yeah, well, moving place to place, house to house, couch to couch would make a monster out of anyone. Before, these kinda criticisms would have rolled off his back, maybe even brought a smirk to his scarred lips, but something about the person he is now makes that sudden blast from the past bring a grimace to his face.

Shiu chuckles and, with a clink of his glass to Toji’s, says, “Look at you now – you actually shower and smell less like horse shit these days. Sure, you’re still killing for a living but you don’t do that shit with a smile on your face like a psycho now. Hell, you even tip. You used to steal tips, remember? And then just last month, some pimply-faced kid fell onto our table and spilled our drinks and I, honest to God, thought you’d beat him black and blue –instead, what did you do? Huh? Tell me. What did you do?”

“Fuck you.”

“You fucking picked him back up and told him, ‘Get some water in ya, the girl you came with likes you so don’t embarrass yourself.’” He throws his head back and laughs as if he just heard the funniest joke come out of his own mouth. “And don’t try to argue with me. You know she’s cleaned you up, made an honest man out of you, or as honest as a killer-for-hire can be. You smile more, Fushiguro. Fucking cheesing at your damn phone, leaving the bar early, speeding to get the fuck home before she does just so you can do God know’s what – and don’t say, I’d rather not know.”

The changes he talks about, Toji hadn’t noticed. Of course, he knew life had changed for him. A steady, secure home with a woman that sees him and is happy with what fills her vision, a woman who doesn’t mind hearing grunts as replies, who’s patient and kind, that cleans up the blood off his shirts and does it all with a smile. There's stability in his life now. Something that gets him up in the morning other than hunger and a need to piss. A thing to look forward to, a home to come back to.

"Honestly, I don't know why you'd rather be here with me than her. If I had a woman half as good as her, you'd never see my sorry face. Any more of these nights with you and people will think we're lovers, which is fine by me, just as long as they know I'm on top."

A bead of condensation drips down the neck of his beer bottle. The bar’s too loud, too crowded and it doesn’t smell sweet and floral like home. Everyone’s too drunk to give a shit about what’s happening outside, far too elated with the clumsy grinding and grimy sweating of bodies. Maybe that’s why he likes places like this so much; it’s easy to forget your responsibilities, your past, and all the things that drag you down.

But that’s not you. You’re not a burden, you’re a part of his present, and the only thing that keeps him going.

So why didn’t he act like it?

You looked so damn excited to watch that movie with him and he crushed that spark that makes you you under his boot, for what? For booze? For some time alone with an asshole wearing a tailored suit and tie in a dingy bar?

The words he spewed at you come crashing back like a tidal wave of regret and shame. He told you you were suffocating him. He told a bunch of lies, anything to get you off his back, to make his need for alcohol justified. Like. A. Fucking. Pussy.

Glancing at his phone, he sees missed calls and a voicemail. From you. So does Shiu, who whistles and suggests, “You’re done for, my man.”

“Fuck.” Toji throws his head back. He fucked up. Big time. Running a hand down his face, he says, “I need to go. I need to get home, catch her before she fucking leaves me or some shit. Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

A couple papers get thrown on the table, along with whatever loose change he has in his pockets, and he lunges out of the bar faster than if there was a fire, though not before he sees, in the corner of his eyes, a familiar looking smug tilt of a brow on a suited prick.

He’s driving home now, fingers thrumming on the wheel, a subconscious desperation to manifest the ability to push the car beyond its limits and get to its destination faster. The useless piece of shit isn’t going fast enough; every second he wastes getting home when he should have been there to begin with is a second closer to him losing everything he never deserved to have in the first place.

Images of you crying, hugging yourself and waiting by the door, or sleeping, alone, in an empty bed flash in his mind and without realising it, he’s accelerating even more. The roads are empty this time of night and he thanks the universe; the last thing he needs is to be honked at.

Why couldn’t he just suck it up?

Movie nights are a lot of work – he often has to drive down to the store and get all the snacks your heart desires, squeeze into the cheesy pyjamas you bought him, let you spread some goo on his face, and then sit through some chick flick that he grumbles about at the start but gets really into once ten or twenty minutes has passed. All the dates that required him to get off his ass sent dread settling in his stomach usually turn out more fun than he thought. Because you know him. Because you know his strengths and weaknesses, his sore points and intolerances. And love him because of them.

Having half a mind to listen to the voicemail you sent, Toji thinks about what he wouldn’t want to hear. What he can’t. The argument was bad, yes, he admits. But it’s not bad enough to quit, to end the beautiful thing you’ve grown, to give up. There’s no life after you, without you. It’s just you. You’re his…everything. And when he gets home, he’ll take you into his arms, apologise for all the shit he said and will say, and watch that movie with you. Hell, he’ll watch it a million times.

Toji will do anything to make it up to you.

Maybe he should take you to the sea. That’d be a nice break from the chaos of the city. You two can go fishing, take long walks down the beach like women love to do, and do that thing he watched in a movie, where he carries you into the water, laughing and giggling.

And what about the ring he’s been meaning to buy?

Flashing lights catch his attention. A fuckload of police cars and ambulances off the side of the road. Toji’s brows furrow. “Fuck happened there?”

Palm sweaty, he fishes his phone out. That voicemail he’s been ignoring, pretending it doesn’t exist because if it’s anything other than an ‘I love you, let’s not break up,’ he might just throw his phone out the car. He runs a hand through his hair and presses play, only hesitating twice. A second of static silence reaches his ears before your voice does.

“Hey, Toji…I, um, don’t know if you want to hear from me right now."

Your voice has the corner of his scarred lip twitching. It's the tender and gentle voice he knows, and not the scratchy half-screams he last heard. The latter never suited you. It's just not who you are and deserve to be.

"But uh…I wanted to say sorry…You’re right, I was a lot today, like usual….And I’m sorry. About the movie that you didn’t want to watch, t-the face masks and the food I didn’t even ask if you wanted to eat. God, I’m so fucking sorry, Toji...I was too much, wasn’t I?”

He shakes his head. There’s a creeping sudden tension rising up his spine and he tightens his hold on the wheel, slowing down for show so the uniformed men don’t give him shit, and as soon as the red and blues of the night disappear from his rearview mirror, he revs up.

“I think it’s ‘cause there’s so much I want to do with you, y’know? Like, you’ve lived a whole life before me and it’s a little intimidating….You’ve loved before…and it’s beautiful…but you’re my first and I’m not trying to compete with her or anything, I swear! I just want to make our own memories, y’know? I want experiences too. And when you’re quiet, less active, less…present, I guess it triggers something in me: a need to compensate. Maybe one could even say I’m overcompensating and they wouldn’t be wrong, I guess.”

When he pulls up, his feet carry him out and into the building on autopilot, gravel crunching under his shoes and the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders. There’s no one else around. The lights of every window are off. It’s too quiet. Toji scratches his chest.

“I don’t know where I’m going with this; you know I ramble when I’m nervous. Maybe I should just go to sleep and wait for you, fight through that feeling I’m getting that says I won’t see you ever again after this. I should sleep everything off…but I couldn’t let our night go like this. You have that mission tomorrow and you’re going to be gone for a couple days so I guess I just wanted to cram some time together…”

The door’s unlocked. He flexes his hand, knuckles turning white with the tight clench of his fist. Somehow, his work schedule had eluded him; it was you who kept up with all that admin shit that Shiu never bothers to remind him about, after all.

“I should have known it’d be too much. I mean, you’re right that we see each other every day – that was hyperbole, of course...I think anyway...but it’s practically true. We see each other a lot…but I don’t know…I guess I just thought it wasn’t enough.

Your voice grows quiet and he has to lift the speaker of his phone to his ear to hear your next words over the sound of his heart pounding.

“To me, I could never see too much of you. I always want to see you. To be with you. And…you don’t feel the same…”

Something painful scrunches in his chest, it almost makes him double over. Under his breath, he mutters, “No, baby. I do. Fuck, I do.”

“And that’s okay. I’m realising now that that’s probably healthy. I think I just love you too much. More than you love me – that’s not a complaint at all, I promise. It’s not a reflection of you but rather of me….God, I’m crazy, aren’t I? I never know when to shut up and wow, even now I’m saying ‘I’ a lot. Okay, so yeah, I have problems and I need to work on them.”

You’re not in the living room. The TV is off. And what was that about him loving you less? That’s bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. You know that. You have to. Right?

Making a mental note to make that the first thing you hear, he continues his search.

“Ma? Where you at?” He checks the kitchen and finds containers of the food you prepared put neatly away. It’s his favourite. His stomach rumbles. “You sleeping, doll?”

The bedroom’s empty too. Fuck.

“I’ll work on it, Toji…so, please, will you give me a chance? To do better. To be better.”

He’s checked every room. Twice. And again. You’re not home. But that can’t be right. You have to be home. You just have to. It’s dark outside and cold and dangerous and he’s not there to hold your hands to make sure they don’t fall off from the frost of summer.

Louder, nearing a scream, he says, “Baby, I’m not messing around. Tell me where you are. You hiding? Is that it? You hiding from me? Fuck, sweetheart, I promise I’m not mad, okay? So just come out here. L-let me see my gorgeous girl, yeah?”

Breathing faster and faster until he has to lean against the wall for balance, Toji scrambles to think. You’re saying so much so fast and he can’t keep up. For every sentence you utter there’s a whole conversation to be had. So many inaccuracies he needs to correct, to set straight. Where the hell did you even get all this shit you’re saying?

Not from him, right?

He didn’t make you feel so small, did he?

The woman that had built him up crumbling all by herself because he’d rather drink himself to death than live a life you made possible for him. Fucking bastard. Ungrateful son of a bitch. Useless fucker.

“Uh this is getting long, sorry. We can talk more about it when I see you. So, yeah, that’s what I was trying to say. I’m driving over to the bar to give you your jacket. You forgot it. Or maybe you left it on purpose. I don’t know. I just don’t want you to be cold. Or maybe it’s just an excuse to see you, hopefully smiling...You don’t smile without a bottle in your hand nowadays but if I had a clingy girlfriend, I’d probably be making out with beer too. I’m kidding. Sorry, that’s not funny…okay, so, um, I love you and I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

Flashing lights,

Cop cars.

Ambulances.

The crowd…gasping and pointing.

And a flipped over car he only now just processed.

The ride over to the crime scene goes by in a blur. Only static and the faint sound of your voice on repeat playing in the background. Every stop light is ignored, pedestrians barely avoided, and the wheels pushed to their very limits. All while he foregoes wearing a seatbelt.

Toji doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t think or slow down or answer the many calls from unknown numbers.

He doesn’t even make a sound.

Not until he arrives, shoves past tiny men with their tiny understanding of who you are and what you mean to him, and finds a body wrapped up in a bag. Rushing of blood fill his ears. People try to hold him back, to get him away, but there must be something in his face or his eyes that warns, ‘don't get in my fucking way’

It’s akin to a wounded yelp of a wild beast or the guttural flames of hell as it opens up and consumes whole poor, unfortunate souls. No one’s ever heard anything like it. Yet, they know. Just from the way he had fallen to his knees, had rushed to yank that zipper down but hesitated to pull the bag open. But the sound…the sound tells a whole story.

Some look away, half paying respect and half all too familiar with the scene. Others can’t. They bear witness to the shaking hands that cradle your cold face, cut up and bleeding, and the one sided conversation.

“No, no, baby, what h-happened? Wake up.” Toji’s patting your cheeks, searching for a flicker of your lashes or the rise of your chest. Even now when he feels the nauseating coldness on a body that had only ever kept him warm he's mindful of the force he's using. He could never hurt you. Not like this. “Come on, this isn’t fucking funny. Open your eyes, baby. Come on. Please.”

Shallow cuts on your face, glass shards still embedded in the skin graze his thumb as he brushes the hair from your hair. They cut him too until the blood staining the skin he’d felt and tasted are both his and yours.

“I need you. I need to talk to you. Fuck, it isn’t fucking fair. You got to say your shit. You need to hear me apologise ‘cause I am fucking sorry. You hear me, you stubborn woman? I’m s-sorry. So wake the fuck up. Please. I can’t do this without you. I just can’t.”

The car’s totalled. Hit a tree. He can hear the police talk on their radio, something about how you were crushed for hours, alive and yelling for help, but was dead when anyone got to the scene. A roaring of injustice wages war in his very soul. His babygirl in pain and alone and dying. Did you call out for his name? Did you think he was going to come even till your last moments?

He doesn't know how long he holds you for, can't even tell if it's raining or if he's just sweaty as hell. Those trembling hands of his, that have killed countless men and got him this far in life, seem so useless now as he wills warmth into your limbs. Your pyjamas are soaked with a metallic liquid; they stain his hands.

A familiar face shows up, suit wrinkled. “Fushiguro. They need the body.”

Firm hands pull at him, tugging him away. He won’t let go. Can’t let you be all by yourself. Look at you. You’re not even wearing a jacket. Silly girl. You’d bring his but not your own?

Do you always have to be so goddamn perfect?

Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he says, “Let’s go home, yeah? Let’s go home and watch that movie. That sound good, doll?”

But you don’t answer.

Not his prayers the next day or his pleadings the week after and certainly not your phone every day since.

Toji never touches another bottle again if only because when he does his mind gets so blurry, so fucked out, he can’t envision the exact angles of your smile or how many wrinkles form at the corner of your eyes. Honestly, if he could, he'd never return to that place you two lived in; it's far too big now and everywhere he looks he sees you. But where else would he go? Where else in this fucked world could he go to find you?

He doesn’t eat either – no one’s cooking tastes the same as yours. They lack something he thinks he might never find again. And maybe that’s fine. It was always too good for him anyway.

None of the people that show up to his door are allowed in; they’d just disturb the air you touched. Not his friends or yours, he has no family and yours don’t really want to see him. Good thing too. He can’t deal with the pity or the attempts to relieve him of his responsibility.

‘It’s not your fault,’ they say. ‘It was an accident.’

Shit doesn’t matter. Nothing does. How could anything mean shit to a man who only wants to spend his days in bed, holding your pillow over his face, simultaneously wanting to consume every particle of your scent and suffocate on memories of a life he barely lived?

They say he shouldn't let your death define you but how would that even be possible? You've always defined him. There's only the Toji before you, during you, and without you. He thinks maybe his life will forever be defined by all the things he never should have said and the things he wishes he did. That's the real tragedy.

'You need to move on.'

Bullshit. All those grief counselling pamphlets and self-help books don't know shit. There's no moving on. There's only you.

The worst, perhaps, that he’s heard is, ‘she’d hate to see you like this.’

Because what the fuck do they know about you?

Those assholes see a man locked away, beard growing in, dark circles under his eyes, and an air of death about him. Whereas Toji sees himself as someone who’s keeping your memory alive. Because, contrary to what you believed, you weren’t too much. God, you couldn't ever be too much. With your scent fading, your clothes collecting dust and the divot in your spot on the sofa evening out, he thinks he hasn’t had enough. Could never have enough.

Even the fact that when he closes his eyes he sees you serves as no consolation. It’s not enough. He wasn’t enough. Wasn’t man enough. Didn’t love you enough. Toji needs to touch you, to feel you, to make up for all that he never gave you when he should have. Wherever you are, he wants to be.

His girl all alone? No, he can’t have that. Someone needs to listen to you ramble, to lift heavy things for you and hold you the way you like when you sleep. Who's keeping you company up there? Who's drawing on your palm when you get nervous? Who is telling you you've always been enough?

Someone needs to be there for you.

Staring at a picture of you on his bedside table, he smiles softly.

“I’m coming, baby. Just wait for me, yeah?”

#jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk toji #toji fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen toji #fushiguro toji #toji x reader #toji x you

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cupc4keics · 22 days ago

Text

After Hours - Toji F.

about. After hours, the library is supposed to be quiet. Peaceful. Safe. But ever since you found him — wounded, dangerous, and far too tempting for your own good — silence became a luxury. Now he keeps showing up. And tonight? He’s not leaving without a reminder of who you belong to.

pairings. Yakuza!Toji x Librarian!Reader

words. 17.09k

content. mentions of drugs, blood, violence, guns, swearing, multiple rounds, both receiving. library sex (multiple locations), semi-public, size kink, oral (f receiving), creampie, overstimulation, filthy dirty talk, possessive!toji, jealousy, phone sex but it’s accidental, toji being so in love he brings you flowers, playful ending w/ interns (yuuji & nobara), aftercare-ish, 18+ only, unprotected sex, manhandling, rough sex, dom!toji but soft touches, mild possessiveness, mention of canon character (naoya) as a rival/date, yuuji & nobara being nosy AF, some explicit language, minor marking/bruising, reader gets absolutely ruined

notes. gosh i hope i dont bore you guys with a fuckass 17k word oneshot, i hope i made up with the sex part at least.

The rain had been threatening all afternoon. It loomed behind the windows in heavy gray waves, each low rumble of thunder sounding like it was clearing its throat, waiting for the exact moment the sky could justify breaking open.

Inside the library, it smelled like old paper, polished wood, and the faintest hint of citrus from your linen spray. You moved between the aisles in your soft cotton dress, hem brushing your ankles, sleeves rolled just below your elbows. It was the kind of dress that whispered instead of shouted—no frills, no bold colors. Just you, in your quiet, elegant orbit.

