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emonaculate · 4 days ago

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Who Is In Control? (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Black!F!Villain!Reader x Hunter!Gojo Satoru

Synopsis: Sung Jinwoo is the highest-ranking hunter and the most powerful human being humanity has ever seen. So is Gojo Satoru. Both cocky, both confident, and both eager for more power, they compete against each other for each gate that seems to get more dangerous the farther and higher they go. They figure your gate won’t be any different and that you will be the usual big baddie that they need to take care of. Another cog in the system. Until they manage to beat you and find out who you truly are behind your facade. Now the hunters are hellbent on keeping you to themselves. So, what’s another friendly competition? Only this time, the prize is you.

Chapter Warnings: MILD SPOILERS, Elf!Reader; Kidnapping, Bondage, Manipulation, Hypnosis, Aphrodisiacs/Drugging, Coercion, Dubcon/R*pe, Everybody is HORNY; Touch-Starved!Reader; Drugged!Jinwoo & Gojo

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: Got another chapter for y'all! We bout to get into the SMUTTY SHIT next chapter! Enjoy & DON'T SPOIL SINNERS!!! -Jazz

CHAPTERS: PREFACE. ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE. SIX.

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THREE: A HOSTAGE SITUATION?

Gojo has never been the one to think much of Gate Bosses. But you? You’re quite the cutie.

He watches you now as Jinwoo kneels behind you, tying your wrists to a pillar holding up the crystalline-windowed, domed ceiling of your castle. You are out cold, your hair covering your face as your head hangs low, your chest rising and falling evenly under your chestplate.

Gojo would have preferred to have kept the armor off after assessing the damage of your right side, but Jinwoo refused. “I’m not a pervert,” he harrumphed. Gojo just rolled his eyes, knowing he was full of the purest shit.

The only things not covered are your pointed elven ears which Gojo finds oddly adorable. He can’t remember the last time he was so taken with a Boss…actually, come to think of it, he can’t remember even really looking at a Boss. They are all just cogs in a machine for him. Obstacles in the way of his destination and prize.

But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t noticed those brief moments where Bosses seem to glitch if Gojo asks them why they are there. Or the way their words and movements seem rehearsed. Or why he and Jinwoo are the only S-ranking hunters who seem to understand that something is wrong. He had a hunch the moment he discovered Jinwoo, someone almost as powerful as him and seems to keep leveling up. Just like Gojo.

Hence why Gojo flew to China as soon as the Heroes Guild called him up. While he is ever so grateful to “the system” for the popularity and celebrity status, he is also a nosey bitch and someone who doesn’t like being deceived. If something or someone is behind this, he wants to know. And he has a hunch that you can help him figure that out.

He will admit that the instant you passed out, he was more than happy to off you and jump to the next level in the system. “Good, she’s out! Let’s kill her while we’ve got the chance!” But Jinwoo stopped him by stepping in front of him. “Hang on, greedy,” he protests. “That ain’t fair. First of all, you’re not winning this, and secondly, you can’t kill her when she’s in this state.”

Gojo scowled down at you unconscious and then at his colleague. “And why the hell not?” he scoffed. “She tried to kill us first!”

“Because she was forced!” Jinwoo argued, narrowing his blue eyes at the silver-haired hunter. “Didn’t you hear her? Something is making her do this.” Gojo cocked his head to the side, smirking at Jinwoo. “How do you know that? What, that face and her kiss make you change your mind?”

Jinwoo’s jaw tensed, but he ignored Gojo’s sly remark. Sometimes, Gojo just can’t help but pick at people. He has chalked it up to his genetic makeup. Truthfully, he only said that to take his mind off of the way your kiss and your face made him feel: hot in the face, tingly all over, cock throbbing and practically leaking for you. Not to mention his pounding heart and the swarming butterflies in his stomach.

“You’re the one who said all of this isn’t a coincidence,” Jinwoo firmly stated. “I’ve had many run-ins with Bosses who’ve said the same thing she just did. She and every other Boss in this system is being controlled by someone or something. Now, if you wanna find that out and how the fuck this shit is run, then you’d better spare her.” That led to Gojo giving in and helping Jinwoo carry you off to your castle curiosity of his and Jinwoo’s teleportation abilities.

Gojo watches as you slumber now, admiring the way your lashes fan across your cheeks and how your lips part. Even your ears twitch! ‘So fuckin’ cute,’ he thinks. He is fairly sure that your aphrodisiac powers have a lot to do with his newfound feelings for you, but admittedly, your remorse and immediate surrender had their effect too. He felt oddly sympathetic for you. Protective, even. You’re a firecracker, but also small and vulnerable. Who or what exactly is making you do this like Jinwoo said?

“That should help her side.” Gojo blinks, realizing that Jinwoo is kneeling in front of you with a tiny body of healing elixir. He tilts your chin up and carefully dribbles the purple liquid into your mouth, tilting your head back to swallow it. Gojo’s eyes tick down to the wound at your side, swelling red and punctured with a tiny cut. As soon as the elixir is in you, he can see the swelling start to go down and the cut vanishes.

Gojo watches Jinwoo squat in front of you, his nose inches from yours. “You think she was telling the truth earlier?” he asks. “About being forced to kill us?” Jinwoo gives him a look riddled in seriousness and something darker than Gojo can’t identify. “I do, and I think we’re close to finding out why.” He then lays a hand on your shoulder and, with flashing blue eyes, commands for you to awaken.