You were checking through the cart of returns, fingers moving lightly across worn spines, sorting them instinctively. You didn’t need the barcode scanner—not when you knew every section and every call number like muscle memory. History to the left. Philosophy to the top right. The language dictionaries always got stuck behind the self-help books for some reason.

“Miss Y/N!” came a call from across the stacks.

You turned just as Yuuji popped his head out from behind the oversized encyclopedias like a prairie dog.

“Where do we shelve books about marine biology again?” he asked, holding up a thick hardcover titled The Living Sea with an octopus mid-ink attack on the cover.

You blinked. “You’ve been here for four months, Yuuji.”

“I know, but that’s science, right? And science is... everywhere.”

“Third shelf in the science bay, just before botany. It’s labeled,” you said, trying not to smile.

Yuuji disappeared again, mumbling, “Botany’s fake anyway.”

From the front desk, Nobara chimed in, not looking up from the return logs.

“Tell him biology isn’t the same as space. He put a book about the solar system next to the reptiles last week.”

You raised a brow.

“Seriously?”

“He said ‘they’re both cold’,” Nobara deadpanned.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you took the next book from the cart.

The quiet rhythm of the end-of-day shift resumed: the sound of books sliding into place, the occasional sigh from Nobara when she had to fix someone’s misfile, Yuuji humming a One Piece opening from the history section.

The air conditioner clicked off with a final wheeze. Almost closing time.

You started your final sweep of the east wing, fingers trailing the spines of the classics—dusting, straightening, pausing to flip over one copy of The Old Man and the Sea that someone had shelved upside down.

The rain outside had finally begun. It tapped against the windows in bursts, steady and heavy, filling the quiet building with the rhythm of a ticking clock. A perfect backdrop to a peaceful end of shift.

Then—

the front door creaked.

Not the smooth automatic swoosh of someone arriving during business hours. This was deliberate. Slow. Someone pushing open the old wooden emergency door that hadn’t been used since the power outage last semester.

You frowned.

“Nobara?” you called out softly, moving around the shelf.

“Still here!” she answered from the desk.

You rounded the corner toward the main entrance.

And your heart stuttered.

Because it wasn’t a student. Not a professor. Not even the weird local guy who liked to sit in the non-fiction section just to read outdated cookbooks.

No.

It was a man.

A bleeding man.

Tall. Broad. Shirt clinging to him like a second skin, black and soaked through from the rain, his muscular frame hunched as he leaned heavily against the wall. One arm clutched tightly to his side. Blood soaked the lower left of his shirt, trailing along his white pants in ugly streaks. His jaw clenched. His green eyes were dull but alert. Black bangs stuck to his forehead, framing a face that looked carved out of war stories.

He looked like he’d walked out of another life—and bled all over the pages.

Your breath caught.

You knew those tattoos.

You’d seen them on crime reports, on back pages of tabloid photos, flashing behind grainy camera shots and pixelated mugshots.

A Yakuza.

In your library.

Bleeding. At 7:59 PM. On a Sunday.

The man didn’t speak at first.

You didn’t either.

You just stood there, fingers frozen mid-reach for your phone, lips parted like your brain couldn’t quite catch up to what your eyes were telling you.

He looked up at you.

Sharp green eyes. Too sharp. Too aware.

You froze.

The silence was loud. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Then—

“You—need to leave. N-Now,” you hissed, keeping your voice low and stern. “I’ll call the cops.”

The man huffed a laugh.

You could see the tattoos curling along his arms—old, rough lines from a life that didn’t play by civilian rules. You’d read enough newspapers. Seen enough warnings. That ink meant something. He wasn’t a lost drunk. Or some desperate college student.

He was something worse. A yakuza.

And now, bleeding in your library.

“Oh yeah?” he drawled, still leaning against the wall. “That’s cute, sweetheart. But I don’t think you’re gonna do that.”

Your breath hitched. “I’m not kidding.”

“You’re scared,” he said, eyes lazily dragging over your figure. Not in a way that made your skin crawl—but in a way that made your stomach twist. He was... calculating. “Smart girl. But scared.”

“You’re bleeding all over the goddamn carpet,” you snapped, still keeping your voice low. “And this is a public building. You can’t just walk in—”

“I was expecting an old man,” he interrupted, flexing his jaw as he slowly slid down the wall to crouch, wincing. “Some wrinkled, half-blind staffer I could bribe for a rag and a phone call.”

His lip twitched up at the corner. A smile.

“But instead,” he muttered, glancing up at you, “I get you.”

You took a step back.

“Stay there,” you warned.

He lifted a hand, mock-innocent. “Hey, don’t worry. I ain’t in any shape to chase you. Not today.”

“You shouldn’t be here at all.”

“And yet,” he exhaled, head tipping back against the wall, “here I am.”

You watched as he repositioned himself—tucking his injured side behind a rolling cart of textbooks. His posture was casual, almost lazy, but the way he moved was too precise. A trained body. A man who’d been hurt worse than this before.

“I’ve got two interns here,” you said, softly but firm. “Teenagers. If they see you—”

“I clocked ’em,” he murmured, looking past you toward the main hall. “Spotted the pink one stacking dictionaries. Loud little shit.”

You stiffened. “Don’t talk about them—”

“I ain’t here for them,” he cut in, voice sharpening just a touch. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. Just need to stop the bleeding. Catch my breath.”

“And then what?” you whispered. “You walk out like nothing happened?”

He smirked, eyes half-lidded, jaw flexing again as he sucked in a breath and adjusted how he was sitting.

“You’re not dumb,” he said quietly, eyes locking on yours again. “You know what I am.”

You didn’t reply.

“Good,” he murmured. “Then you know I’ve got no reason to lie.”

You stared at him for a beat. Still six feet away. Phone still in your pocket.

Your mind raced: What if he has a gun? What if he can’t walk? What if he passes out? What if Yuuji comes around the corner and sees him—

And then his voice cut through your thoughts. Calm. Low. Almost... amused.

“Help me out, yeah?”

He was bleeding. He was dangerous. He was watching you like a wolf in a corner who still had all his teeth.

But that tone—So casual. So confident, like he already knew you would.

Your hand hovered at your side.

One librarian, one bleeding yakuza, and one extremely poor decision waiting to happen.

The second you stepped back into the main hall, you were hit with two things:

The sound of Yuuji humming from behind the returns desk.

The intense awareness that you were now actively hiding a criminal in your library.

You took a deep breath, brushed invisible dust off your dress, and approached them with a smile you had to force into place.

“Alright,” you said gently. “Both of you clock out.”

Yuuji blinked at you. “Huh? But we didn’t finish—”

“I’ll take care of the rest,” you said quickly. “It’s past closing. Go home. It’s storming.”

Nobara narrowed her eyes. “You never send us home early.”

“I’m feeling generous.”

“Are you dying?”

“Yes. Of stress. Go.”

They exchanged looks. Suspicious ones. But they shrugged, grabbed their bags, and made their way to the door.

“Bye Miss Y/N,” Yuuji said, hoodie half-zipped and hair a mess. “See you Tuesday!”

“Don’t die alone in here!” Nobara added, half-teasing.

You smiled tightly. “I’ll do my best.”

When the doors finally clicked shut behind them and the silence returned, it came louder than before. Your breath escaped you in one long sigh.

You turned on your heel.

You already knew where you were going.

There, just barely visible along the floor—a trail of blood. Still fresh, dark and glossy, leading away from the wall where he first appeared, and vanishing behind the door to the storage room.

He’d listened.

Of course he did.

You told him to hide, and he had—like a predator beneath the surface.

You gathered what you needed quickly: first aid kit, antiseptic, towels, gloves. Your hands were steady, but your heart wasn’t. Every part of you screamed this is so, so stupid.

But a smaller voice whispered: If I don’t help him, who will?

Maybe you were too kind. Maybe you were too curious.

Or maybe you’d just never seen a man who looked like that fall into your world and bleed all over your polished floors.

You pushed open the storage room door.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall like he owned it. One hand still pressed to his side, shirt pushed up just enough to reveal a canvas of muscle and ink. His green eyes flicked up lazily as the light hit him—and for one long, electric moment, he just looked at you.

“Took you long enough, sweetheart.” His voice was low, rough. Like gravel soaked in honey.

You swallowed. “You’re lucky I didn’t let you bleed out.”

“Mm. Don’t feel very lucky.” A grin. Sharp. Dangerous. Almost smug.

He didn’t look like he was in agony. No—he looked like he was comfortable.

Comfortable bleeding out in your storage room like it was a five-star suite.

Your eyes dropped for a split second.

The scar.

It sat just above his right hip—a thick, pale slice healed over long ago. A different story. A different time.

And near it, curling around his side and crawling toward his ribs, were inked waves and smoke, thick black lines forming serpents and clouds across his skin. A mark of the clan.

He watched you watch him, and his grin widened. “Like what you see?”

You snapped your eyes back up. “Shut up.”

“I’m wounded,” he said, mock-offended.

“You’re a criminal.”

“You’re observant.”

You knelt beside him, unzipping the kit. “Lift your shirt.”

He smirked, then complied—pulling the drenched fabric up and over the gash.

Your breath caught.

Not just because of the wound—though it was nasty, clean but deep, the kind of thing you weren’t technically trained to deal with. No.

It was everything else.

Toji was built like a sin. Solid muscle. V-shaped torso. Abs so defined you could’ve run your finger along each one and never miss a beat. His skin was a battlefield: scars, ink, tension. And he smelled like rain and gunmetal.

You reached for the gloves.

He reached for your wrist.

“Relax,” he said. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not a nurse,” you replied, brushing his hand off and dipping gauze in antiseptic.

“I can tell,” he murmured, amused. “But you’re doin’ fine.”

Your fingers grazed his abs—trying to clean the wound—and his breath hitched.

You looked up. He was watching you now with something different in his gaze. Still teasing. Still unreadable.

But... interested.

“You always help out strange men bleeding in your back room?” he asked.

“Only the ones who don’t bleed on my books,” you muttered.

“Lucky me,” he said, tilting his head. “What’s your name?”

You hesitated.

“...Y/N.”

“Toji,” he offered back. Like you hadn’t already figured that out. Like you hadn’t heard it whispered through every true crime article in the back of your mind since he walked in.

“I know.”

“Of course you do,” he smirked.

You pressed the gauze a little harder. He didn’t flinch.

“You’re not gonna tell me how this happened, are you?”

He shrugged with one arm. “What, ruin the mystery?”

You met his gaze. “I’m helping you. I deserve to know if I’m gonna die because of it.”

He leaned forward, slow, like he was tasting your fear—or maybe your stubbornness.

“You sure your pretty little head is ready for it?”

His voice was lower now.

Closer.

You didn’t realize how close he was until you were looking up, your faces barely inches apart—his head tilted, mouth near your cheek, green eyes dark and... amused. You could feel the heat off his body. The tension between your knees.

You could also feel your common sense shriveling up and dying a painful death.

Yakuza or not, Toji Fushiguro looks stupid good in pain.

The antiseptic stung.

You could tell—not because he flinched (he didn’t), but because his nostrils flared just slightly, and his jaw set tight like he’d been trained not to react.

Toji had the kind of pain tolerance that made you question if he even registered it as pain anymore.

You dipped the fresh cloth into warm water again, wrung it out, and continued dabbing around the wound, cleaning off the dried blood. Your face was calm, your movements delicate—but your mind was screaming. Not just because he was massive, shirt now fully lifted over his stomach, his tattooed side on full display like something out of a noir crime fantasy—

—but because he was talking.

“You ever do business with assholes who smile too much?” he muttered, voice low, head still tilted back against the wall.

“I work in a library,” you replied dryly, not looking up.

He snorted. “Yeah, well. I had a deal. Real clean. Fast in, fast out. Nothin’ loud.”

You pressed gauze to the cut gently. “Clearly that didn’t happen.”

“Bastards ganged up. Greedy little rats,” he said, voice gruffer now. “Didn’t like how I handled distribution. Thought they could jump me, take the product, pocket the cash.”

You swallowed.

Product. Cash. Blood.

“And this is what you chose?” you asked softly, eyes still on the wound. “That kind of life?”

There was a pause.

“I didn’t exactly get a PowerPoint presentation of options, sweetheart.”

You looked up at him, finally.

Toji looked down at you—really looked. His green eyes weren’t as sharp now, but there was a pull to them. Heat. Calculation. Curiosity.

“Why? You offerin’ a better one?” he asked, mouth tilted in a lazy smirk.

You pressed the bandage down a little too firmly.

“Maybe I’ll read you a brochure,” you muttered.

He laughed—quiet and deep in his chest, like it surprised even him.

When you finally finished bandaging the wound, you stood to your full height, brushing your skirt down and meeting his gaze once more. You didn’t say anything at first—just met him, face to face, stomach still fluttering at the ridiculous fact that you had just patched up a very wanted and very muscular yakuza in your storage room.

“All done,” you said softly.

Toji, like a menace, lifted his shirt again and looked at your work.

Neat. Tight. Clean.

He exhaled, impressed.

“Shit,” he murmured, “you really got hands on you, don’t you?”

You flushed.

“Don’t—start.”

“C’mon,” he teased, eyes dragging across your face slowly. “You gonna tell me no one’s called you pretty before?”

Your heart did an Olympic-level backflip.

“Please stop calling me that,” you mumbled, looking away.

“Why?” he grinned, stepping closer—just enough to make you feel the shift in space. “Pretty’s what you are.”

His hand didn’t touch you, but his voice wrapped around your neck like silk.

“You stitched me up like a pro. Looked real good doin’ it, too. All gentle in that little dress…”

Your eyes shot back to him. “Toji—”

“—Mmh,” he interrupted, voice velvet. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name. Like that.”

You opened your mouth to retort—but he leaned in before you could.

And kissed your cheek.

Not a brush. Not a thank-you peck.

A kiss.

Warm, slow, and low. Just next to your lips—his palm barely grazing your hip. His lips lingered like he wanted to leave something there.

He pulled back half an inch, enough for you to see the smug glint in his eyes.

“I owe you now.”

You were frozen. Still bent slightly forward, lips parted in shock. Heat rushed to your face so fast you felt dizzy.

A yakuza just kissed you, and not just any yakuza. Him.

He chuckled, shifting off the wall with a soft grunt, stretching his neck until it cracked, then rolling his shoulders and flexing his knuckles like he was about to fight God himself.

You watched, absolutely unable to stop fanning yourself with your own breath.

Toji walked to the door casually, glancing around like he hadn’t just threatened your sense of safety and sexual identity in the last ten minutes.

He paused at the threshold.

Glanced over his shoulder.

Smirked.

“‘m so hurt,” he rasped, voice like smoke, “you’re not beggin’ me to stay, pretty.”

And then—he winked.

“See you soon.”

The door shut behind him before you could even curse his name.

And you stood in the storage room, heart thudding like it wanted out of your chest.

Maybe Nobara had a point.

You were going to die alone in here.

You’ve been kissed by a yakuza once and now you’re a changed woman. Probably. Maybe. Shut up.

There were thirty-four books in the returns bin, alphabetized and logged.

The desk was polished. The register was balanced. Not a single overdue tab still hung.

So why—why—were you still gazing into the middle distance like your brain was buffering?

You blinked, snapped out of it, looked down at your own hands—then immediately brushed your fingers up against the edge of your cheek.

Right where he kissed you.

That voice again. Smooth. Dangerous. Too close.

“I owe you now.”

God.

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“This is so stupid,” you whispered to no one, glaring at the computer monitor like it betrayed you. “Get it together.”

Because you were not—repeat, not—the type of woman who fawned over criminals. You recycled. You alphabetized non-fiction by subject and subcategory. You owned slippers.

You were a sophisticated woman.

You had standards.

You did not—

“Looked real good doin’ it, too. All gentle in that little dress…”

You slapped your palm against the desk.

“NOPE.”

“—NOPE what?” came a voice behind you.

You jumped out of your chair like it had tried to electrocute you.

Nobara stood there, already halfway through the staff entrance, raising a perfect brow at you with her tote bag slung over one shoulder and her hair swept into a messy clip that still looked editorial.

She blinked once, then twice. “...You good?”

You cleared your throat and slapped on a tight smile.

“Yep! Totally. Normal. Great. Not hallucinating men or anything. Hi.”

Nobara stared at you for a long beat.

“Okay…” she said, “...I’m gonna pretend that wasn’t a sentence.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

She stepped in, dropping her bag beside the returns counter. “By the way—Yuuji’s gonna be late. He got roped into helping the art class paint some giant wall thing.”

“Oh,” you said, blinking. “Right.”

“Yeah. Don’t know why they keep asking him. Kid can barely draw a straight line.”

You tried to smile. Tried to act normal.

And then—

“Y/N-san.”

You looked up.

Her face was blank.

Her gaze lowered.

“…Are you wearing a dress that’s above your knee?”

You felt your entire soul leave your body.

You looked down. Slowly. As if you’d somehow forgotten what you were wearing.

Oh. Right. The dress.

It wasn’t even that short. It was tasteful. Soft. A light fabric that hugged your figure just barely. The neckline was modest. The sleeves capped. But yes—

It ended mid-thigh.

And it was pink.

Not beige. Not navy. Not librarian-core. It was... flirty.

You swallowed.

“It’s hot,” you said defensively. “The forecast said humid. Plus ventilation back here sucks and—”

“—Is that perfume?”

“I ALWAYS wear perfume.”

“Ma’am, you smell like vanilla and intention.”

“I just wanted to try something different.”

“Did something happen?”

“What? No.”

Nobara squinted at you.

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You reorganized the manga shelf by protagonist hair color.”

“That’s—functionally viable.”

“You alphabetized the tea packets in the staff lounge.”

“I was bored.”

“You’ve been whispering ‘Nope’ to yourself every ten minutes.”

You glared at her.

She crossed her arms and tilted her head.

“Who is he?” she asked plainly.

You froze. “Who—what—”

Nobara stepped closer, eyes narrowed like a hawk. “You’re glowing. You’re jumpy. You’re dressing like the main love interest in a K-drama. You’re not fooling anyone. Spill.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Rubbed your temples. Considered confession. Considered fleeing the country. Considered swearing her to secrecy and then lying anyway.

After several seconds, you took a long breath and said:

“...I don’t want to talk about it.”

Nobara gasped like you slapped her.

“YOU ABSOLUTE TEASE.”

“I swear—”

“Was he hot?”

Your face gave you away instantly.

“OH MY GOD,” she screamed, grabbing you by the shoulders. “HE WAS HOT??”

“Lower your voice!”

“IS THIS WHOLE ‘DRESS ABOVE THE KNEE’ THING FOR HIM??”

“I just—felt cute today!”

She stared at you.

You stared back.

A moment passed.

You flopped back into your chair, groaning into your hands.

Because deep down, under all the panic and guilt and confusion, one undeniable truth still lingered.

You liked it.

And somehow, you knew— He knew it too.

You weren’t expecting him. But your heart still leaped. Stupid.

It was cold in the basement—like always. The stone walls down there held onto the chill of fall like they hoarded it, refusing to give way to the heavy warmth of summer. The lights buzzed overhead, old and faint, and you moved slowly along the long wooden shelves—carefully.

These were the precious books. Rare copies. Out-of-print editions. A first edition Mishima with gold edging. A soft-leather-bound medical tome from 1890. A handwritten poetry book in a glass case that smelled like a grandfather’s attic.

You always did your rounds down here with both reverence and a quiet joy.

Today, though, your mind wasn’t on the books.

It was somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere more dangerous.

You traced your fingers along the spines, slowly heading toward the stairs again, your shift nearly over, when the sound of footsteps thudded faintly above you.

Then, a voice. Nobara’s.

“Y/N-san! Someone’s looking for you!”

Your heart dropped. Then soared. Then panicked.

Him?

Was it—

Your feet carried you faster than they should, thudding softly up the stairs, your breath catching in your throat like a dam about to break.

What was wrong with you? Were you seriously hoping he—

You were.

You hated it.

But you were.

Toji.

The way he smirked. His voice—low and playful and dangerous. The kiss on your cheek. The heat of his body so close you could feel your skin buzz beneath your dress.

You had replayed it in your head so many times now it was practically a daydream.

And now—he was here?

He came back?

You smiled. You were smiling, already smoothing your dress as you reached the top of the stairs, already preparing yourself, already crafting a joke or a quip or something to hide the fact that you’d been—

Not Toji.

Your smile dropped the second your eyes met the man by the door.

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t him at all.

And something in your chest wilted. Heavy. Sharp.

Standing by the front desk—was Naoya.

You stopped walking.

He hadn’t noticed you yet. He was leaned on the edge of the counter, talking to Nobara about something, head slightly tilted, that smug expression on his face like he owned the building.

You used to know that look. You used to see it in the university halls, back when you were both younger and he thought he had charm. When he tried to flirt with you at study tables, at cafés, at late-night events—always smooth, always well-groomed, always sharp-tongued and just short of kind.

And now here he was. Hair slicked back as usual, designer shirt a little too fitted, one hand stuffed in his pocket. Polished. Presentable.

Your smile was long gone.

Nobara spotted you over his shoulder and nodded. “She’s right there.”

Naoya turned.

You took a slow breath and walked forward. Calm. Professional. Blank-faced.

“Naoya,” you said, polite.

“Y/N,” he said, that half-laugh in his voice, eyes already raking over you like he was looking for something to comment on. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

You gave a small smile. Neutral.

“Mm. It has.”

“I was nearby,” he said, waving a casual hand. “Thought I’d stop by. You still working yourself to death down here?”

“Still running this place like it won’t fall apart without me.”

He grinned. “Some things never change.”

You wanted to leave. Already, your shoulders felt tight. Already, you were too aware of how different he felt than the man you were expecting.

How strange that you’d wanted a yakuza to walk through the door. And how even stranger it was that when he didn’t, you felt… disappointed.

Naoya was still talking. His voice smooth, sure of itself. The kind of man who had never had to wonder if he was charming.

But you weren’t listening anymore.

Your mind drifted again—back to the storage room.

Back to green eyes. Bloodied hands. That voice.

“See you soon, pretty.”

And your fingers brushed your cheek again—absent, remembering.

You’d take the bleeding yakuza over this any day.

Naoya had always been like this.

The conversation had barely started, and already he was speaking with that effortless, overfed confidence that could only come from someone who had never been told no in his entire life.

“I gotta say,” he was rambling, “never thought you’d stay in something like this long-term. The library, I mean. Not exactly fast-paced, but you’ve always been good with quiet things, huh?”

You blinked.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“I mean—still!” he said, laughing like he hadn’t just insulted your entire career. “You always did have that… what do they call it—feminine touch? Everything soft and put together. Not like most girls now. All loud and aggressive.”

You smiled with your teeth.

Nobara, at your side behind the desk, slowly turned her head toward you like a wind-up toy.

You ignored her.

“I suppose you could say the library’s still a good fit for me,” you said lightly.

Naoya leaned a little closer. “Not that you don’t have options, though. You always were smart. You could’ve gone corporate. Or married rich,” he added, with a chuckle like he was the punchline.

Nobara coughed.

You pressed your lips together, praying for strength.

Naoya didn’t stop.

“Anyway, it's great you’ve kept it all together. I mean, you look good. Really good. Honestly surprised you’re still single. You are single, right?”

Nobara full-on snorted at that.

You didn’t respond, still holding your polite-librarian smile like a weapon.

Naoya, oblivious, pushed on. “Back in college, I remember telling the guys you’d be married by, like, twenty-five. You just had that energy—you know. Wifey material.”

Nobara leaned in beside you and whispered—without breaking eye contact:

“I hate this man.”

You whispered back without moving your lips: “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. I’m going to strangle him with a charging cable.”

“Nobara—”

“You deserve better. You could date a felon and I’d still root for you harder.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Naoya clapped his hands together suddenly. “Anyway! I should get going. I’ve got dinner with some of the guys. Real estate dinner. You know how it is.”

You nodded like you had a clue what that meant.

He grinned again, gaze skimming over you a little too long. “Really good seeing you, Y/N.”

“You too, Naoya,” you lied beautifully.

And just like that—he turned, adjusted his collar, and walked toward the exit with all the pomp of a man who thought he had left an impression.

The second the door closed behind him, you exhaled so hard it knocked your bangs loose.

Nobara slapped both palms on the desk and howled.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL WAS THAT?”

You cracked a smile, covering your face. “That was... college nostalgia gone wrong.”

“He called you quiet and soft like he was describing a teacup poodle.”

“He’s always been like that,” you muttered, dragging your palms down your face.

“He said wifey material, I almost punched him.”

“I handled it.”

“You deserve financial compensation.”

You laughed again, leaning against the desk. “Thank god it’s over.”

Nobara smirked. “So... any other ex-classmates I should be aware of?”

You snorted. “No. Just a real estate misogynists this week.”

She gasped. “Put that on your resume.”

He didn’t come back. You told yourself that. Over and over again. Until he did.

It was closing time again.

The city hummed low outside the library windows. Pale orange streetlights bled through the blinds in soft strips across the wood floor, and the overhead fluorescents clicked faintly like they were catching their breath. Another long day was done.

Nobara was packing up her bag, muttering darkly as she tightened the drawstrings.

“You’re late again tomorrow,” she snapped, “and I swear to god, I’m going to stuff that wall paintbrush down your throat, Itadori.”

Yuuji, still trying to untangle his earbuds, flinched.

“I said sorry! That mural was like three stories high!”

“You were at the snack stall.”

“That was after!”

“Still counts.”

You stood at the desk, keys already in your hand, letting the two of them bicker as usual. It was familiar. Background noise. Like the AC or the soft creak of the stairs. They always did this—and for once, you were grateful for it.

It distracted you.

From the disappointment.

He hadn’t come back.

You didn’t know why you expected him to. Why your ears pricked up at every footstep outside. Why you kept checking the security mirror by the front desk, hoping to see a flash of dark hair or green eyes or that stupid confident walk—

You swallowed.

What were you hoping for? That he’d show up again? Bleeding again? Half-dead again?

Flirting again?

It didn’t matter. Because he didn’t. And instead, you’d had to entertain Naoya.

God.

Life was a little cruel sometimes.

Nobara shouted a final “Good night!” as she and Yuuji clattered out the front door, still bickering.

The library fell quiet.

You sighed, heading toward a table near the middle of the main floor where two books had been left behind. Probably someone who thought they’d checked them in. You scooped them up, turning them in your hands.

One was a book on knife forging. The other—an old collection of translated yakuza memoirs.

Of course.

You snorted under your breath. “Funny.”

You headed toward their sections. Nonfiction, organized by criminal history. Your heels clicked quietly on the floorboards as you slid between the narrow aisles, the scent of aged paper and polished wood filling the air like incense.

You moved slower this time.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that reminded you that you were alone. That even the bickering was gone now. That the fluorescent lights buzzed a little too loud when you really listened.

You shelved the first book.

Then turned to place the second one.

Then—

Movement.

Behind you.

A brush of air. A shadow. Something big.

You turned.

Too late.

He was right there.

Towering.

The shelf hit your back.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t even breathe. Just stared—mouth parted, eyes wide, frozen in place like your body knew him before your brain caught up.

His hands weren’t caging you in. He didn’t need to.

His presence alone was doing it.

Close. Heavy. Heat radiating off his chest through his shirt, through your dress. You could smell rain and sweat and something smoky. He didn’t touch you, but his closeness pinned you tighter than any grip could.

He looked down.

You looked up.

Toji.

His green eyes didn’t smile—but something sharp gleamed behind them. His bangs were damp from the air outside, falling loose over his forehead. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared down at you like he had every right to be there. Like he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on you.

Your lips parted to say something—but no words came.

You couldn’t think.

His head tilted slightly.

Your heart hammered.

You were shocked. More than shocked. How was he even here? How had you not heard him come in? What did he want? Was he hurt again?

No. He didn’t look hurt.

He looked dangerous.

Dangerous in that whole way. Not bloody. Not desperate.

Intentional.

His eyes flicked from your lips to your cheek. You knew where. The place he’d kissed you. A slight smirk pulled at his mouth—just a twitch.

Then, his voice—low and sinful:

“Missed me?"

For a man who says he owes you, he sure acts like he owns the room.

You stayed pinned.

Not because he held you there—he hadn’t even touched you—but because your body didn’t quite remember how to move when he was this close. Every inch of space between you burned like a live wire, and Toji… Toji was standing like he had all the time in the world.

His mouth curled slightly, teasing.

You stared. And blinked.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Toji leaned back just slightly—not to give you room, no, just enough to really look at you. His gaze dropped down your body, slow and smooth, not in a disrespectful way, more like someone admiring something… just for themselves.

“I know what you were doing,” he said, voice low. “End of shift. Picking up stray books. Following your own damn routine like clockwork.”

Your brows lifted slightly.

“Stalking me now?” you asked, trying to sound unimpressed, even as your heart thundered in your ears.

He huffed something like a laugh and stepped just a little closer again, mouth brushing a smirk.

“Call it reconnaissance. Gotta know what I’m paying back.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile—but failing.

And then Toji added, like it was the most casual thing in the world:

“Oh—and sorry ‘bout my dumbass relative dropping by.”

You blinked again.

“Wait. Naoya?”

“Unfortunately,” he said, grinning. “Yeah. He’s one of them."

Your jaw dropped. “You’re related to that guy?!”

Toji tilted his head, looking deeply unbothered by the horror on your face.

“Distant. I don’t claim him.”

You snorted—loudly, before you could catch it. And Toji’s eyes lit up. He looked... pleased to have made you laugh. Like he liked the sound of it. Too much.

You straightened again, attempting to recover. “Still can’t believe it. Out of everyone in the world—Naoya.”

Toji looked at you again, slower this time. His voice dropped to something dark and warm.

“Still can’t believe you wore this.”

Your body stiffened slightly.

“What?”

He looked pointedly down. “This little thing. Dress like that, late at night, all alone in here? Might give a guy the wrong idea.”

You looked down too—at the hem brushing above your knee, your bare legs under soft lights—and your face immediately flushed.

“I—It’s not that short—”

“It’s short enough,” Toji muttered, almost under his breath. His eyes dragged along your legs. “Fuck. You’re lucky I’m not a worse man.”

Your heart pounded.

You swallowed. “Why are you here, Toji?”

He lifted a brow. “Still figuring that out.”

You blinked. “Figuring…?”

“What I’m gonna give you.”

You looked up at him, dumbfounded. “You don’t have to give me anything.”

Toji grinned again. “Yeah? That little kiss did it for you, huh?”

You opened your mouth, flustered—and then shrugged with a slightly bashful glare. “It wasn’t even on the lips.”

He smirked again, low and satisfied. “Didn’t need to be.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks hot. Your fingers fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, heart still refusing to slow down.

Toji leaned just a little closer, brushing his breath across your cheek again as he murmured,

“Can’t really come out during the day. Too many eyes. Too many assholes with nothing better to do than try to stab me.”

You turned toward him slightly. “That sounds… healthy.”

“I’ll try to come at night. If I can. Once I figure out what I owe you.”

You met his gaze, and for once—you didn’t flinch.

“…Alright,” you said quietly.

His expression softened just a hair. Something quiet passed between you—something not quite as sharp as before. Not lust. Not wit. Something that felt… almost like care.

Then, without a word, he leaned down once more—and pressed a soft, slow kiss to your cheek.

The same spot.

You didn’t move.

His mouth lingered, then left.

He didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t explain where he’d come from.

Or how, even now, you didn’t hear him leave. Just the fading scent of him. Rain. Smoke. Warmth.

What you didn’t know—

—was that once he stepped out that door, one of his men—a man dressed like a night-shift courier—nodded discreetly at him from across the street.

Eyes always on you.

For the last three days, things had settled into a strange rhythm.

You’d be there, alone in the library at the close of another shift. Quiet. The sound of rain against the windows or a gust of wind sending a cool breeze across your skin. You’d finish your work—storing away books, cleaning up the desk, making sure everything was in its place. You didn’t mind the silence, and the stillness helped you think, helped you relax.

But then, just before you could slip into the hum of your thoughts and turn off the lights for the night, the door would open. And every time, just like clockwork, Toji would be there—stepping into the quiet space, the soft echo of his boots on the wooden floor the only sound.

He’d always have that same sharp, almost cocky smile on his face as he greeted you. Sometimes he’d just stand at the doorway, letting the air settle before walking toward the shelves. No need for fancy words. No need for pleasantries. Just the shared silence of two people in a room, sharing an unspoken understanding. He never let his presence overwhelm you—but it always did.

At first, you tried to keep up the casual distance—telling him about your day, ranting about some of the more absurd parts of your job, sharing bits of personal history. You didn’t expect him to care, but somehow—he did. It was funny. How, despite all the roughness of his exterior, his quiet listening made him stand out among the other men you’d met in your life.

Of course, his comments always carried a bit of edge, a lot of teasing, and there was always the lingering sense of tension. But those moments between the two of you weren’t about the danger or the dirty jokes. No, it was something more—it was a connection. A strange, unexpected bond.

And as the nights rolled on, Toji always left the same way: with a kiss to your cheek—soft but always laced with something deeper. It was a small thing. A fleeting gesture. But it always felt like more. Like he wasn’t just leaving the library—he was leaving something behind every time.

The office was nothing like the picture of a grand yakuza hideout you’d expect. It was rusted. Aesthetically raw and a bit grimy, the air thick with the smell of tobacco, ink, and something metallic. Old furniture. Unpolished. A small desk was piled with papers and phone bills, a half-empty glass of whiskey resting on a coaster.

This was Toji's world. No glittering gold or flashy decor. Just the bare essentials. A place for work and survival. A place where he could think and decide without too many distractions.

The walls were adorned with a couple of old, weathered portraits of men and women who looked like they’d been here far too long, watching the world change while staying the same.

And then, as expected, a man walked in. His face was lean, eyes sharp but tired. His dark hair was short, cropped close to the scalp, but he had a certain weight to him—like a man who knew exactly how far his influence could reach.

This was Suguru Geto, Toji’s trusted associate. A former ally of Toji, now walking the delicate line between the old days and whatever future they’d carve out for themselves.

He walked in, not bothering to knock.

“Everything’s going smoothly. As usual,” Suguru said, sounding indifferent as he took a seat across from Toji.

Toji grunted in response, taking a long drag of his cigarette and staring out the window. He didn’t say anything right away, the silence stretching out as Suguru settled in, flicking a few papers over on the desk.