“Wakey, wakey,” he whispers, his voice echoing and appearing to be coming from the walls too.

Immediately, you startle awake with a gasp of air and look around the room. When your eyes register on the two hunters, you damn near have a heart attack. “Where am I?!” you screech. “What did you do to me?!” You begin yanking at your restraints, growing more and more frantic.

Gojo decides to step in, shoving Jinwoo out of the way. “Hold up, hold up, cutie,” he soothes, his voice gentle and soft. “Relax. Chill out. It’s all okay.” He doesn’t know why seeing you so frightened makes him so adamant to soothe you, but suddenly, his hand is on your arm and he is exuding as much of his energy as he can. He keeps himself calm and envisions ocean waves to pass on to you, making you relax.

Soon, your screaming ceases, your breathing evens, and your body untenses. “Take a deep breath,” he orders. You do so, your chest expanding. “And breathe out.” Your chest deflates like a balloon, a tiny sigh leaving your soft lips. Gojo smiles proudly at you. “That’s a good…” He stops himself, almost saying ‘girl’. Jinwoo kneels next to you, holding another tiny bottle filled with a blue liquid. “You’re still a little hot. Here, drink this.” You narrow your eyes at the bottle, suspicious. “Relax, it’s not poison. It’s a cooling elixir.”

To prove his word, he takes a sip of it, his Adam’s Apple bobbing. “See? Tastes like apples.” He then coaxes you to tilt your head back and brings the bottle to your lips to gently pour a stream into your mouth. Gojo feels oddly jealous especially when you begin to drink so eagerly, your lips suckling on the bottle’s nozzle. “Mmm, good, right?” Jinwoo chuckles. “Not too fast. You’ll get addicted.”

After some time, Jinwoo pulls the bottle away and caps it while you lick your lips clean. You look much calmer now though still slightly apprehensive. Understandable. Jinwoo clears his throat, puncturing the silence. “Well, now that you’re awake, I believe introductions are in order.” He presses a hand over his heart, giving you a small, friendly smile. “I’m Jinwoo Sung. S-rank hunter.”

You stare at the hunter, wide-eyed and bewildered, before Gojo garners your attention with a wave. “Gojo Satoru, S-rank hunter and the top one in Japan.” Jinwoo side-eyes him, but he ignores it. “You got a name, cutie?” The name just slips out of Gojo’s mouth, surprising even himself. He can feel his face flame as a blush rises to his cheeks. What the fuck is wrong with him? He is never this frazzled around girls!

“Y-Y/N,” you stammer, blinking in confusion at the hunters. “You…you saved me? I’m not dead?” You look so relieved that Gojo has to laugh. “Seems to me someone was scared of gettin’ turned into your soldier, Jin.” Jinwoo cuts him a sharp glance, ignoring him. “No, you’re not dead,” he answers you, “but don’t be too grateful. We still have some questions for you, and we believe you owe us since you tried to kill us and all.”

Surprisingly, you don’t put up a fight or argue. You don’t deny it either. You look defeatedly up at them and Gojo just wants to scoop you up, put you in his pocket, and take you away. “What do you wish to know?” you sigh.

But even so, they still need answers. “What exactly is this place?” Gojo asks though not as harshly as before. “Why’s everything so fucked up? You said before that you’re being forced to do this. Do you have any idea why?”

You open your mouth to reply, but suddenly, in a flash, fear registers across your face. You look as if you have just been caught in something you shouldn’t have been. “I…I don’t know if I can talk,” you fearfully whisper. Gojo and Jinwoo share a look, both knowing that they are thinking the same thing: you are telling the truth. “Just say what you can,” Jinwoo encourages you.

You still look perturbed and disturbed as you stare at the two, not as if you can’t trust them, but as if you can’t trust them to save you from whatever it is that’s bothering you. Gojo watches your face, noticing your drawn brows, wavering eyes, and your bottom lip drawn between your teeth. You are scared. He can feel it radiating off of you. He knows Jinwoo can feel it too judging by his silence.

“I don’t remember my life before this,” you finally say. “Just bits and pieces of light and memories that I’m not even sure are mine. All I remember is being here one day and hearing one thought in my head: kill all humans.”

Gojo and Jinwoo once again share a knowing glance. “So it’s the same as the others,” Jinwoo realizes, referring to the other Bosses who have uttered this between battles. Gojo has heard them too, but never thought much of it until now. He always thought that it was just the usual BS that villains utter. But now he realizes that they were all programmed that way literally.

You finally snap out of your state and scowl up at the hunters. “Why are you asking me this anyway?” you demand. Gojo is more than happy to fill you in. “Because we’re two hunters who died during their raves and were brought back to life for some reason by the system. It’s the system that you’ve been fighting for.”

You blink at him, confusion registering across your cute face. You then look down at the marbled floor as if that holds the answer. “I-I don’t understand,” you murmur. You then groan in agony, leaning your head back against the pillar. “Oh, my head,” you groan.

“Now, now, none of that.” Gojo is gentle but firm, bringing your attention back to reality and away from your hurting noggin. Mostly because he doesn’t want to think about how much he wants to make you groan in pleasure instead. “So you don’t remember anything before you became a crazy bitch?” he questions. Both you and Jinwoo glare at him for the terminology. “Not really, no,” you reply. “Just that I’m powerful, and I’m all alone in this world.”