Then, Suguru let out a sharp breath, flicking his gaze toward Toji. His tone shifted—becoming more pointed, more serious.

“You know, it’s getting dangerous,” Suguru said, his voice turning cold. “The rats from the east are making moves. Drugs, mostly. They’re pushing, and it's getting worse.”

Toji glanced over at him, but there was no real reaction. Suguru continued.

“They’re pushing hard, Toji. We’re not just talking about the low-level guys. They’re coming for us now. We gotta be careful.”

Toji leaned back in his chair, putting his cigarette out in the ashtray. His eyes didn’t leave Suguru’s.

“Mm. I know,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve already got a few guys out checking on the perimeter. Nothing we can’t handle.”

Suguru’s face tightened. “That’s not the point. We’re talking about full-on war now. If we don’t start striking, we’re going to get caught.”

“I know,” Toji repeated, his voice a little more tense now. “We’ll handle it. Get me the list of their suppliers and I’ll make sure we have leverage.”

Suguru nodded, but before he could leave, he paused. His gaze slid over to the side where Toji’s desk was littered with papers and books. He followed the trail to the windowsill, where an open book rested in the dim light—one that was entirely out of place in Toji’s rough surroundings.

Toji caught Suguru's eye and followed his gaze.

“That book?” Suguru asked, raising an eyebrow.

Toji rubbed his face and let out a sigh. “Yeah. It’s… uh. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Suguru smirked, clearly unconvinced. “What’s that? A romance novel? One of those cheesy ones? Or maybe you’re a poetry man now, huh?”

Toji’s lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t respond to the jibe. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his voice suddenly serious.

“Yeah, well, don’t worry about that.” He glanced out the window, eyes darkening slightly. “I’m more concerned about something else.”

Suguru waited, arms crossed, before giving Toji a knowing look. “What’s that?”

Toji finally looked up at him. His gaze was sharp. Cold. But there was a hint of something… softer in his eyes that Suguru hadn’t seen in years.

“She’s dangerous,” Toji muttered, his voice low. “I didn’t expect her to be there. I was just looking for somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one could bother me. And then…”

Suguru’s lips quirked. “And then what? You found a pretty librarian in the middle of nowhere?”

Toji let out a frustrated grunt. “She wasn’t just pretty. She was different. I didn’t expect to see someone like that there. All soft, you know? Not… rough like me. I don’t know, Suguru, but I can’t get her outta my head.”

Suguru’s expression became a little more serious.

“Toji—” he warned, his voice low, “you’re a yakuza. You know what happens when you get attached. Anyone close to you becomes a target. Anything that touches you gets dragged into your shit.”

Toji’s eyes narrowed. He knew this. Knew the rules.

“I don’t need reminding, Suguru.”

Suguru raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. It’s a little librarian, man. Think about it. If you’re gonna get that close, it’s gonna be hell for her.”

For a moment, Toji didn’t speak. The weight of the words hung in the air, and for the first time in a while, he felt a pull in his chest—something he couldn’t control.

His gaze flickered to the window once more. The quiet street below, rain still falling gently. Her face flashed in his mind.

“Yeah,” Toji finally said, his voice rough. “I know. But I can’t help it.”

The library was quiet. Far too quiet.

The kind of quiet that crawls under your skin and makes you question your thoughts, your decisions, your life. The lights flickered, casting long shadows across the rows of bookshelves. The evening had stretched on longer than usual, and Toji hadn’t shown up. The thought lingered like a weight in your chest, and despite your best efforts, you couldn’t push it away.

You waited.

The clock ticked steadily—its hands creeping forward in a way that felt mocking. Your fingers tapped anxiously against the desk, but you weren’t looking at anything. Not really. Your gaze kept darting back to the door, every creak of the old wood, every gust of wind rattling the windows, making your heart jump just a little, even though you knew it was just the weather.

Where was he?

For the past week, you’d grown used to seeing him stand in the doorway, that familiar smirk on his lips, the lean, muscular build in his black compression shirt, his eyes scanning the room like he owned it. You’d grown used to the way he’d walk in, sit across from you, and listen to your ramblings about books, about life, about anything and everything. His teasing comments. His flirtation. Those lingering, soft kisses he left on your cheek before leaving.

But tonight… nothing.

It had been hours since you’d closed up the books, well past the time you should’ve left. You had work to do—another round of inventory, tidying up the shelves, reordering things—but you’d been waiting for him. Foolishly, you told yourself. Foolishly, because you couldn’t figure out if you were waiting for him to show up again just for the comfort of his presence or if it was something more.

What was wrong with you?

You scoffed at yourself, shaking your head. What was this? Why were you waiting? You had never been the type of woman to get so caught up in someone like this, especially not someone like him. Toji was a yakuza. The things he did, the world he lived in—nothing about it was safe.

You cursed under your breath, standing up abruptly from the desk. The sound echoed in the otherwise silent library. You glanced at the door once more, as if willing it to open and for Toji to walk through. But nothing happened.

“Get a grip,” you whispered to yourself, grabbing your coat from the back of the chair. The fabric was soft, heavy, a welcome warmth against the chill of the evening air. You buttoned it up, securing it tightly around your body as you made your way toward the exit.

You had never closed the library early before, but tonight felt like it was the right thing to do. A cold sense of realization settled over you.

You had been waiting for a man who had no place in your life.

A yakuza. A killer. Someone who played by rules you didn’t understand, in a world you didn’t belong to.

With one last glance around the room—everything still in place, just as it should be—you turned off the lights and locked the door behind you. The click of the lock sounded too final, like the end of a chapter you weren’t quite ready to close.

You stepped out onto the street.

The night was colder than usual, the kind of cold that wrapped around your body like a second skin. Your breath misted in front of you as you walked down the quiet street, the sounds of the small town settling for the night. The dim streetlights cast long shadows, the soft hum of the wind carrying the scent of rain that had just passed through.

The path home was familiar. You’d walked it every night for years, the little Japanese house nestled among the narrow streets and traditional homes of the town. Your neighborhood was small, and most of the people here knew each other by name.

But tonight, as you walked, something felt different.

You tried to shake the feeling off, but it stuck to you like the chill in the air. Your thoughts drifted back to Toji—his words, his teasing, his presence. What had you become? Someone who waited for a man like that? A dangerous man who wasn’t even here tonight?

The pace of your steps quickened as you reached the small, quiet street that led to your home. The houses here were old, but charming. You could already see the outline of your house at the end of the street—the soft glow of the porch light flickering like a welcome beacon.

You sighed in relief. The warmth of your little house, the quiet comfort of it, was a relief. At least here, you could forget about Toji for a little while.

But just as you were about to turn the corner toward your house, you heard it.

A slight noise.

A faint creak from behind you.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensing as you slowly turned your head.

And there he was.

A figure, emerging from the darkness, standing in the shadows. The man was tall, his face partially obscured by the night. You couldn’t see his expression, but you could feel the weight of his gaze. He was standing just a few feet away, close enough that you could hear the faint rustle of his clothing as he shifted his weight.

You instinctively reached for your phone in your pocket, but before you could pull it out, the man took a step closer. Your heart skipped a beat as you quickly turned your back to him, trying to walk faster.

And then it came—a sharp pressure against your back, cold steel pressed into your spine.

A knife.

Your breath caught in your throat as you froze, the icy tip of the blade threatening to push further into your flesh. The man was so close—his body just inches away from yours, the blade a clear threat.

“You’re quite a sight,” the man whispered, his voice low and gruff. He was close enough now that you could smell the faint scent of cologne mixed with something else—something sharper, like metal.

Your mind raced. What was happening? What did he want from you?

But then, as quickly as the threat appeared, the man’s voice softened. He pressed the knife a little harder, just enough to remind you of its existence, before he spoke again.

“You’re alone tonight.”

A strange shiver ran down your spine, and you felt the sudden, dangerous realization hit you—this was no random encounter. Whoever he was, he knew exactly what he was doing.

And worse, you didn’t know what the hell to do about it.

The man behind you was breathing heavily. His presence was suffocating, an oppressive force that stole all the air from the night. You could feel the cold steel of the knife still pressed against your back, just enough to send a shock of fear racing through your veins. Your breath hitched, and you froze, trying to steady your pulse, but panic was quickly taking over.

The knife didn’t budge, but his breath became more erratic. Your hands trembled, and your heart pounded wildly in your chest as the man’s presence pressed closer.

He chuckled darkly. “Think you can walk around here unscathed, princess?” The words were spat like venom, harsh and rough, and you could feel the mockery in his tone.

You tried to hold yourself together, trying to hold on to the fleeting sense of control. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You didn’t want to scream. You didn’t want to provoke him, but every part of your body was screaming for help.

With a sudden movement, his hand shot out, striking your cheek with a harsh slap.

The force of the hit sent you staggering sideways, your skin burning from the sting. You barely had time to react before the heel of his boot was driven into your stomach, knocking the wind out of you.

You gasped, hands clutching at your middle as the pain radiated outward, your knees buckling beneath you. The world spun, and the searing pain in your abdomen made everything feel dizzy and out of reach. Your vision blurred. The taste of blood was suddenly in your mouth—your lip cut from the force of the slap.

The man was muttering to himself, as though he was slowly getting more enraged, more unstable.

"You're just another piece of trash to me. But, hell, I like watching pretty things break."

His voice was unhinged, and the sound of it made your skin crawl. You tried to stand, your legs unsteady beneath you, but the fear that gripped your chest made you feel weak, vulnerable.

You could feel him raising the knife once more, ready to finish what he’d started.

Then, suddenly, a loud, sharp noise shattered the air—a gunshot.

You froze. Your heart skipped a beat.

The world tilted sideways. For a moment, your mind went blank. It was as though time had stopped. You felt the adrenaline surge in your bloodstream, but it wasn’t the kind you could control. It was the kind that made your limbs heavy, your body shaking.

And then, like a distant echo, the man who had been threatening you collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud.

You flinched, instinctively covering your ears, but the ringing of the gunshot still reverberated in your skull. The sound of the shot was still too fresh, too sharp. You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, but all you could do was kneel there, trembling.

Your hands were shaking uncontrollably. Your cheek burned where he slapped you. The cut on your lip stung every time you moved your mouth. The pain in your stomach was a heavy, nauseating pressure.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you glanced up, trying to understand what had just happened.

And then you saw him.

A man—dressed in dark, nondescript clothes—was standing over the body of the would-be assailant, his gun still smoking in the night air. His face was stoic, detached, as if he was used to this kind of violence.

“Stay down,” he commanded in a low, cold voice. You didn’t even have time to react as he crouched beside you, speaking into a phone. His words were low and urgent, but they barely registered in your dazed mind.

"She's alive," he muttered into the phone, his voice firm. "Get the car ready. We’re bringing her in."

You tried to speak, tried to move, but everything felt wrong. You were frozen, your body numb from the terror, from the shock of it all. Your entire body felt like it was shutting down, your limbs too heavy to move.

"Please," you whispered, barely able to get the words out. "What’s happening? Who are you?"

But before you could process anything, the man stepped back, his grip on your arm firm but not painful. His movements were smooth, practiced. Efficient.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, his tone too calm. “We’re just getting you out of here.”

You didn’t understand what was happening. You didn’t know who this man was or why he’d shot the other man, but your mind was spiraling. The pain in your stomach had spread, but you couldn’t even feel the bruise on your cheek anymore. All you felt was cold, dread, and the overwhelming pressure of what was about to happen.

You tried to gather yourself, but the shock was too much. Your body felt like it was shutting down, and you couldn’t stop shaking.

Another car pulled up, and the man helped you into the backseat, his grip firm on your arm. The lights were harsh as they shone down on you, and you felt a wave of nausea surge through you. You barely registered anything as the car doors slammed shut and the vehicle lurched forward.

You leaned against the seat, your face aching, your stomach still burning with pain. Your mind raced as you tried to piece together what had just happened. Had you been saved? Or had you just been dragged further into something darker, something far more dangerous?

Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of it all crashing down on you.

The car drove off into the night, the world outside passing by in a blur. You didn’t know where you were going. You didn’t know what was happening. But the only thing you knew for sure was that this wasn’t just some random attack.

This was his world. Toji’s world.

And you had just been pulled deeper into it.

The world outside the car blurred as it sped down winding roads, the headlights illuminating the darkness in brief flashes. The car’s interior was cold, and despite the warmth of the vehicle, your body was shivering, still in shock from everything that had happened. Every bump of the road made your stomach churn, and the pressure on your chest felt like it was suffocating you.

You tried to breathe, but it felt impossible. It wasn’t just the fear—it was the unknown. The feeling of being completely out of control. Of having no idea where you were going or why this was happening.

The car turned sharply and slowed to a stop, its tires crunching over gravel. For a brief moment, the silence in the car was deafening, the only sound your shallow breaths and the distant hum of the engine.

When the door opened, the same man who had been holding you earlier reached inside and pulled you out with practiced ease. He didn’t speak to you as he guided you through the front gates, his grip firm around your arm.

Your eyes scanned the surroundings—the first thing you noticed was that this place wasn’t as polished as you imagined a yakuza estate would be. The sprawling grounds were quiet, the kind of quiet that made your skin crawl. It wasn’t a grand estate with marble pillars or gold statues. It was more… subdued. The buildings were large but not ornate. They looked expensive, but not in an obvious way. There was an understated luxury about everything here, like it was designed to intimidate without trying too hard.

As you walked past several men standing near the entrance, you could hear the low murmur of voices, the clinking of bottles, and the occasional burst of laughter. They were laughing at something, some kind of inside joke, and their voices echoed against the cold, stone walls. You caught glimpses of their faces, some smiling, others with looks that told you they’d seen far too much in their lives. They wore dark suits—well-tailored but not overly flashy. Guns were tucked into holsters under their jackets, some visible, some hidden beneath layers.

Everything about this place felt wrong.

You couldn’t help the shiver that crawled down your spine.

One of the men, the same one who had brought you here, was still talking on his phone, his voice low but insistent. He was giving coordinates. A location. Something about a “cleaning crew.” You couldn’t catch all the words, but the tone in his voice made it clear that this was just another task. Another body to clean up. Yakuza things. It was all too familiar to them, all too casual.

As you were escorted through the halls, the realization began to hit you—this wasn’t just some random thug who had come after you. This was his world. This was Toji’s world. The one he had dragged you into without warning, without mercy.

You passed more men—some of them nodded at you, others didn’t even spare you a glance. Their eyes were too focused on the mission at hand, whatever that was. But they all had the same cold look in their eyes, a look that made you feel like you were the prey in a room full of predators.

The air smelled faintly of smoke, whiskey, and something metallic that made your stomach tighten in fear. You could feel the weight of the place pressing down on you, suffocating you.

Finally, you came to a stop in front of two large, double doors. The man who had been escorting you gave you a push, his hand firm on your back as he led you inside. Your heart was hammering in your chest, but you had no choice but to follow.

The doors opened with a heavy creak, revealing a large room. The walls were decorated with dark wood, thick carpets covering the floor. It was luxurious, but in a different way—a darker, more oppressive kind of luxury. The kind of place where power and danger were palpable in the air, where every piece of furniture, every art piece, was meant to make a statement.

And there he was.

Toji.

Standing in the middle of the room, his body leaned slightly against the desk in front of him. His broad shoulders and muscular build filled the space with an undeniable presence. He wasn’t sitting, and he wasn’t pacing. He was just there, waiting. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his posture was clear.

He had heard you coming.

He could feel the shift in the air, the energy of the room changing the moment you walked in. His sharp eyes snapped to you, taking you in with that same intensity he always had. But tonight, it was different. There was something in his gaze. Something deeper.

You stood there in the doorway, unsure of whether to step forward or turn and run.

You didn’t know what to do.

What could you do?

Your pulse was racing, the silence between you both thick and suffocating. He didn’t move. He just stood there, his gaze locked on you, his expression unreadable. The weight of the moment stretched out between you like a rope taut with tension, and for the first time, you realized just how dangerous it was to be in his world.

You swallowed hard, the taste of fear still in your mouth. You could hear the soft thud of your heart as it pounded in your chest. Your breath came in shallow gasps as you stood frozen in place, waiting for him to make the first move.

But Toji didn’t move.

He just watched you.

And in that moment, you knew something had changed between you.

This wasn’t just some game anymore.

This wasn’t just a chance encounter.

He was involved now.

And you?

You were in deeper than you ever thought possible.

The silence between you and Toji hung heavy, thick like smoke in the air. You stood in the room, your body still trembling from the fear and anger that had built up over the past hour. Every part of you wanted to scream, to cry, to throw something. But all you could do was stand there, fists clenched by your sides, staring at him.

Toji’s eyes softened slightly when he saw the bruises on your face—the handprint on your cheek and the cut on your lip. But there was no apology, no remorse in his expression. Instead, there was that same, familiar coolness.

He stepped toward you, his gaze never leaving yours. As he approached, he raised a hand, and for a moment, it seemed like he was going to touch the bruise on your cheek, to make sure you were okay. But when his fingers neared your skin, you jerked away, the anger flaring up inside you like wildfire.

“Don’t touch me.” You spat the words out, your voice trembling with fury. His hand paused mid-air, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem phased.

He looked at you, confused, almost as if he didn’t understand why you were reacting this way. “What’s your problem?” he asked, his voice still low and calm, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions that were swirling inside you.

You stepped back, anger bubbling up like a pot left to boil over. Your chest heaved with the effort to contain it. "You fucking coward," you snarled, your words sharp and cutting. “You think I’m angry ‘cause you brought me here? No, I’m pissed off because you weren’t here when I needed you the most.”

Toji blinked, the confusion still etched on his face. His sharp eyes searched yours, and for a brief second, you could see the weight of the situation hit him—but only for a moment. It was clear: he hadn’t expected this kind of response from you. Toji was used to being the one in control, the one who decided what happened, when, and how. You weren’t playing along. You were making him feel something he wasn’t used to.

You were tired of the calm, cool demeanor that he always wore like armor. This man wasn’t some mythical creature, some untouchable gangster with an unshakable hold over everything and everyone. He was just a man. A man who let you get hurt.

Your chest tightened, and for a brief second, all you could think about was that moment. The man with the knife. The sound of the gunshot. The terror that surged through you. And Toji? Where the hell was he when you needed him? You didn’t care about his world, his rules, his so-called control.

He was right there, but he wasn’t there for you.

You felt a sharp pain in your throat as the words left your mouth. “I was scared. I thought I was gonna die tonight, and you—you weren’t even here.”

Toji didn’t say anything for a beat, and when he did, it was a soft exhale, like he’d come to some kind of realization. His gaze softened, but only slightly. “I repaid you already, didn’t I?” His voice was low, gravelly. “I saved your life, didn’t I? My men were watching you, making sure you were safe.”

The words struck you like a slap.

He had men watching you? That was his way of keeping you safe?

Your head spun as anger flared up again. The audacity of this man. You thought you had been wrong about him, but now, all you could feel was disgust.

The nerve on this guy. After everything he’d done, and what he hadn’t done, he had the fucking audacity to say that?

Your hand shot up before you could even think, and with a sharp crack, you punched him in the chest. Your fist landed with a dull thud, but it didn’t make him move an inch. He just stood there, his broad chest unmoving beneath the blow, like he hadn’t even felt it.

You were trembling with rage, your entire body on fire, and yet he was still as composed as ever. That pissed you off even more.

“You really think I’m gonna thank you for saving my life?” Your words came out like venom. “Fuck you, Toji. I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Toji didn’t react to the punch. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem phased. Instead, he stared down at you with that same, unwavering gaze, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He took a step forward, his presence looming over you like a storm cloud about to break.

“You’re gonna get lost in this place, y’know.” His voice was smooth, low, and that trademark smirk of his returned, even as the tension between you crackled.

Your hands were shaking, but not from fear. It was from frustration. From anger. From all the emotions you were trying to bottle up but couldn’t.

“I don’t care.” The words spilled out before you could stop them. You took a deep breath, standing your ground despite the raging fire inside you. “I don’t care if I get lost. I don’t care if I never see you again. Just go, Toji. I’m not gonna sit around here and play your games.”

You turned away, your pulse thumping in your ears.

The night had settled in much colder than usual, the chill from outside creeping through the library’s large windows. The rain had been relentless, a soft tapping sound in the background of your thoughts as you sat behind the front desk. It had been two days since you had been dragged into that estate by Toji’s men, two days since he had saved you—if you could even call it that—and kissed your cheek like nothing was wrong. That man… Toji… you hated him. But, damn it, you couldn't stop thinking about him.

The way he had pressed you against the bookshelf, his smirk never wavering, even when your entire body was trembling. His voice, calm and unwavering, saying that you owed him now. That he would come back. He’d come back. And now, here you were, trying to forget him, trying to erase his touch from your mind.

But you couldn’t. How could you?

You weren’t that naïve. You knew you’d never see him the same way again. It wasn’t just the danger he brought with him, or the fact that he was a part of a world you didn’t belong to, a world you could never understand. It was him. The way he was, the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel even when you wanted nothing to do with him.

You shook your head, trying to shake the thoughts away.

But here you were, stuck in the library, your mind still swirling with everything that had happened.

You hadn’t meant to let things get to this point. You hadn’t meant to get involved with someone like him, and you certainly hadn’t meant to let him invade your life this much. But you couldn’t deny it anymore.

Fuck him.

That’s what you kept telling yourself as you stared at the clock. It was nearing 9 p.m., and Naoya had told you he’d pick you up right after your shift. You didn’t particularly want to go out with him, but you knew you needed to get your mind off everything that had happened. Naoya was persistent—too persistent, really—but you figured if he could give you a few hours of distraction, you might be able to get your life back in order, if only for a little while.

So, you pulled out a short, tight dress from the back of your closet, something you would never wear for work. You didn't like the idea of it at first, but something inside you urged you to just get out, to do something different. You didn’t want to be the same woman who had been held in that mansion, who had let herself get lost in thoughts of a yakuza.

You stared at yourself in the mirror as you applied a thin layer of makeup—just enough to hide the dark circles under your eyes. You brushed out your hair and let it fall loose around your shoulders. You didn’t recognize yourself anymore, not since that night. The woman in the mirror looked a little too sad, a little too tired.

But you’ll get through this.

You spritzed on a bit of perfume, just enough to make yourself feel a little more presentable, a little more you. And yet, as you inhaled the scent, something nagged at you. A memory. His scent. The warmth of his breath against your skin, the whisper of his lips, the feel of his body so close to yours. You cursed under your breath.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your thoughts.

Naoya was running late—surprise, surprise. You sighed, glancing at the clock again. At least you had time to breathe, to clear your mind, before dealing with him.

But as you waited, the night seemed to drag on, the clock ticking ever so slowly. You crossed the room and glanced out of the window. The rain had softened, but the chill still lingered, the kind that made you pull your coat tighter around your shoulders. Your fingers traced along the edges of your purse as you waited for Naoya’s call, your heart hammering in your chest for reasons you couldn’t explain.

You tried not to think about Toji.

But it was hard.

You were so caught up in your thoughts that you barely noticed the footsteps until they were right behind you.

A familiar creak of the door echoed in the silence. You froze.

Your breath hitched in your throat, and your eyes widened.

It was him. The door had opened, and there was no mistaking the silhouette standing in the doorway.

Toji.

For a split second, you didn’t know what to do. Your body was frozen in place, your pulse racing as you turned slowly toward the sound. He was standing there in the doorway, a dark figure, the glow of the outside streetlights casting shadows around him. He didn’t move, but you could feel his eyes on you. His gaze was heavy, sharp, and inescapable.

The tension that had been building inside of you suddenly surged, a familiar heat rushing to your face. Your heart beat in your chest, fast, too fast, and your skin tingled at the thought of him being here—right here. In your library. After everything that had happened.

You stood there, caught between fear and something else—something you couldn’t explain. You didn’t want to see him, you didn’t want to feel him, but there he was, taking up all the space in the room, as if he owned it.

And, damn it, he knew it.

The air between you was thick, heavy with unspoken words and the oppressive weight of his presence. Toji stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of him, as though he owned the entire space. And, in a way, he probably did. His gaze never left you, his eyes dark and intense, like he was reading you with every flicker of his gaze.

“Getting ready for someone else, huh?” Toji’s voice cut through the silence, smooth and seductive, every word carefully chosen, like he was toying with you. "You look beautiful, though." His eyes lingered on you in a way that made your breath hitch. There was no shame in the way he looked at you, no pretense. He was blunt. Direct. And it felt like a physical weight pressing down on you, like the temperature in the room had just risen by ten degrees.

Your heart raced. The words he’d just spoken—the way he made them sound—made something stir inside you. You knew you should be mad. You should be angry at him for showing up like this, for making everything more complicated. But damn it, you couldn’t help it. He was Toji. He was tall, commanding, and impossible to ignore. And it pissed you off that you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

“I don’t need you here,” you said, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “You figured out what you owed me, so why are you still here?” Your voice was shaky despite your attempts to sound confident, but you couldn't hide the nervousness crawling under your skin. You took a deep breath and stepped away from the desk, crossing the room toward the towering bookshelves.

You needed space. You needed distance from him. But of course, Toji wasn’t going to let you have that. Not when he could see the way you were affected, even if you were pretending otherwise.

“Come on, baby…” His voice was low now, dripping with that casual confidence that you hated and loved all at once. "You're really mad about that?" He followed you, his heavy footsteps soft against the floor, but his presence was everywhere. You could feel him getting closer, feel the heat of his body like an unseen flame licking at your skin.

You ignored him at first, fingers running along the spines of books, as if they could somehow provide the answers to the mess he’d created. But every time you reached for one, the movement felt too forced, too... calculated. He was distracting you. You knew it. He knew it. You hated that he knew.

“Stop following me.” You said it with as much authority as you could muster, but the irritation in your voice betrayed you. You were tense, wound up, ready to explode.

But he didn’t stop. Of course, he didn’t. Toji was never one to take a step back.

"Make me," Toji purred from behind you, his voice an intoxicating mix of amusement and something darker—something predatory. His words were like a physical caress, his voice sliding under your skin in a way you couldn’t ignore.

Something inside you snapped. You spun around, facing him head-on, your fists clenched at your sides. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t get to do this—this game of yours. I told you I don’t need you.” The words came out more forcefully than you intended, but your anger flared again. You didn’t want to admit that he had gotten under your skin.

Toji tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was studying a puzzle. A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips. He was enjoying this. You could see it in his eyes. He was savoring every second of your frustration.

Before you could react, Toji moved. He crossed the distance between you in two strides, his large frame towering over you. Before you knew it, you were pressed against the shelf, the books digging into your back as he pinned you there with the sheer force of his presence. You gasped at the suddenness of it, the pressure of his body against yours, his breath warm against your ear.

“Listen, baby,” he said, his voice now a husky whisper, right against your ear. “I’m not here to play games. But I don’t think you really want me to leave, do you?”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you felt his hand come up to rest on the shelf beside your head, his fingers brushing against the wood just inches from your face. His other hand slid to your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress. You couldn’t breathe. He was so close. Too close.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” Toji murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me you don’t want me.”

The heat of his body radiated against yours, making it impossible to think straight. You felt his breath against your neck, his scent overwhelming your senses. He was teasing you, pushing you to the brink, but you couldn’t find the strength to push him away. Everything about him—his voice, his presence—was pulling you in. Even the anger you felt was starting to burn out, leaving only that raw, needy desire that you couldn’t suppress.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to speak. “You… you’re so insufferable,” you whispered, though you knew it was a lie. The truth was, you wanted him. But you were too proud to admit it. Too scared of what it meant.

Toji’s smirk deepened. His thumb brushed across your waist, a touch so light, so deliberate, that it sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes never left yours, and in that moment, you could see the dark amusement, the satisfaction of having you right where he wanted you.

“Tell me I’m wrong, then,” he challenged softly, his lips inches from yours, the heat of his breath mixing with yours. "Come on, pretty. Tell me I'm wrong."

Your lips parted as you searched his eyes, your chest heaving with the breath you couldn’t take. For a split second, you were almost afraid to speak, afraid to let him know the truth. But before you could say anything, Toji closed the gap.

His lips were on yours, claiming you in an instant, with a kiss that was as hot and possessive as everything he had ever said. It was raw, desperate, and full of intent, the kind of kiss that left you breathless and dizzy. He didn’t give you a chance to pull away, his hand gripping your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His other hand cupped the back of your head, tilting it just enough to deepen the kiss.

Everything else disappeared. There was no library, no shelves, no frustration. There was only him. And you.

Toji’s kiss was everything you had been trying to resist, everything you knew you shouldn’t want. But in that moment, you didn’t care. You were already lost.

You were done pretending.

He slammed you back into the shelf with a thud that sent books shivering from their spines. His mouth crushed yours, hot and furious, stealing every breath you’d saved for arguing. One hand gripped your jaw. The other slid down — greedy — to cup your breast over the thin fabric of your dress.

“You wanna forget about me?” he growled between kisses, yanking the neckline down to expose you. “Is that it, sweetheart? Thought a pretty little dress and some other man’s attention would help you erase me?”

His mouth descended, teeth grazing your neck, tongue hot and slick as he devoured the skin he once claimed. You gasped when he bit down lightly at your pulse, his hands roaming, kneading, possessive and rough.

“Toji—”

“You’re mine,” he snarled against your throat, dragging your leg up around his waist before dropping to his knees. Toji Fushiguro on his knees. A sight hell itself couldn’t imagine.

He tossed your panties to the floor with a low whistle. “Fuck, this pussy missed me, didn’t it? Look at her,” he groaned, spreading you open with a thumb. “All dressed up for another man but dripping for me.”

Your back hit the bookshelf hard as he hoisted one of your legs over his shoulder, tongue flicking against your clit with a slow, devastating pace. His tongue was hot. Hungry. Each stroke was wickedly precise — drawing shapes only a sinner could spell.

You moaned his name, breath hitching as your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking. His eyes flicked up, dark and amused.

“You try to fuckin’ forget about me but your body’s got no loyalty, sweetheart.”

He dove back in — deeper, tongue curling inside you, groaning against your heat like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He gripped your thighs like a man possessed, dragging you closer, messier, wetter.

The shelf behind you rattled, a book falling with a loud thud, but neither of you cared.

He slid two fingers inside, crooking them just right, his mouth still latched to your clit. “You gonna cum on my tongue while that smug bastard’s running late?” he smirked against you, voice hoarse and thick. “You think he could make you feel this fucked out? You think he could have you shaking like this, baby?”

You couldn’t even respond. Your vision blurred, hips twitching, thighs quivering around his head. He groaned when you tugged harder on his hair, the vibration sending you straight to the edge—

“Toji, I—fuck—Toji!”

Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train, hard and fast, his name a chant from your lips as your body trembled against the shelf. He didn’t stop. Not until you were gasping, breathless, legs like jelly.

And then he stood, fingers wet, mouth glistening.

“Still think I’m forgettable, baby?” he rasped, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, smirking as he leaned into your ear.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget how to spell his name.”

Your breath was still shaky, your thighs slick and trembling from the orgasm he pulled out of you like a fucking symphony — loud, messy, unforgettable.

Toji stood over you now, towering, broad chest rising with each heavy breath. The way he looked down at you? Like you were prey. Owned. His.

He wiped his mouth with his thumb, then sucked the taste of you off it with a slow groan. “Mmm. You taste like you missed me,” he muttered, voice thick with desire, gravel and hunger soaked into every word.

You were dizzy — from the high, from him — but there was one thing clearer than anything else in that moment: you needed more.

So you sank to your knees. Right there. Between the stacks of the classics section. Dust and forgotten titles above you, sin between you.

Toji’s dark brow cocked, smug as sin. “Oh? Look at you,” he murmured, voice low like a growl. “Pretty thing just can’t get enough, huh?”

Your fingers reached for his belt, unbuckling it slowly, teasingly, but he didn’t have the patience. He let out a dark chuckle and shoved his pants down for you, underwear and all, his cock springing free — thick, veiny, already hard and heavy.

“Open up, baby,” he said, tapping the tip against your lips. “You wear that tight little dress for another man, but now you're on your knees for me. What would that bastard Naoya say if he saw you like this? Huh?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You were too busy wrapping your lips around the thick, hot length of him, eyes fluttering shut as his scent hit your nose — musk, cologne, and just a hint of smoke and danger.

“Fuuuuck,” Toji groaned, tilting his head back slightly, one large hand immediately sinking into your hair, gripping. “That’s it, sweetheart. Goddamn, that mouth was made for me.”

You bobbed your head slowly at first, sucking, tongue swirling around the head, feeling him twitch against your tongue as you sank deeper. The stretch of him was obscene, your jaw already sore, but the way he moaned — the way he looked down at you like you were his salvation — made it worth it.

His other hand caressed your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw. Then, without warning, his hips rolled forward. He thrust into your mouth — shallow, careful at first — then a little deeper, a little filthier.

“You take me so well,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “That bastard wouldn’t know what to do with a mouth like yours.”

He looked down at you — eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide, lips parted. “Fuck, I could cum just watching you look up at me like that…”

You moaned around him — vibrations that made his hips jerk. His grip in your hair tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to let you know he was holding back.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face to watch your lips stretch around his cock. “All that sass earlier, all that attitude — and now? Just my good little slut on her knees.”

You gagged just a little as he hit the back of your throat, and Toji groaned deep — the kind of sound that made your thighs press together again despite the orgasm you just had.

“Shit—gonna make me lose it,” he breathed, pulling back for a second to look at the mess you made of him. Your lips were wet, spit trailing down your chin, eyes glassy. “Goddamn.”

He cupped your jaw, smeared his thumb over your lips, then shoved his cock back into your mouth with a growl. “Not done yet, baby. You wanted more — take it.”

You did. Willingly. Obediently. Loving every second.

Your hands braced on his thighs as he fucked into your mouth now, slow but filthy. “This mouth belongs to me,” he grunted. “You hear me? Doesn’t matter who you say yes to. This right here? Mine.”

And you wanted it to be. Every part of you.

You moaned again, feeling him twitch, his abs flexing as his head fell back and his voice dropped into something feral.

“Fuck—‘m close. Wanna paint that pretty face, sweetheart. Want you dripping in me when he shows up. Let him see who you really belong to.”