As soon as the sad, tragic words are out, your eyes well up with tears and you begin to cry. Gojo is startled by your demeanor change and looks to Jinwoo for help. The black-haired hunter looks just as clueless and alarmed at seeing you cry.

“I didn’t wanna kill either of you, I swear! I don’t want to do any of this!” Small sobs escape you, wracking your whole tiny body, making you shake. “I’m so, so sorry,” you lament. “If you have to end me, just do it now and do it quick. I just want to be away from here.”

You sound so broken, so defeated, and so damn open that Gojo has no choice but to melt. This person now, with her elven ears and eyes welled up with fat, wet tears, is the real you. The you beyond the person he was fighting before. The you that the system has manipulated and controlled for who knows how long. He knows you are telling the truth.

And now, he can’t resist the urge not to keep you safe. Wordlessly, he moves behind you and begins to untie the knot that Jinwoo tied, much to your shock. “What are you–”

“Stop cryin’,” he orders. Though his voice is firm, it is soft and gentle. “Death ain’t on the table anymore.”

“What?” both you and Jinwoo say in unison. Both of you are confused and very suspicious of Gojo’s sudden turn. And with good reason too! He was just hellbent on killing you earlier!

“I can tell you’re being honest,” he explains, still untying the rope from your wrists. “And plus, I can’t act like harming such a pretty little thing wouldn’t haunt me for all my days.” The rope falls from your wrists and you turn to face him, even as you rub your stinging wrists. There is an innocence in your eyes that excites Gojo…turns him on. “You know, for a villain, you’re kinda cute,” he murmurs.

The air has now changed. It is thick with tension and all three of you can feel it. Your brows knit in confusion and despite your milky brown skin tone, he can tell you are flushed. As flushed as he is with his pinked cheeks that become a deeper shade of rose the more he stares at you. And the more he stares, the cuter you get. “W-Why are you saying this?” you stammer.

Gojo quirks a silver brow at you. “Why do you think? Did you forget about that little sneak attack you did on me and Jinwoo?”

Realization clears the fog over your eyes and you sigh, looking ashamed. “It’s an aphrodisiac,” you explain, referring to the kiss attack. “It helps me weaken my prey.”

Gojo chuckles at this, loving the way the tips of your ears turn a shade darker than the rest of you. You may act all tough and hard, but really, you’re just a touch-starved little sweetie.

“Seems to me that you’re the prey now, cutie,” Gojo teases. He offers a hand to you, wanting to help you stand due to your legs not being used for a bit. Hesitantly, you take his big hand in your smaller one and stand on your stiff bones.

The two hunters stand with you, their eyes locked dead on you. “I knew I wasn’t crazy,” Jinwoo says, mostly to himself. He too is flushed, his cheeks tinged a slight pink. “I was wondering why I got so…so…”

“Hard?” Gojo finishes, flashing him a wolfish grin. “And suddenly wanting to put this slutty girl into a bed? The feeling is mutual.” He watches as your ears twitch and your eyes grow soft at the forbidden word. Your subtle reaction only makes him pulse and throb more. “Aw, what’s the matter? Don’t like bein’ called a slut?”

“Mm-mm,” Jinwoo protests, shaking his head. “More like she does. It’s a front.” He stares at you like one would stare at a dessert plate. He looks at you like the sweet, delicious thing that you are. “And I don’t need to use my powers to read that.” His voice has dipped lower than the naturally deep tone he already has, no doubt making your body tingle.

Gojo takes a chance and inches closer to you, standing behind you. Jinwoo takes the opposite side and stands in front of you, your face barely brushing his chest while your scalp reaches just above Gojo’s chest. You are now sandwiched between the two hunters with no place to go…unless you were to use some of your fancy abilities. But you’re not and Gojo has a hunch as to why.

He ever so gently trails his fingertips up your forearm. You flinch, letting out a tiny gasp that makes him bite back a laugh. “Don’t–”

“Don’t…what?” he prompts. “Hm? Do you really think we don’t know that you want this?”

He feels your muscles tense under his feather-soft touch, but you don’t fight him or shrug him off. Your skin is so soft…supple…hot to the touch. “You were probably sooo hot at the thought of us comin’ here for you, hoping to put you out of your misery.”

He can hear the tiny intakes of breath that you take between your soft lips, your breasts rapidly rising and falling. You need this just as much as he does. Even someone in the next dimension could see that you’re totally and utterly touch-starved.

‘Poor baby,’ Gojo thinks, feeling his cock twitch in his pants. He can only imagine how lonely and deprived you must have felt being isolated in such a place.

But no longer. Not on his watch. “Maybe we just might do that, but you need to stop denying yourself first.” His hand slides down to your hand, interlacing his long, piano fingers with his. You allow him, your smaller fingers locked with his. He can only imagine how that pretty hand would look wrapped around his or Jinwoo’s cocks.

“So can you be good and keep quiet about this?” he asks, his words ghosting across your earlobe. “Can you agree to everything we say, pretty girl?” Jinwoo silently stares at you, not saying anything, but he doesn’t have to. His intense gaze is asking you the same exact thing, never wavering or leaving your face.

And to the hunters’ surprise, they hear you say, though softly and so inaudibly that it might as well be the wind, a willing, desperate, needy little “yes”.

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Taglist: @leviackerman2030 @emonaculate @lnette04

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emonaculate · 8 days ago

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emonaculate · 9 days ago

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WOW YALL ARE FAST

Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Your hand rested on the knob.

Another knock. This time, softer.

Almost...polite.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart��s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What…what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then—

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

#i cannot complain #I need someone to write about Stack IMMEDIATELY

6K notes · View notes

emonaculate · 9 days ago

Text

Any time you write ANYTHING I feel like a Drake Stan with the way I glaze it. You cannot miss 🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾

Can I Keep You Touch It? (Eren x Geto x F!Reader 18+ One Shot)

Pairing: Rapper!Eren Yeager x Stripper!Reader x CEO!Geto Suguru

Synopsis: You’ve been working at a high-end strip club for a couple years now and have quickly racked up popularity among the high rollers for your confidence, moves, looks, and wicked ways of getting to their pockets. But when you find yourself caught between two wealthy and sexy men in particular who have interested you (mostly because of the strange butterflies they give you), you will have to ask yourself if the money is worthy giving up on something special when they ask you to choose between them.

Warnings: Smutty Smut, 18+ (MINORS DNI), Pole Dancing, Lap Dance, Strip Tease, Love Triangle, Reader Is A Gold Digger, Possessive MDom!Eren + Possessive MDom!Geto x fsub!Reader, Exhibitionism, Public/VIP Room Sex, Threesome, Doggystyle, Cowgirl, Slutification, Degradation/Praise, Dual Blowjob, Oral (Giving & Receiving), Spanking, CMNF (briefly), Finger Sucking, Aftercare, Poly Love

Writer's Note: Had this little idea in my head for a minute now & I'm still on my Eren hyper fixation lol. He's so fun to write about! I hope y'all enjoy! -Jazz

*****************

It was another weekend working in the club tonight...or so you thought when you first walked in.

Until you caught the whiff of his cologne: wealthy and sweet, like him.

You smelled it the minute you were doing your rounds on the floor before you were ordered to one of the VIP rooms or put on stage for one of your routines. It seemed lately that your boss has been putting you on stage more and more...probably because he knows you bring in the big ballers.

Everybody knows it, including you. It isn't just the fullness of your titties or the way they bounce in your itty bitty bikini tops or bodysuits. It isn't just the way your ass bounces and moves like Jell-O, transfixing anyone who watches. It isn't just your smooth skin or pretty face or sultry eyes.

It is your confidence. The way you present yourself. How you walk and talk when you enter the domaine of the strip club night after night. And how you're able to drain a man out of his last dollar with just some sweet talk and the promise of your number.

He is here tonight. Again. For you.

Hopefully.

You see him walk in, carrying the same confidence that got you before. It is a quiet yet intense aura that makes your body tingle and your stomach flip. You suppose that is what has gotten him such a devoted fanbase other than his raspy tones on his music.

As soon as he steps into the room, all eyes are on him. He has captured others' attention. Clients and strippers alike eye him down, some with excitement and others with lust. It isn't every day that one sees a celebrity wander into the same place as them.

Eren Yeager, popular rapper/singer/dancer/songwriter, is the "IT boy", one could say. He used to be in a K/JPOP group before he went solo three years ago and since then, he has been on every billboard, magazine, and woman's shirt known to man. You've listened to his music before you met him, so you know his appeal. You can't deny that you've gotten butterflies hearing him switch from English to Japanese to Korean in his songs, flexing his bilingual talent.

It also helps that the man is fine as fuck. Tonight, he wears $1,1000 Balenciaga sneakers that he has paired with jeans, a silver chain, rings on his fingers, and a white tee that shows the outline of his pecs and forearms soooo nicely. He has put his long, black hair up in a bun tonight. When you met, it was down at his shoulders.

His tattoos are prominent and enchanting, roping up and down his toned arms. His piercings-one etched into his brow, a couple in his ears, one in his bottom lip-glisten in the dim violet lights above, giving him a very dangerous look that has gotten you wet many times before.

His intense grey eyes scan the room, searching. Maybe for you? You hope so. You were hoping he would come tonight. He said he was coming home from a press run overseas in London today, but had time tonight. "I'm never too busy for you," he said to you over the phone. "You know that." You never admitted to yourself how much that made your stomach flutter.

You stand at the bar in your bedazzled red bra that holds your titties up and in, your mini skirt with just a sliver of your ass poking out, and your gold heels that you swear bring you good luck. You're well aware that you're getting stares as you usually do, even when you're just standing around waiting for your drink.

It is the price of being beautiful, you suppose. You know you tend to attract eyes with your glossy hair, creamy skin, intense eyes, and thick thighs. Not to mention your walk and your moves when you dance. You take pride in your job, whether some think it's dirty or not. You're just making a buck.

You turn away from looking at the tattooed, pierced-up stud, not wanting him to see you watching him first. That is what happened the first time you met: you eyed him down and he noticed. But now? You want him to eye you down instead.

Your bestie and favorite bartender Yuki comes wandering over in her six-inch heels and a secretive smile on her face. She leans over to talk to you, keeping her voice down to avoid any patrons hearing. The club is packed tonight.