You moaned again, looking up at him through lashes wet with tears from the stretch. He swore loudly, pulled out just in time and—

Hot ropes of cum hit your lips, your tongue, your cheek. It was filthy. Messy. Possessive.

And you loved it.

He breathed hard above you, still staring down at the mess he made of you, eyes dark with something primal. “There you go. Look at you,” he murmured, brushing some of it off your cheek with his thumb and pressing it into your mouth. “Taste me. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You sucked it off his thumb, chest rising, lips swollen, completely ruined.

But Toji?

Toji smirked down at you, cock still half-hard, a dangerous glint in his eye. “We’re not done, sweetheart.”

The shelves were cold beneath your palms, wood biting into your skin as you tried to breathe — tried to think — but everything in your body screamed for one thing:

More of him.

Toji didn’t even give you time to wipe the cum off your chin. He had you turned around, bent over the damn shelf like a girl in some late-night fantasy, your hands struggling to find purchase on the wood while he stood behind you, big and burning and starving.

“Bend that ass for me, sweetheart,” he growled, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise as he hiked your dress up over your hips. “You let that fuckin’ dress hug your ass for him?”

His palm smacked across your cheek — not your face, the other one — and you gasped, a moan curling from your lips like a prayer.

“Too fuckin’ bad,” he hissed. “This ass belongs to me.”

You felt the thick head of his cock sliding through your folds — teasing, soaking, coated in your slick — and you whimpered, legs shaking already from anticipation. But he just kept grinding, letting you feel every inch before he even gave it to you.

“Fucking dripping,” he muttered, like he couldn’t believe it. “You gonna take all of me, baby? You remember how fuckin’ big I am?”

You nodded frantically, voice gone, knees weak.

He leaned in close, his massive body draped over your back, breath hot against your ear. “Then say it,” he growled. “Tell me how big I am.”

You whined, arching your back, desperate. “T-Toji… you’re—fuck—you’re too big, I can’t—”

He cut you off with a deep thrust.

Your cry echoed through the library, sinful and sharp, as the air was punched from your lungs.

“Ohhh fuck,” you gasped, nearly collapsing over the shelf as your fingers clawed at the edge. “Toji—!”

“That’s it,” he groaned, dragging out slowly, letting you feel every ridge, every vein. “This pussy’s so fucking tight, baby… trying to squeeze the life outta me.”

He grabbed your hips with both hands, pulling you back onto him as he thrust again — hard. The sound of skin slapping echoed like thunder in the quiet space.

And Toji? He was fucking gone.

“God, I missed this pussy,” he grunted. “You think anyone else can stretch you like this? Huh? You think any other man can stuff this perfect little cunt the way I do?”

You were a mess — bent over the shelf, hair clinging to your face, tears in your eyes from the intensity. One of your shoes had slipped off. Your dress was around your waist. You didn’t care.

All you could feel was him.

His cock was thick — almost too much — and every thrust had your walls fluttering, your legs trembling, your body begging for more even as it struggled to take it.

He slid a hand up your back, palm pressing between your shoulders, forcing your chest to the shelf as he pounded into you from behind.

“Look at you,” he groaned, eyes glued to the way his cock disappeared into you over and over. “Gripping the shelf like your life depends on it. That tight little pussy can’t get enough, huh?”

He slapped your ass again, harder, and the sting only made the heat grow worse between your legs.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you’re mine.”

“I—I’m yours,” you sobbed, cheek pressed to the cool wood, barely able to speak.

“Louder.”

“I’M YOURS, TOJI.”

“Fucking right you are.”

He was breathless now, grunting with every thrust, his rhythm faster, rougher. He was losing it — drunk off the feel of you, the sound of your whimpers, the way you clenched around him like your body was molded just for him.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby,” he rasped, dragging his fingers down your spine. “This pussy… fuck… I could stay buried in you for hours.”

Your legs buckled again, body going limp, but he caught you — big arms locking around your waist, pulling you back to him so your spine arched and your ass met his hips with every sharp snap.

“Too much?” he smirked, licking the shell of your ear.

You whimpered. “N-No—don’t stop—please—!”

He chuckled. Low. Dark. Filthy.

“Didn’t plan to, sweetheart.”

But then… he pulled out.

You cried out at the sudden emptiness, turning to look at him with wide, teary eyes.

Toji’s jaw clenched, sweat beading at his temple. His cock twitched, thick and glistening, standing proud as he looked down at you with a possessive gleam in his eye.

“Turn around,” he ordered, voice rough. “Lay back. Legs open. I wanna see this pretty face while I fuck you stupid.”

The library floor was cool against your back. Dust clung to the hem of your dress. The tall shelves surrounded you like towering shadows, like they were hiding your sin from the world — but nothing could hide you from him.

Toji’s body hovered over yours, all heat and muscle and controlled fury. One hand gripped your thigh, holding your leg open like it was his right. His cock pushed inside again, slow, devastating, like he had nowhere else to be but here, splitting you open inch by inch.

“Don’t look away,” he murmured.

You couldn’t. His eyes — dark, quiet, consuming — pinned you to the floor harder than his weight ever could.

“You look too damn pretty like this.”

Your moan broke between clenched teeth, legs trembling as he rolled his hips deeper, slower.

“You weren’t supposed to be here tonight,” you whispered.

“I didn’t plan to be,” he said simply, not stopping. “But then you put on this dress… and said yes to him.”

He didn’t even say Naoya’s name. He didn’t need to.

“I wasn’t gonna show up.” Another thrust. Deeper. “But the thought of him looking at you like this? Talking to you like he deserves you?”

He clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring. “I couldn’t stomach it.”

Your head tipped back, hand gripping the back of his neck. “Toji—”

Buzz. Buzz.

The sound cut through the tension, sharp and intrusive. Your phone lit up near the mess of your bag.

You froze.

Toji didn’t.

He stilled inside you, reached for the phone, and glanced at the screen.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

“Naoya,” he muttered, voice flat. “Of course.”

You panicked. “Don’t—”

But he answered.

He didn’t pull out. He didn’t stop. He just leaned down, set the phone next to your ear, and said nothing.

And then — he started to move again.

Slow, deep thrusts that had you choking on your own breath.

“Y/n?”

Naoya’s voice crackled through the speaker, too loud in this sacred, shameful moment.

“Where are you? I’m outside… it looks like the library’s locked. Are you okay?”

You whimpered, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood as Toji’s cock dragged in and out of you with surgical precision.

His head dipped to your shoulder, voice low. “Be quiet,” he whispered, not mocking — warning. “Don’t give him anything.”

You nodded desperately, hand covering your mouth.

“I’ve been knocking for like ten minutes—” Naoya kept talking. “It doesn’t even look like anyone’s inside.”

Toji looked down at you, sweat at his brow, lips parted just slightly as he watched your body shake under his.

Still so quiet.

Still so deep inside you.

“You’re not gonna answer him?” he asked, voice like a quiet bruise. “Not even gonna tell him you changed your mind?”

You could barely breathe.

Toji’s eyes never left yours as he rolled his hips forward with one hard thrust.

Your moan cracked out, small but real.

“Y/n?” Naoya’s voice sharpened. “You okay?”

Your lips parted, trying to form words, but your throat locked up. Toji’s hand curled around the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek, gentle — so gentle — as if to mock the way he was breaking you from the inside out.

And then, without looking away, he picked up the phone.

“You should go home.”

Silence. Then—

“Toji?”

A pause.

“Yeah,” Toji said calmly. “She’s busy.”

Another thrust. Hard. Your gasp punched the air.

“What the fuck—”

Toji hung up.

No smirk. No insult. Just a quiet shake of his head as he tossed the phone aside like it was trash.

“You always talk about not wanting this life,” he murmured, eyes heavy as he leaned over you again. “But your body keeps saying otherwise.”

You trembled beneath him, legs twitching, cunt soaked and stretched, your moans spilling freely now, raw and shameless.

“You wanted him to be gentle, huh?” Toji whispered, mouth brushing your temple. “You thought maybe if you dressed nice, smiled soft, you’d forget what it feels like to be ruined.”

His thrusts sped up, hips snapping against you with a force that sent echoes between the shelves.

“You were never gonna let him touch you.”

His voice turned breathless, raw with something deeper.

“You were always gonna end up right here.”

You wrapped your arms around him, nails dragging down his back, too far gone to fight.

He kissed your neck once — slow, reverent — before pulling out.

You whimpered, aching from the loss.

Toji grabbed your waist, lifted you gently, and flipped you over onto your stomach, guiding you up onto your knees.

“Hold onto something,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes burning.

“Why?”

He slid back inside with one hard thrust that made the shelf in front of you rattle.

“Because I’m not done.”

The library was unusually quiet.

Not because it was empty — it wasn’t. Nobara was restocking the new arrivals shelf with a scowl. Yuuji was sneakily eating chips behind the desk like you didn’t see him. But it was quiet because you were quiet.

You stood by the checkout counter, trying to look composed. Professional. Normal.

But your lower back ached, your thighs still felt like jelly, and every time you moved, you remembered the sound of your moans echoing between those tall wooden shelves.

And of course, right on cue—

ding-a-ling

The little bell above the door rang.

You looked up — and froze.

There he was.

Toji Fushiguro.

Wearing a black button-up (the sleeves rolled to his elbows, naturally), tattoos on full display. One hand in his pocket. And the other?

Holding a bouquet.

Not just any bouquet. One of those overly wrapped, overly expensive, one-hand-could-barely-carry-it type of bouquets.

Toji looked… pissed.

Like he couldn’t believe he was standing there holding them. Like he’d tried to not come here and ended up in front of the library anyway.

And when his eyes met yours?

They softened.

Just a little.

“You gonna come get ‘em,” he muttered, “or am I standing here like a goddamn idiot all day?”

You blinked. Stared at the flowers.

Then— “...are those peonies?” you said, suspicious.

He shrugged. “Lady said they meant somethin’ about apologies. Or romance. Whatever.”

You smiled despite yourself, cheeks warm. “You… brought me flowers?”

Toji muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” you asked.

“I said don’t make it a thing.”

But then—

“WAIT.”

Yuuji’s voice pierced the heavens from across the room.

He stood slowly behind the counter, eyes wide, a chip half-hanging out of his mouth. Nobara emerged from the shelves at full speed, her stare deadly.

“Oh my god,” she said. “You’re the guy.”

“What guy?” Yuuji asked, still stunned.

“The guy. The one who made her wear short dresses.”

Toji raised an eyebrow. “You two always this nosy?”

“Yes,” they said in sync.

Your hand slapped to your face. “I’m so sorry, Toji—”

But he didn’t look mad. In fact, his lips curled into that slow, wicked little grin — the one that always came before trouble.

“Didn’t know I had competition,” he said, stepping forward, placing the bouquet gently on your desk… before slipping a hand around your waist, palm splaying against your lower back.

You jolted. “Toji—!”

But he just leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Relax, sweetheart. Just saying hi.”

Nobara’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. Is he grabbing your ass?!”

“Can’t help it,” Toji said, unbothered. “It’s a good ass.”

“Sir this is a public institution—” Yuuji started, half-horrified, half-impressed.

Toji just smirked and kissed your cheek. Lingering. Hot. Too hot.

“Don’t work too late,” he muttered low, voice dark and soft. “Unless you want another late-night visit.”

Your face burned. Your knees nearly gave.

And then he turned on his heel and walked out — leaving behind the faint smell of cologne, cigarette smoke, and wild, unspeakable memories between the shelves.

The door shut.

Silence.

You blinked.

Yuuji blinked.

Nobara slowly turned to you and said:

“…You’re so getting railed on that desk tonight, aren’t you?”

You said nothing.

But the bouquet wasn’t the only thing he left you with.

Your lips still tingled from the ghost of his kiss.

And somewhere deep inside?

You were already looking forward to closing hours.

dividers by, @cafekitsune

4K notes · View notes

cupc4keics · 22 days ago

Text

Brooklyn Baby

art in the banner is by @e0308r on X

pairings - dad's best friend! Satoru x F! reader

summary - you've got the opportunity of a lifetime for an audition for Julliard, your dream, but there's just one problem, the hotel in New York has booked your room and has nothing available. Good news, your dad's best friend Satoru Gojo shows up and offers you to stay in his suite since he's in town on business. But there's two big problems - one, you've wanted him since you can remember, and two, he can't stand how fucking pretty you are. He can't want you - and nothing can come from it - imagine what your dad Suguru would do if anything ever happened between you!? So nothing will happen - right?

warnings- MDNI- taboo tropes, age gap (Satoru is 41, reader is 22) reader is Suguru's daughter, forbidden relationships, obsessive Satoru, mutual pining, sexual tension, explicit smut and light angst- this chap - masturbation (Satoru) a fuck ton of tension, reader having a lifelong crush on him, mentions of past relationships, self loathing as they both want each other, drinking and kissing -WC- 8.3k

This will be three parts! comments/rbs appreciated if you enjoy!

part two>>> (coming soon)

part one

Satoru Gojo has never had his cock twitch from just looking at someone's back, not even your ass - though fuck that was nice - but something about the bare back in the slinky little dress was fucking him mentally. The gentle curve of your spine, a little birth mark along your shoulder blades has him - a man who's in his early forties and very experienced - leaking precum.

The fuck was that?

He clears his mind, blinking a bit then, he's checking into his favorite suite as he does every couple of months for various business events that he has to attend. Running the Gojo corporation is a never ending list of bullshit he's got to do, and events and speeches were just one of the many.

He sighs as he takes in the immaculate bustling lobby, trying to divert his attention from this girl's back and look like some creep when he's literally Satoru Gojo. He brushes his silken white locks back, walking up to the tall counter then with an easy smile, as the three receptionists rush to him, and leave the girl with the pretty spine behind.

"I can wait my turn, no worries ladies." He winks and they all swoon, and when you hear that voice, you know it's him.

"Gojo?" Satoru blinks at the familiar voice, turning to his side to look down at -

Suguru Geto's only daughter.

Fuck.

He swallows just a bit nervous, how does he explain he just leaked pre looking at his best friend's daughter's spine exactly!? About the ways he would have to explain how your instagram photos haunt him at night, and how he can't help but have glimpses of you in your bikini when he cums.

There's a big reason he's avoided Suguru as of late, and that's because he can't handle how beautiful you are - it's like you fucking just do something, and he refuses to accept it or acknowledge it consciously. Now you're smiling up at him, before you come over and hug him tightly around the waist, your breasts pressed against him.

It takes everything not to either shove you off or give in and pick you up and prop you right on this fucking counter. It's some miracle he just pats your back instead - your bare pretty back that he shouldn't touch because it makes it worse.

"Hey sweetheart, what're you doing in town?" He manages to act normal, putting on an easy smile as he sees now your eyes glimmering with tears. "What's wrong?"

"They gave my room away, and I have the audition for Julliard this week! Everything is booked except shit way out of my price range. I don't wanna bug dad about it." He sighs then, remembering Suguru telling him about your opportunity, he'd been so proud every time he watched you play piano.

It's originally why he followed your IG, but whatever happened your junior year of college made you start posting those damn pictures in your bikini or slutty little outfits. He shoves that all back, focusing on your worry, and then eyes one of the receptionists, backing away from you just a bit.

Not like your scent hasn't already filled his senses.

You're important to him, just like Suguru is, and he'll not let his dumb fucking thoughts ruin your opportunities. "Surely there's a room available, I'll pay."

"You can't do that! It's too much." You're a flustered mess, as he flashes that pretty smile of his that makes your tummy clench.

"It's nothing," he pats your head and smiles down at you, and you try to ignore just how fucking good Satoru Gojo looks then. Try to ignore his cologne in your senses, ignore how the man just gets more attractive every fucking year, a little crinkle on the sides of each eye the only lines on his face.

You have been trying to ignore your crush on your dad's best friend for as long as you can remember - fuck they're so close too, and you hoped it was some childhood idolization. But as a twenty two year old woman, it's as bad as fucking day one - worse maybe, when you study the way his hands move as he speaks, long fingers that give you the worst thoughts you wish would go away.

"Nothing at all open but the presidential suite you said?" He asks softly, you're still too close to him, fucking up his senses, as the receptionist frowns, clacking away at her keyboard.

"They just booked the last one online, Mr. Gojo."

"Shit, then..." He eyes you, blue eyes glinting as he takes in your distraught, pretty little face.

He can compose himself, can't he, hasn't he always?

"She'll stay with me, give her a key card," you hug him once more, he's chuckling and pecking a kiss on your head. "You're clingy still, remember you always were."

"Maybe, oh Gojo, thank you! I didn't wanna have to ask dad for money..." You're independent, Satoru loves that about you, Suguru is well to do - not rich like Satoru, but well off. But he's mentioned you never ask for a thing.

"No worries, the room is huge, we won't even be near each other much." He's pressing the button to the elevator soon once you all get checked in, and the silver automatic doors close, leaving you two alone, nothing but the soft sounds of your breaths and stupid elevator music.

And there's just one problem.

Satoru Gojo can't help but picture pressing you against those elevator walls, sinking to his knees and slipping up your slutty black dress, the one where he can so clearly see your breasts rise and fall, a nipple daring to slip out. Can't help but picture fucking you better than surely any of your dumb little college boys could.

He can't think that way.

He hastily tugs off his jacket, laying it over your shoulders as the elevator dings on each floor.