"He's here again, you know," she whispers. You raise an eyebrow at her and she nods at the rapper. You don't turn around to see if he has left the entrance and is heading towards you. "What'd you do to him?" she giggles.

"Watchu mean?" you chuckle. "I didn't do nothin' but get him hooked on this body." You run a hand down your physique, smiling cockily. Yuki rolls her eyes, but giggles, pausing to assist a client with another shot of brown liquor.

You then turn to look over your shoulder at Eren and finally, your eyes lock. It is as if the entire room vanishes, leaving only you two in the room. He smiles, and it aches. It is a happy, adoring smile that means he is happy to see you. And dammit, you're happy to see him too.

You abruptly turn back around to face Yuki, your heart pounding wildly. She gives you a smile, but you can tell she is worried. She taps one of her glossy, burgundy nails against your chin. "You know what the boss says about makin' personal relationships with the clients."

You roll your eyes. You don't want to hear anything about those stupid ass rules. "Please," you scoff, waving your bejeweled acrylic nails. "He only says that he doesn't want baby mama drama if one of the girls wind up pregnant by one of 'em. That won't be me."

You give Yuki a smirk over the bar and tease a lock of her blonde hair. "I'm just gettin' to the bag," you snicker. "Like I always do." But even when you say that, you can feel the twinge of guilt in your gut. You've been "talking" to Eren for over a month now. A month of nonstop chatting, flirting, and teasing.

You will admit that the minute you saw Eren, you saw dollar signs. But how else can you see men when they walk through the doors of the club? You make your living dancing on a pole! Of course, you're going to try to squeeze these guys out of their checks to pay your bills!

So when you saw Eren, you saw an opportunity. You figured he'd eventually get tired of you and cut your strings loose soon, especially since you haven't let him hit yet. All men are like that, you have learned...all men who come to the club, that is. 'But maybe Eren is different,' a little voice in your head argues. You push it away.

"Just be careful, Y/N," Yuki worriedly says. "He's hot, but he doesn't seem like he likes to share. What if one day, he swoops you up out of here and we never see you again?" You just laugh, tittering at her. "That would be my happy ending," you giggle. "Now gimme a shot."

Yuki still looks concerned, but pours you a shot of your favorite tequila. You down it and suck on a lime before you have the courage to stand and properly greet Eren, but to your surprise, he is gone. You begin to slowly strut away from the bar, searching for him among the lights and people.

You then feel a hand gently grasp yours. You turn, prepared to bark at the non-consenting touch, but your prepared lecture is stunted by Eren's pretty face and eyes. "So you just gonna walk around like you ain't see me?" He cocks his head to the side, acting mock offended. "What's up witchu?"

You crack a smile, trying hard to swallow your butterflies at being so close to him. "What's up witchu?" you playfully shoot back. "I was gettin' to you, but I have my rounds too. Nice to see you again, Eren."

His smile is so infectious, it's annoying. "You too, Princess." He way he says your stripper name is close to dirty talk to your ears. "Actually, since we're on the subject of names, when are you gonna tell me yours?"

There are two things that you don't do with clients: tell them your birth name or fall in love. Both make things too messy, especially when money is involved. They are the two rules you follow always, no matter how tempted you are to break them for Eren. "A lady doesn't draw all her cards at once," you giggle, flipping your hair back. "Don't you think the mystery is sexy? So what brings you back here again tonight?"

Eren passively shrugs, acting nonchalant. "I dunno, the mystery is kinda sexy." You roll your eyes at his quip, earning a very sexy laugh in return. "I just got back from my London trip and figured I'd drop in to see you."

He shoves a hand in his pocket, suddenly looking sheepish. "I...missed you," he confesses. "Those texts only did so much." You ignore the way your heart flutters at his confession. "Well, I hope the videos helped," you purr, referring to the very lewd videos you sent him after too much wine.

Eren's eyes light up at the mention of them. "Thank God I'm back so I can get the physical thing," he softly growls, snapping back the red nylon of your stockings. "Oh, and before I forget..." He pauses, digs into his pocket, and presents you with a small wrapped box.

Your heart shoots into your throat. "What's this?" you curiously ask. He smirks at you. "A bomb. Open it and find out, silly girl." You do as ordered and melt at the sight of the little Hello Kitty figurine dressed in a Queen's Guard uniform with the funny hat staring back at you.

Eren blushes, somehow looking hotter. "It ain't much, but I remember you sayin' how much you love Hello Kitty and I saw this in a window."

You stare at the gift for longer than necessary, gobsmacked. No client has ever given you a gift before besides an extra tip or the usual, unwanted dick pics. "Thank you, Eren," you whisper. You saunter up to him, watching his proud smile fade as he gets a good look at you.

You place a hand on his shoulder and lean in to whisper in his ear. "Wait for me in the back. Call for me in about fifteen." You pull away to see the hot, unwavering look in his eyes, making you melt in your skirt and stockings. He makes you drip even more when he suddenly leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. "I'll be waitin' for you," he whispers.

Before you can even utter a single breath, he walks off, heading towards the VIP rooms where he always goes to be alone with you. After taking a moment to get yourself together, you tell Yuki to hide your present in your locker (after telling her to shut up with all of that excited squealing) and start to make your rounds.

But again, you're stopped by a hand grabbing yours. You yank your hand away and turn around to fuss at the patron. The nerve of these men! "Whoa!" you yell, about to rip into this stranger's asshole. "Hands off the merchandise, mother..."

Your tongue lashing dies down when you get a look at the tall, dark, and handsome stud standing before you in his long-sleeve top that hugs his toned upper torso and big forearms the way you'd like to and sweats. Definitely not the ideal outfit for a CEO. He has his hair down tonight, each glossy, raven-colored lock cascading down his broad shoulders, covering his gage piercings.

He, too, has piercings-silver snakebites in his bottom lip, one in his eyebrow, and the other embedded in his tongue. You've seen it many times before. All of that somehow fits his handsome face, sharp cheekbones, and violet eyes so increasingly well.

Oh, shit. He's here too. Another one of your "tricks" in your stable that you've been chatting up for a month: Geto Suguru, owner of his own popular clothing company. Hot, wealthy, and generous with his money. Just your type. Just like Eren.

"I'm sorry, hon," he says, sounding genuine. "I didn't realize you didn't like my touch anymore." You feel yourself trembling at the sound of his silky, deep voice and the sweet scent of vanilla on his skin. "Shit, Geto," you sigh. "Sorry, I thought you were-"

"Some drunk bum sittin' by the bar waitin' for a dance?" he chuckles. "No worries. Though if I looked like you, I'd definitely have dudes pay to touch me too." He gives you a smile that is blinding and painful for you. It is one filled with joy to see you. "How are you tonight, love?" he asks.

You swallow, doing your best to relax. "G-Good...now. What brings you here tonight?" You weren't expecting both of these men to be here tonight. They usually aren't in the same place at the same time. And then you tell yourself to stop being a dumb bitch. You aren't dating either one of these guys, so why do you feel so nervous and guilty?

Geto shrugs his broad shoulders, the collar of his shirt low enough to see the koi fish neck tattoo he is sporting. "Oh, y'know: the expensive drinks, the stimulating music, and the appealing skin shows." That's another thing you like about Geto: his humor. He has the same dry, Dad humor that you do that makes you giggle whenever you're giving him lap dances.

"Of course, you know I'm fuckin' with you," he chuckles, cracking another gorgeous smile. "Of course, you know I'm here for you."

"Oh, you are?" you flirtatiously ask. He nods, his violet eyes glistening with mirth and interest in the lights. "Mmm-hmm. After all, you promised me a dance and a date the last time I was here."

"I did?" you ask. And then your brain backtracks to a week ago when Geto visited and you threw back too many chocolate vodka shots so you were hot in the mouth. "I did," you realize.

Noticing your reaction, Geto frowns. "Guess you can't do the date yet?" he gently asks. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, burning you down to the bone. "Hey, don't worry about it. You will when you're ready, okay?"

That is another thing you unfortunately like about Geto: his sweetness. He is by far the sweetest, most considerate man you've ever met. You feel so horrible for leading him on the way you are. He has been asking for a date for a longest time, but it is always an excuse. Just like with Eren.

"I just don't know when I'm gonna get off tonight," you lamely explain. He nods, but you both know that he knows you're bullshitting. "But I can give you a dance," you offer, giving him a smile. "You'll just have to wait a bit though."

Instantly, storm clouds cloud his eyes and he scowls. He and Eren both aren't too keen on sharing you and you can't imagine how they would feel knowing that one is in front of the other for a dance. "Why? You got somebody before me?"

You nervously twirl the end of your hair, thinking things over. "W-Well..." You stop, getting an idea. A very bad idea. "Actually, come with me real quick." You take Geto's hand in yours and you ignore how much bigger in size it is compared to yours as you weave through the club to the VIP rooms.

The VIP rooms are by far the nicest rooms in the club with their comfy furniture, mini bars, private showers, and soundproof walls. Eren is currently chilling in the one you and Geto enter, sitting on a couch facing a stripper pole attached to the wall and trailing to the floor.

He instantly looks up when he hears your heels clicking across the floor and tosses his phone aside. "Hey, you," he says, adoration in his voice. "I thought you'd forgotten about me and went off to..." He trails off as his eyes flick to Geto. Confusion and irritation registers across his face. "Who the fuck are you?" he asks, venom in his tone.

Geto barely looks intimidated. "Who the fuck are you?" he asks, unbothered.

You clear your throat, closing the door behind you. "Um, Suguru, this is Eren. Eren, this is Suguru. Tonight, you're both my clients and I'm caught in a bind, so y'all are gonna have to share me for a few minutes." Eren scowls in confusion. "A few minutes? You don't got an hour?"

"I have other duties, Eren," you slightly giggle. "Fuck that. Your boss knows I got the money to pay for an hour." The CEO slips his wallet out, giving you a smile that pisses Eren off. "So do I," Geto replies. "For two hours, actually."

You stare wide-eyed at the wallet where a golden American Express card glistens at you. Two hours?! This man definitely came here with an agenda. But so did Eren. Obviously looking for a challenge, he pulls a wad of crisp bills out of his pocket, a Black Card wrapped up in the dollars. You never thought you could get so wet over money before...but maybe that's just because of the men holding it.

You place your hands on your hips like a fed-up mom, popping up your hip as you glare at them. "Well, this as good as you two are gonna get right now, so please...no fighting."