"Thanks, it's a little chilly." You say softly, tugging his jacket close on you, he exhales in a mix of relief and hot desire at how good you look in his armani suit jacket. "You're a life saver, really."

"It's nothing, kid."

"Kid! I'm not a kid." Your pout earns his chuckle, the two of you walk through the halls, decked with cream colored walls and fancy paintings, it's fancier than even you were used to. He presses the card against the hotel door and it opens, and that's when you both realize just how alone you were.

Satoru had been a part of your life for all you can remember, him and your dad would go off on the silliest adventures, and your dad’s other best friend Shoko would watch you at times. You don’t remember your mom that much anymore, she has been gone since you were young, and Satoru and Suguru had always been inseparable, especially since she left.

Satoru had taught you how to swim, Suguru had taught you how to shoot a gun, Satoru taught you how to throw a ball into a hoop, and Suguru taught you how to hit one with a bat. Every time he came to visit during the summers, you’d be so excited, he always had some new gift and an easy smile.

Until you got older.

You remember the first time he brought over one of his girlfriends, she was beautiful, and you’d still been young, hopelessly staring in the mirror at yourself after, wondering if you’d ever be pretty like that. And when he came for your high school graduation with another girl on his arm, when he told you that you looked beautiful and bought you the necklace you still wear today?

You’d been insanely jealous.

You try to explain it away as being eighteen, you were still a baby then, and the crush had been raging. So badly you found yourself comparing every boy you dated to the man Satoru was, and every single one fell hopelessly short. You both get settled, taking in the opulent surroundings, it’s surely big enough he’s right, there’s an entire other room, a kitchen, spacious furniture and beds.

Satoru sets down the luggage, as he eyes you in his suit, and you start taking some of your things out. It’s quiet, the sense of unease filling the two of you as you both busy yourselves, little friendly smiles are the only passages between you as you two live in your own minds.

“You can take a shower first,” he offers softly a bit later, slipping that tie down just a bit to loosen it, and then rolling up his sleeves, revealing those muscled forearms, light blue veins wrapping up them from his wrists. Your mouth goes dry as you look at them, while he slips off his silver rolex, smiling at you a bit. “Do you want me to hog all the hot water instead?”

“Huh? Oh…” you blink a bit, it’s not like you’ve never been with anyone, never seen a man naked, but Satoru’s forearms were taking you the fuck out.

He is effortless with his little movements, he must do this almost every day, freeing himself from the confines of his perfect facade, the buttoned up business man who you’ve never seen in the same suit twice. You’re sure he wears them again, it’s just you haven’t seen him enough to have ever caught it, the only thing you’ve noticed is he wears the same cufflinks.

The ones you saved to buy him when you were in high school, storing up all your extra funds where you worked as a waitress to purchase them for his birthday. You eye them now as you still hold the jacket close, fingers brushing along the bright blue sapphire of one of them. You’d walked by a jeweler in the mall with your friends and thought they matched just one shade of his eyes.

“You still wear these?” You ask softly, his attention goes to your little fingers brushing over the gem carefully, and he nods a bit. “Why? Aren’t they kind of not up to your… standard?”

“They’re my favorite, and they weren’t cheap either,” he walks up then, touching the other one, his nearness fucking your senses. “I remember you buying them, I think it was my thirty-sixth birthday. I was having some existential crisis and they really cheered me up.”

“You, a crisis? No way,” he hums a bit, gently tugging the cuff links out now, one by one, setting them next to his Rolex on a little black glass tray he’d brought along with him, the lights catch them and make them glimmer prismatically. “You were young though, still are.”

“Yeah no, I’ll be forty one in December, yuck.” You laugh with him, shaking your head then.

“That is not ‘yuck’ or old, you and dad are super young. Dad was always like the youngest at any parent event, shit usually the only dad altogether. I remember him going to Moms and Muffins.”

“Yes, you put bows in his hair, he showed me.” You both laugh then, Satoru stands against the dresser, his mind racing then.

He can’t want you like this, and it has to stop, the way he keeps thinking of having you naked and his jacket splayed under you, if you could stop looking at him like that!? Your lips parted, your pretty eyes lidded, making him tortured by the thoughts of fucking you so good they roll back, so good you drool. He’s clenching his hands into fists at the thought, almost twenty years between you.

Maybe if he keeps saying the number, it’ll fucking matter, the fact that he’s never even been with a girl ten years younger, Satoru just wasn’t a man to do that. He enjoyed intellect, experience, someone who got his references and shitty jokes - but the problem was you did check all those boxes. You’ve been kicking his ass at chess since he could remember, you laughed at all his dumb jokes.

You were a brilliant girl with your life ahead of you, you’re right, he’s not ‘old’ but he just is ‘older’ than you. Having already had a divorce and two broken engagements, he also was tired of trying, he’d settled on some regular girls for sex and focused on business fully now. Something a young Satoru who hated his parents and the Gojo name altogether would gasp at.

“You’re not old, you look my age you know.” You break his thoughts up, he chuckles a bit at that, before sucking in a breath, when you walk closer, slipping his jacket off to hand it to him.

“Yeah, genetics and Korean skincare products.” You giggle, as he keeps his eyes affixed on your face, not the strap that’s fallen down the gentle slope of your shoulder, he takes the jacket instead, your fingers brushing against each other for the briefest moment.

“Well, they work, I don’t think you’ve ever changed. I hope I look super hot when I’m your age.”

“You will, you already are beautiful…” He trails off, your eyes meet then, as he realizes what he said, and the tone he said it. He smiles to break the tension. “Thank god you don’t look like your dad.”

“Oh whatever! He’s pretty, you know.”

“Psh, okay.” He rolls his blue eyes, and you both laugh then.

“Thank you, that’s nice of you Satoru.” When you say his first name it’s like testing it, you’ve always called him Gojo, aside from when you made him birthday cards, and you’d write Satoru on them.

“Not being nice, you know you’re a gorgeous girl.” He’s clearing his throat now, looking away as he hangs his jacket up, next to the other suits he’d brought, smoothing it out.

“It’s kinda nice to hear from the Satoru Gojo.”

“Uh huh, flattery will get you everywhere.” He pats your head then, ruffling up your hair, you blow a thick strand off your brow. “You go take a shower.”

“Yeah, thank you again.” You smile and head into the bathroom, finally leaving Satoru to exhale in relief after he glimpses your back again, like pure torture, he’s curious just how the fuck he’ll handle a week alone with you.

Hopefully a room would open up or something by then.

The sounds of hot water pounding on the tiles below fills the room now, mixed with some light singing echoing from the bathroom, he can’t help but smile a bit at how pretty your voice is. If anyone should get into Julliard, it’s surely you, talented and just a natural at everything, the sound fills the room and ignites something in him he’d rather not think of.

Comfy, homey, it’s how you make him feel, and maybe that’s worse than wanting to bend you over the bed, worse than wanting to lift you and slip you against that shower wall. Much, much scarier than the thoughts of filling you up with so much cum your tummy is full of him, watching his fucking cock bulge that tummy as he’d make sure your cunt was ruined for anyone.

No, homey and comfy were worse by far, they were things he absolutely never thought before, even during his marriage - and what a disaster that was. Women all wanted him for his looks, his money, what he could do for them, but no one really knew him deep down, just the facade he’s tired of putting on.

Picturing you naked in the shower is his fucking downfall, picturing your pretty body with water dripping down it, his cock is hard by the mental images, he scowls down at it. He’s just in his slacks now, putting up his dress shirt, luckily this suite always had good hot water and pressure, it’s why it was one of his favorites, and he could surely use a shower.

Jerk off in there to act normal.

He’s like some pathetic teenager around you rather than a grown man, and it irritates him to no end. He hears your singing stop after a bit, as he is typing some notes for tomorrow’s presentation on his laptop, slipping on his glasses to see the screen just a little better, when he sees you from the corner of his eye, wrapped in a soft terry cloth towel.

He almost whimpers at the sight, clenching his teeth together to focus on the screen as you walk out. “Okay I feel a million times better.”

He looks up then, and it’s his downfall, as he has to see the way the towel is tied right at your breasts, pushed up and glistening, skin dewy and flushed from the shower, making him want to kiss every inch. “I bet, the plane ride was a long one.”

“It was, for sure, and then to get a ride to the hotel was hard, I’m not used to a city this big,” you’re adorable with your little pout, your own gaze taking in his bare chest then, like a caress. “I failed my drivers test again by the way.”

“Again? Shit,” he’s snorting in laughter, even as you cross your arms and glare just a bit, you play along with the motions, but your gaze can’t rip itself away from his chiseled body. “Do I gotta teach you?”

“Do you drive anywhere, Gojo?”

“Hush.” You giggle at his own glare, he looks too fucking hot in those glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his body shifting a bit to face you now.

It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless constantly, Satoru had helped you swim after all, and Gojo and your dad were always taking you to the beach. You’d always known how perfect he was, sculpted within an inch of his life, lean defined muscles that begged for your fingertips to brush across them, lines and shadows cast as the bathroom light filters into the now dim room.

You wish you felt bad about how badly you want him, but you only feel bad it can never happen, feel bad he couldn’t have been your first, like you’d dreamed over and over, until you knew it couldn’t happen. It wasn’t like Gojo ever saw you that way, the times you think he looked at you as more than a ‘kid’ you feel it was just your imagination.

You feel this man could fuck, you just feel it.

But no, stuck with losers who couldn’t care less if you cum - in fact, the last guy you fucked asked if you did after not touching you more than a minute and cumming pathetically quick in a condom. You’d smiled and said ‘of course’, making him grin and kiss you all happy, and that’s about the time you just gave up on ever liking sex either, too far in your fucking delusions.

It wasn’t a healthy desire, or okay, but usually with Gojo not seeing you much, and you having moved out of your dad’s, it was better. It was just elusive memories and fantasies that you could lose sight of, you could focus on school and your music, focus on your dream — but part of you wanted him in the front row.

“You’re gonna catch a cold if you don’t dry your hair,” he teases, standing then, you watch how his muscles flex as he moves, with ease, his long legs making strides so close to you now, when he touches your damp strands with a sigh. “Wasn’t there a blow dryer in there?”

“There is, but I needed to grab some clothes first- ah!” Your towel threatens to fall then, you gasp, but Satoru’s got it bunched together in a fist quicker than you can blink, bringing you right against him.

The only sounds in that moment are your breaths, and your heart pounding in your ears, when your eyes lock together, and you see the way they dilate, almost black in that moment. Your own hand comes over his balled fist, when he leans down, and for some insane fucking moment you picture it - a kiss from him, from Satoru Gojo, his glossy lips and how they’d feel.

Something you wrote about in endless diaries, it can never happen, it would never happen, he’s making sure you’re not naked if anything, you have to remember it, have to hold back. You smile nervously then, hoping the shower will explain away the flush of your cheeks in front of him, as you take the towel from his hold, holding it together now.

“Thanks, I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s fine,” his voice is darker, huskier than you’ve ever heard it, making your thighs press together, still slick from the water, in need. “I’ll go take one now.”

“Yes,” he stomps away quickly, leaving you to catch your breath, looking in the mirror over the dresser at how badly his nearness affected you. Your own eyes are so dilated you can’t see your iris anymore.

Soon, Satoru’s leaning against the tile wall, stroking his cock in the hot shower, his eyes fluttering shut in a mix of self loathing and need. He has had you pop up in his mind the past couple years, when he’s hitting a girl from the back with your hair color, when he’s fucking one in a spoon position, and her tits are about your size, he’s shoved them all away though.

He’s never jerked off to you specifically, but there’s no denying it, he’s jerking his thick, veiny cock to his best friend’s daughter in the other room. He feels filthy, as filthy as the sick thoughts he has, of making sure he fucked you so good you’d never even look at one of your stupid college boys again. Showing you what cumming really is, because he’s sure no one has done it right.

You’d be so pretty full of him, leaking his cum for him to shove it back inside your cunt, fuck he’d stock up on plan bs if he could do it every night, if he could watch it pour from your perfect pussy. He hasn’t even seen it, but he just knows it’s as beautiful as the rest of you is, god even your thighs in that towel had him leaking more pre, so hard it hurts.

His tip, usually a blushing pink, is now a mean red with how badly it’s been stuck in this fucking state, he hisses a bit as he runs his fingers along it. He’s picturing it all, that towel falling at your feet, and him slipping his hands across that dewy skin, sucking on that delicate neck he’d like his hand around. It’s pathetic, really, he is better than this surely, but he can’t not touch it.

He’s jerking it faster, fisting his long, curved cock, when the fucking door opens, and he tenses, glaring into the shower curtain that thankfully covered him. “I forgot my phone in here, sorry Gojo.”

“Ah, no, it’s f-fine…” he’s sick, he’s sure of it, jerking it even while you’re in there, in fact knowing you’re there has him feeling closer to cumming, hoping you don’t notice the sounds of his fist on his cock.

“Is there still hot water?” You tease, swiping a little bit of the condensation left on your phone with a towel, already wearing your little shorts and a crop top.

“Yeah, plenty, you didn’t hog too much.”

“See!”

“You left strands of your hair on the wall though.”

“Shit, it fell out!” He laughs softly, as if he’s not still stroking it, and you sigh a little bit then. “All right, I’ll leave you to it.”

Why do you fucking think of offering to jump right back in there? Why do you hesitate, wondering just how perfect he looks under that spray? You shut the door gently with a click that echoes, resting your back against it and shutting your eyes, sighing.

You’re already so stressed about the Julliard audition, the last thing you need is this pounding in your head, an impossible fantasy.

When you’re snuggled up in the main bed out in the entryway, Satoru comes out with a towel slung on his hips to grab his clothes, you can’t help but eye the white happy trail, the little v cuts on either side of his hips begging for your tongue on them. You tug your blanket up a little bit, avoiding the sight of the tenting in his towel, and how badly you’re curious about it.

“Feel better?” You tease, he smiles and nods a bit, grabbing his boxers then, hesitating as he realizes he didn’t bring shit else to sleep in.

“Much better.” He’s gone back to the bathroom, you’re exhaling and leaned back, head on the plush leather headboard, fingers tapping in the rhythm you’ll practice tomorrow, focusing.

He finds you like that when he’s back out, sitting down on one of the chairs to tap back at his keyboard once more, and your lips are pursed, fingers tapping along the red silk comforters. You’re beautiful like that, lost in your own world, surely composing some masterpiece only you can hear, a beauty that tugs at his chest.

It’d be one thing if you were just hot, but to be truly beautiful seemed one of life's meanest jokes to him.

Your phone rings, your eyes open and you catch sight of him. “Shit, you saw me like that?”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine, ya gonna get that?” You look at your phone on the nightstand, tugging off the covers just to make him hard again.

Do you wear clothes!? Or just scraps?

“It’s dad!” You’re giggling, picking up the phone, legs dangling high off the floor as he tries not to imagine slipping his fingers across them. “Hey dad!”

“Hey sweetie, you didn’t check in with me, how’s my girl?” Your dads voice instantly makes you miss him, you two are as close as you can be, and you wish he could be here, but he’s out of the country stuck right now because of some stupid customs issue with a pet he and his new girlfriend bought.

She was actually cool as fuck, but you don’t know if your dad really will ever get over mom, though you’d love to see him happy.

“Wishing you were here,” you say, hearing him sigh over the phone.

“I know, shit, I think we should be able to fly out in the next couple days but I’ll miss the audition for sure.”

“Ugh! I’m okay though, actually… Satoru is here.”

“Satoru? Shit, put me on speaker,” you bounce up then, making your tits jiggle as you hop down, Satoru almost chokes when you run up and stand right next to him, popping on the speaker. “He’s here!”

“Satoru, what’re you doing there?” Suguru’s voice is friendly, relieved even. Thank god he can’t sense the dumb fucking thoughts in his head.

“I was actually staying here for business, when the hotel booked her room, so I offered her to just stay in the suite with me.”

“He saved me!”

“Psh.” He’s chuckling as you smile, leaning across his table a bit, tank top slipping off your fucking shoulder, as if the straps were mocking him.

He sure couldn’t stare at your tits while he talks to your dad!?

“Thank you, Satoru, I feel so much better that you’re there with her,” he almost laughs at that, because he sure the fuck wouldn’t want himself around, with what’s brewing in his mind. “I worried about her alone in the city.”

“Dad, I'm a big girl now, you know.” You’re pouting too fucking cute, Satoru can’t drag his mind off your plush lips for a moment as Suguru speaks.

“You’re still my little girl, anyway I am glad it worked out. By the time I even get back you’ll be in Julliard!”

“You have too much faith in me,” your voice is quiet now, and Satoru puts his hand over yours, smiling at you, earning your little smile back.

“She’ll kill it.”

“Exactly, see we both believe in you.” You tear up a bit, sniffling now, it’s been months since you saw either of them.

“I miss you so much.”

“Aw, me too baby, I’ll be home soon okay?” You sniffle as Satoru caresses the back of your hand. “Take good care of her for me, Satoru.”

“I will.” You hang up the phone then, the exhaustion of the flight and your self doubt creeping in, Satoru tugs you close then, hugging you gently as you’re between his thighs, and your arms wrap his neck.

“Hey, hey, you’ll do great. He’ll be back soon,” you’re taking several breaths, burying your face against his neck as the tears fall, and his big hand splays the small of your back, so warm and soothing. “It’s okay.”