The two men are still staring each other down, both looking like they want the other to disappear. "Do y'all want a dance or not?" you huff. After another silent stare down, they finally break and give in to your conditions. "Fine," they both sigh.

You smile, pleased. "Good boys. Now relax and let me some drinks." You aware hyper-aware of the two studs ogling your ass as you strut to the mini bar to whip them up some vodka tonics, the only drink you know how to make.

As the two get comfortable on either side of the couch, Eren whips out his pre-rolled blunts like he usually does. As he flicks open the lighter, letting the blunt hang between his lips, Geto curiously eyes him. "Y'know, you do look familiar," he says. Eren raises a brow, confused. "Yeah, I've seen you in here before. With her."

He nods at you across the way. You puts around pouring the drinks, pretending that you don't hear them. You also sip a bit more than you pour, needing the liquid confidence. You can feel yourself becoming nervous. You look up to examine them from afar as if you're on a safari and you're about to witness two male lions go at it for their prey.

"Yeah," Eren deadpans. "Where else would I be? And I'm guessin' you're here for the same reason?"

Geto acts as if he didn't hear the previous quip from the hot-headed rapper. "Depends," he replies, tossing an arm behind the couch and placing an ankle on his opposite knee. "I'm not one for competing in challenges that I'll win, but I like friendly competitions here an' there."

Silence descends upon you and the tension is so thick that you could cut the bitch with a chainsaw. You strut back over with their drinks, carefully eyeing the two men. "You two gettin' along?" you ask, raising a sharp brow. They silently nod though they look anything but happy. "Good!" you giggle.

You hand them their drinks and proceed to move to the music playing. It is Brent Faiyaz from what you can hear thumping through the walls. "Now stop bitchin' and look here," you order. Like two dogs hearing Pavlov's bell, the two studs abruptly sit up at the change in your tone and the sight of your body. "Yes, ma'am," they both reply in unison.

You smile, relishing in their interested, lustful stares at your body as you sway and gyrate your hips, grasping the pole beside you. You flip your hair, do the "left cheek, right cheek" twerk that they seem to like so much, and do your whole sexy shtick, keeping eye contact the entire time.

It is easy for you to follow the beat depending on what is playing. Mostly because you love dancing. You love to feel the cool metal of the pole and feel your feet in the air as you swing, spin, and twirl on the stripper pole. You lose yourself in your movements and the feeling you get from being watched by the two studs.

They can't get enough of you, their lids becoming hooded as they watch the show before them. It may also be the vodka and the weed curiosity of Eren's blunt, but you can see the lust quickly filling their irises.

By the time you finish working the pole, you're out of breath and shining in sweat. The body oil you wear makes you shimmer as if you're a Goddess blessing the two humans sitting before you. "You both paid for a lap dance, right?" you ask. "Then you get two minutes each."

The two don't argue with your statement, both looking ready to snatch you up at any point. You choose to do Eren first. As soon as you lower yourself onto the floor and crawl towards him, giving him (and Geto) a great view of your arch and your soft ass, the rapper sits up straight and leans forward, his blunt and his drink forgotten.

You place your hands on his thighs as you wedge yourself between them, your heart pounding as his natural scent and cologne fill your nose. You trail your hands up his body, feeling him up, and press against his chest to push him back against the couch. He lets you, his eyes never leaving yours.

You then straddle him, placing each leg over thighs, and begin to grind yourself into his groin that you can feel hardening beneath you. Eren hums in pleasure, placing one hand on your ass while he smokes his blunt with the other, doing his best to blow the smoke away from you.

You don't usually let clients touch you while you dance, but you often make an exception for Eren and Geto (not at all because you crave their touch). "Fuck," Eren exhales, the word dripping from his lips. "You're perfect. So perfect for me."

You feel as if you are with the way he stares at you through his hooded, red eyes. He looks upon you as if you are the best thing since sliced bread. You can feel his cock pulse underneath you, throbbing and ready to-

"My turn," Geto orders. He looks damn near feral as he watches you on top of Eren and pats his lap. "Hop on, baby." He gives you a playful smile, ignoring Eren's sharp glare his way. You giggle despite the tension and unhook yourself from Eren's lap despite his very possessive ass grab.

Now is Geto's turn. He too watches you like he wants to kiss you all over as you lower yourself down onto his lap, your back to him. You proceed to grind your ass back in his face, swirling your hips around and around. During this, your ass grazes his hard-on a few times, earning you soft moans that make the hairs on your body stand on end.

When you lie back against Geto's chest and hook a thigh over his lap, you catch a glimpse of Eren watching. Though he is irritated, you notice the pulsing tent beneath his pants. Geto distracts you by wrapping an arm around your waist, his hand grazing your thigh. "God, you look nice sittin' there," he sighs. "I could get used to this view...preferably somewhere other than a strip club."

"Like where?" you ask, the vodka and weed smoke fogging your brain. Geto doesn't answer, leaving his answer open for interpretation as his arm becomes a little too firm around your waist. You can also feel his lips ghosting across your neck which is highly against stripper protocol.

Luckily, Eren cuts in by slamming his drink down on the table. "Time's up, asshole," he growls. "You went over. It's my turn with her." Geto's hold on you tightens, possessive and stubborn. "Oh, is it?" he asks, feigning innocence. "I didn't notice. My bad."