“I missed you too.” You say it softly, like a secret, making Satoru pause, his hand still gently running up and down your back.

“Missed me, why?” You just shake your head, hugging him tighter, as his blood rushes to places he wishes it fucking wouldn’t. “Miss me teasing you?”

“Maybe I do,” you pull back, and Satoru swipes your tears, streaking down your pretty cheeks. “You haven’t visited in a long time.”

“Yeah, I know…” He can’t admit why, he eyes your tears still falling, your glassy eyes, it’s too intimate then, too close, your lips a breath away. “I guess work got the best of me, and my nasty break up.”

“She was a bitch.” He snorts in laughter then, swiping more tears as you stand there between his long legs, like you belong there. “I didn’t like her.”

“You didn’t, huh? She was pretty bitchy, it took a lot for me to get her out of the house. I think I considered an exterminator.” You both laugh then, before he realizes he’s still cupping your face. “Why didn’t you like her? She played nice pretty well to others.”

“She wasn’t in love with you enough,” he pauses at your observation, tilting his head, the lights catch the lavender hue on his hair that falls over his brow, still a little damp, the scent of shampoo filling your nostrils. “She didn’t look at you enough, notice you enough. So I decided I didn’t like her.”

“I see, you’re pretty observant huh?” You shrug a shoulder, hand on his wrist now, your thumb brushing over the veins that dance along it. “She wasn’t in love with me, more the idea of being a Gojo I suppose.”

“Well I’m glad she’s gone. I haven’t liked any of your girlfriends.” He laughs now, but you’re dead serious.

“None of them? Now that’s silly, some of them weren’t that bad.”

“Hmm, nope they all sucked.” He’s laughing harder, his hands finally falling, but one of them remains in yours, he looks down at it then, at how small your hand is compared to his. “You deserve someone that really loves you.”

“Yeah, well, I think I give up.”

“What now?”

“Yeah, I’m ancient.”

“Shut up!” You shove at him, he’s chuckling more but you’re very serious. “Stop saying that. I won’t be old at forty.”

“No, you won’t be able to drive then either.”

“Excuse me!?” He’s grinning as you smack playfully, until you smile and sniffle a bit. “You’re such a jerk!”

“Thought I deserve all this love, what now?” His hands found their way to your hips, as he leans forward, before he can think about it, and you suck in your breath, your heart hammering as he pulls back, realizing how natural it felt.

“You do, but you also deserve a few smacks.” You stop his hands before they leave your waist, and he stares right at them, before the gaze drifts to your nipples, glaringly apparent in your top. “Satoru…”

“You should get some sleep,” he barely manages to speak, standing then, towering over you. Your head falls back when he brushes a strand back behind your ear, leaning over to press a friendly kiss on your head, the one that you’d die if it slipped lower. “I’ll have a car ready to bring you in the morning, okay?”

“You’re the best, Satoru, thank you.”

You keep saying it - Satoru - like you’re testing it on your tongue, and it’s never ending hell to hear it, but he plasters on a smile, patting your head like he always does and walking into the room off to the side. Thankful for the privacy and distance, he shuts the heavy cream door and rests his head against it.

He can barely handle looking at you, inhaling your scent, feeling your skin against him, but you saying he deserved love fucked him up completely. He swallows that down, grabbing a water out of the little fridge in there, swallowing it in needy gulps, before finally laying in the bed, forcing himself to fall asleep.

*****

“Good morning, sweets,” Satoru’s bright and cheery as he comes inside the room with two bags full of donuts, muffins and treats, along with two cups of coffee in a carrier. He’s already fully dressed in his suit, looking like a million bucks, so pretty with his smile as bright light filters in the floor to ceiling windows. “You need to eat.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” You yawn and stand, stretching just a bit, when he sees your tit is precariously close to falling out. He flushes and averts his eyes, when you bounce over to him. “You’re so sweet!”

“It’s nothing, all included. You need something in your system so you don’t get shaky,” his thoughtfulness chokes you up for a moment, you just stare at him with a muffin hovering in your hand. “Want a different flavor? I can go grab more.”

“No, no it’s… you remember me getting shaky?”

“Yeah, you were shaking insane at that pool party last year because you were silly and didn’t eat, knowing we were out in the sun all day.” He taps your nose, as you giggle and peel the wrapper. “Bad girl.”

Jesus fuck, does he not know what that does!?

You stare at him, he’s smirking just a bit like maybe he does fucking know, but then he gets to sipping on his sweet coffee, sighing as it hits his tastebuds. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I remember a lot of shit I guess,” he shrugs a broad shoulder, taking a donut and starting to devour the sweets, you can’t help but smile as you nibble on your muffin, and he’s sucking on his thumb to lap up icing. “What is it, brat?”

“Brat!? Hey now,” he’s licking his other finger, your body responds almost violently at the sight, picturing the most obscene fucking things. Like him licking you off him instead. You hastily look away, blushing, god is that all you do around this man now? “No, just how you keep that body perfect and eat more than Goku.”

“No one eats more than Goku,” you giggle again at that, as he laughs softly, now tearing into a chocolate chip muffin. “Genetics and working out I guess.”

“You have won the gene pool, this will go to my hips.”

“Nice hips,” he trails off then, clearing his throat, and your tummy clenches as his eyes dart across your body. “I mean to say… you can eat a muffin, you look great, okay?”

“Thank you, Satoru.” You smile and do just that, taking another bite, as the tension in the suite grows with every fucking breath, until you can’t breathe, not with how he looked at you just now.

It has to be your fantasy brain again, he was probably being nice, he’s always been supportive and sweet, someone you could come to. It’s you who is the problem, who can’t stop thinking of fucking your dad’s best friend, something he would never forgive either of you for. Something that will never happen.

You have a huge opportunity, you have to focus.

“Tell me you brought something like… not as… revealing for this? Or do I need to buy you an outfit?” You laugh a bit then, and his thin brows lower. “I’m serious.”

“Are you saying I dress slutty!?”

“What!? No… just very revealing.”

“Maybe you are old.”

“What now!?” You’re biting your lip to stop laughing as he stands up, and you find your back pressed against the table, his arms on either side of you. “Do I look old to you?”

“No, you’re the one that says it silly! You’re old fashioned.” You shove at his chest and he smirks a bit.

“I am not old fashioned, but you do have something professional, yes? I don’t mind taking you shopping.”

The visions flash then, shopping with Satoru, on his fucking arm, god it’s too much, you look down a bit nervously, at his neck, the tie just a bit askew. You fix it carefully, watching his adam’s apple bob up and down. “I have something professional, I’ll put it on and show you.”

He eases back and you come out a few minutes later, a pretty white dress shirt and a cute little bow tie, along with a black little skirt and suspenders, you look fucking adorable. He can’t help but melt a bit as he sees you do a little twirl, black tights and pretty black heels finishing it off.

“Now that’s perfect, you look…” Beautiful, fucking beautiful. “You look like you’re going to nail this.”

“Yay! Thank you!” You kiss his cheek and smile against it, on your tiptoes, a hand over his jacket, burning his skin. “I’m so nervous.”

“Don’t be, you’re going to do amazing. Are you ready to get going? I have to leave a little early for this meeting and the traffic is terrible here.”

“I’m ready!”

Satoru’s in the back with you on his phone, talking to this person and then that person, negotiating a multi million dollar deal while you’re tapping your fingers, an ear bud in with the three songs on rotation that you’ll be performing. You keep tapping them, shutting your eyes, lips murmuring the notes silently. You don’t realize your thigh is shaking until his huge hand covers it.

“You’re a nervous wreck,” his fingers press gently right above your knee, you’re taking several breaths, eyes locking with his as the car stalls through the heavy traffic, slowing to a crawl. “How much are you gonna jiggle it?”

“A lot,” he’s rolling his eyes now, hand falling off, and you instantly miss its warmth, its presence. “I’m gonna fail it.”

“Don’t go in with that attitude, stop that.” He frowns at you, eyes hiding behind those dark shades, just a hint of blue shimmering as they slip down his straight nose a bit. “You’ll do great.”

“Right…”

You wish Satoru was right.

You’re so nervous, so stuck on your insane desires and thoughts, that you keep missing keys you would never. You’re such a fucking mess, every time you hit a sharp key the sickness sinks in deeper, until you’re fucking it all up. You try to save face, the judges are shocked considering all the references on your lists, all the videos that have gone viral of you.

You can’t perform for shit today, and you’re shaking and sobbing by the end of it, heart sinking as you realize what has happened. Instead of waiting for Satoru, you’re walking blocks until you find the nearest bar, and drinking until you’re a mess, all while you picture the disappointment.

All your life living for this dream, for what. What was any of it for?

A few guys are hitting on you as you sit alone at the bar, you let them buy you drinks, but you don’t speak to them, hardly notice as one of them whispers something in your ear and hands you his info, as another touches your back. You barely remember texting Satoru where you are later on, when he was heading to get you from his meeting.

He’s furious when he does walk into the bar, it’s filled with college people probably partying for the summer, he walks through hoards of them when he sees you, two men on either side of you as you down a shot. You’re not smiling or enjoying yourself, he feels the upset from across the bar, your shoulders slumped when one of them dares to touch your back.

He loses any control he’s had, losing it all for the frustration you’ve just put him through, an enigmatic - ‘i’m getting drunk’ and nothing the fuck else at five pm. He’s stomping right over, clearing his throat and getting the two men’s attention, both trying to shoot their shot at a girl who shouldn’t give them the time of fucking day.

He says your name, and you turn to him, skin flushed and eyes glassy, clearly drunk as fuck. He just hopes you had the good sense to only take drinks from the bartender rather than these creeps, as he snatches you right off the barstool, and you almost lose your balance.

“Who’s this, baby?” One asks, Satoru narrows his eyes at the fuck boy.

“It’s Satoru,” you’re hiccuping then, swaying even though you’re not even moving, about to fall if he doesn’t catch you. “Satoru Gojo.”

“Come have another, we can hit a party,” the other says, and you just bury your face against Satoru’s chest, as he carefully holds you.

“She’s going home.” Satoru’s words ring through your drunk ass brain, he lays a tip for you on the table, snatching up your bag and wrapping an arm around your waist, leading you out into the cool night air.

You’re sobbing when he gets to the sidewalk, concerning him to no fucking end, the sun is setting as he guides you gently into the back of the sleek black car, isntantly grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler installed. He twists it open and tilts your chin up gently.

“Drink some water, yeah?” You shake your head, and he scowls. “I said drink some fucking water.”

“Okay, dad.”

“I’m not your fucking dad,” his voice is clipped and harsh then, your eyes try to focus on his angry, handsome face, he swirls just a bit as you let him put the water to your lips. “Drink.”

You do as he says, swallowing greedily then, body craving anything other than the endless shots you’ve just fed it - nothing but a muffin this morning in your body to soak it up. He sighs as he eyes you, unreadable in his gaze, slipping a thumb over your chin as a little bit falls along your chin, before snapping the cap back on.

“Celebrating like this is dangerous, you could have been taken advantage of by those douche bags.”

“Celebrating!” You’re laughing then, until you’re crying, a whole fucking mess as he watches you, swallowing the tightness in his throat. Celebrating, what a joke that was, he looks at you in concern, brows lowering now, the sky is dimming outside, darkening the seat as you try to breathe, try to focus.

“Will you just tell me what’s wrong, what’s going on?” He asks quietly, you sigh then, looking at him, as he gently cups your face.

“I fucking failed, Satoru.”

“What now!?”

“I fucked up, I ruined it.” You’re sobbing again, he holds you against him, as your hands ball his jacket into your fists, tears soaking the expensive material, he exhales and shakes his head. “I did, I did all of this to just fuck it up, dad’s gonna be so d-dissapointed… and you are…”

“Fuck this, I’ll go demand a redo.”

“You can’t!” You pull back and look up at him, the alcohol warming your body, spreading as he’s right near you. “Satoru they will never.”

“The fuck they won’t, you’ve never seen me negotiate shit, have you?” He raises a brow, you swipe at your tears, lip trembling.

“You can’t just fix it for me.”

“I can give you another chance, okay? I’ll meet with them tomorrow, you’ll find I can be very convincing, yeah?” You sigh then, nodding as he brushes back some of your hair. “You’re a mess, ya know?”

“I know.” He frowns contemplatively, as you lean closer, he can taste the liquor on your breath, as your eyes dart to his lips, and the tension coils in your tummy. “You think you can really talk to them?”

“Of course I can, but you better be ready this time. I’ll come watch you, would that help?” You nod then, so quickly it makes you just a little dizzy. “All right then, just let me work my magic.”

You love him.

Fuck you almost say it, the alcohol threatening to loosen your tongue, but you swallow instead, a hand on his chest, and his own eyes lower, snowy lashes casting shadows over those baby blues, the proximity making you both heat up in that moment. He pulls back just a bit, realizing how precarious the moment is, he needs to comfort you, not fucking kiss you, or worse.

Especially drunk off your ass.

“You need more water-” You’ve pressed your lips on his before he can finish his sentence, too far gone to hold back, to stop the motion, pulling back just a bit to look up at him.

He says nothing, eyes wide, and you would apologize if you cared enough to, if you felt bad enough about it, but in that moment it’s all you want, to kiss him, even if it’s only once. You lean back a bit, you want to form the apology you don’t mean on your lips, form it into words, as it’s so silent in the back of that car, all you can hear is your blood rushing in your ears.

“Sorry,” he scoffs then, eyes narrowing, hand slipping into the nape of your neck, tugging your hair just enough to make your head fall back.

“You’re not sorry, are you?” You smile, you can’t help it, you’re too drunk to lie to him.

“Kind of sorry,” he tightens his hand, tugging at the delicate strands of hair, you’re whining out, the sound fucking him completely. “Satoru…”

“You’re forgetting this, okay?” You nod then, understanding him, when he slams his lips on yours, the release so fucking good he can’t stand it, drinking in your cries as your arms wrap his neck.

He’s lost then, letting himself have one moment, where he devours your mouth with his practiced tongue, where his other hand slips up your thigh, up your hip, to your ribcage, brushing right under your breasts. You’re clinging to him, closer and closer, until you’re straddling him, even as he shoves at your hips, you roll them, whining out when you feel him.

“Fuck, you’re a brat…” he’s huffing, biting back a moan as he feels your heat, soaking wet even against your tights, pressing you down for just a moment to torture himself, kissing you deeper, hungrier. It’s messy and desperate, you’re kissing him sloppy, saliva dripping, as you roll your hips against him.

“Please…” He wants to give you it, fuck he wants you to have all of him, but he yanks you off him, holding you up by your hips, kissing you one more time.

“No more, you’re drunk and… this is a terrible fucking idea.” He sits you right next to him, you’re dizzy and breathless. “Forget that happened.”

“Right, sure Satoru.” You glare at him, he glares right back, leaning over and hating himself, he wanted to rip your fucking tights at the crotch, slip his fingers inside your wet cunt, stretch you out on him.

Shit that can never, ever happen.

“You’re upset and drunk, and I’m fucking stupid.”

“You’re not-”

“Drink.” He orders, and you do just that, he’s back to being caring and distant, as you ache for him, more and more as the water sobers you up just a bit.

He’s helping you up into bed later, he puts your hair up off your neck carefully in a pony tail, he makes you eat food that he orders. The alcohol has lost its effects mostly as you lay in bed, and he’s typing over on his laptop, the glasses looking unfairly handsome on his face as you study him.

“Will you really help me get another chance?” You ask softly, his eyes catch you across the room.

“Of course I will, but it’ll be up to you to show them what you can do, show them how good you are. Okay?” You nod then, snuggling against the pillow, eyes drifting shut, neither of you mention the kiss, neither of you breathe a word even close to insinuating it happened.

“Thank you, Satoru. Good night.” You murmur, he sighs, nodding then.

“Good night.” His clicking of the keys drifts you off to sleep, the vivid images behind your eyes of him overtaking your mind, wondering if it was all some fucking drunk fever dream.

But it wasn’t.

When later he closes the laptop and brushes your hair back, studying you for a moment, he tries to make a promise to himself - that it will never happen again, he’ll never let his control slip like that. Even if all he can think of now is slipping into bed next to you and holding you against him, he shoves it all down, going back to his room, and staring at the ceiling.

What had he been thinking?

He can’t feel this way.

He shuts his eyes, failing to sleep as he knows you’re in the next room, while you dream the filthiest things about your dad’s best friend.

tags- @valentinegab3 @vinnababy @sakisworld @satorupied @lolliibunny @coralbae @lnette04 @delightfulstay @zephyairies @flowerymenendez @yomama2089 @chocoyanchan @hargun-s @ic-slxt @lovelytwixx @lily-bisque @sirencholia @etosh0e @yesdere @luciferlikesducks @frankoceanfan9911 @sukunaslilsocks @dientesdefresa @maah-sama @amesenseii @lem-hhn @keiiate @ttrinity @monster-effer @coffinboy666 @neliislost @thequeenofcurses @inzanekillian @gojoswaterbottle @melotter @buckturd @artbligh @msniks @shibataimu @macchianikato @neohoestechnology @levislug @trsh-kitty @satsattoru @erisfayred @gh0stgirl333 @silverfangmarks @smashlyn89 @hwngez

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