Eren practically snatches you up and sits you down in his lap, encouraging you to move with his hands on your hips. They shouldn't be there, but you don't move them. You like them too much. Heat radiates from between your thighs, meshing with Eren's hard-on that is quickly growing harder underneath you.

And then, you feel them: his lips on your neck, peppering your skin in kisses. Your eyes flick over to Geto watching you, his face oddly stoic. "Eren, wait," you weakly say. "You can't-"

"Touch you?" he finishes. "Kiss you? Why not? It's not like we ain't done this before." He pauses to stare at you, his eyes flashing. "Or is it because he's here?"

Geto laughs, humored by this as his hand gently caresses your ankle. The soft touch makes your stomach flutter and your nipples tingle. "I'm not usually the jealous type, but seein' you with someone who ain't me is startin' to get under your man's skin."

The alcohol and weed may be affecting you, but not enough to miss what he just said. "M-My what?" you gasp.

Eren catches it too and practically simmers with anger. With a growl, he gently scoots you off of him and places you in the middle of him and Geto. "That's fuckin' it!" he snaps. "I'm tired of this back and forth bullshit, Princess. You need to choose.”

You blink at him, shocked by his sudden outburst. The influence that you're under and the arousal you're feeling make you process everything a little bit slow than you usually do. “What are you talkin’ about?” you softly ask.

Geto chuckles at your cuteness, taking a sip of his Vodka Tonic. “It ain’t rocket science, cutie. You’re a smart girl. Smart enough to get two of us in the same room fightin’ over you.”

You scowl, not sure how to take his words. Does he know your plan? “I-I don’t know-“

“Don’t do that,” the CEO firmly says, and you button your lip. Yes, he does know your plan. “We know you were after the money. It’s okay, baby! A club like this is full of go-getters like you.” He reaches over, gently stroking your thigh. “But I know you weren’t prepared for either of us to want more from you."

You blink at him, shook beyond belief. They don't even know you! You haven't even told them your real name! Geto's eyes shift to Eren, his expression steely. “Though I’m not too keen on you showin’ the attention you showed me to someone else.”

Eren gives his blunt a puff and sits it on the ashtray on the table. “And neither am I," he huffs. "I don’t got you on a leash, babe, but I’m about ready to do it if it means havin’ you to myself." He leans over to whisper in your ear, his lip ring toying with your earlobe. “And I can pay you way more than he can.”

You flinch away from him as if you have been burned. He looks hurt by your action. “I don’t want your money, Ren,” you softly say. “And I don’t like being cornered either.”

“Would you rather we discuss it over dinner?” Geto sarcastically asks. “Pardon the attitude. Vodka isn’t my strongest suit.” Despite the blow, you realize that he is right. It's bad enough they both know your little plan to make bank off of them, playing them like a fiddle for a month.

But could they also possibly know that you've been second-guessing that? That you've been thinking about giving in to their offers for dates and something more than just a lap-dance, hot makeup sessions, and flirting?

You look between the two men, hot as ever and possessive. All for you. Any woman would kill to be in your position right now! You would be stupid to give this moment up. Maybe it's the weed or the vodka or the fact that they both smell so good, their colognes mingling with each other, but one of the three makes you bold enough to express your interest.

"W-Well...I could think it over, but..." You trail off, not sure what else to say. Your tongue is heavy and your mouth feels like it's full of cotton. "But what, love?" Geto gently asks, walking his fingers up your leg. They settle on your skirt, toying with the thin fabric. "You need a little persuasion?"

He suddenly leans in, pressing a kiss to your neck on your left that makes your body sing. Eren does the same thing, pressing kisses to the right side of your neck, leaving trails of fire in his wake. "How much for an hour?" he softly growls.

"E-Eren, I can't-"

"Don't try that with me again. You're talkin' 'bout doin' more in here than just dancin', so how much?"

You bite your lip, feeling heat pool between your thighs as the men's kisses grow more feverish and passion. "I-I'm not sure," you whimper out. It is so hard to think with all of this stimulation.

Eren places a possessive hand on your throat, the weight of it making you gasp. “Then I’ll fuckin’ find out when I’m done with you. I’ll pay the sun and moon for you, Princess.”

You figure at this point that there are no more secrets. No more roles. So you let your government name drip from your lips: “Y/N. That’s my name.” Geto smiles against your neck while Eren nuzzles the space behind your ear, his voice making you shiver. “Y/N,” he says. Your name sounds like sin on his lips.

Geto pulls away enough to acknowledge Eren for the first time in minutes. “So we’re sharing her?” Eren stares at him in boredom, stroking your throat with his thumb. “Yeah, unless you wanna watch. I don’t really give a fuck. My little dancer gets off on bein’ watched."

His hand trails down to your skirt where he toes with the ribbon holding it together at your hip. With one pull it slides off and he yanks it down your legs, revealing the surprise underneath: a G-string with a tiny pink bow on the front of your mound. The two men practically salivate at the sight.

Eren forces you to turn your face so he can plant more kisses on your lips, each one hotter and sloppier than the last. You can taste the vodka and lime on his tongue. “Eren,” you sigh. “The door—“

“Bodyguards,” Geto ruggedly answers, his hand caressing your thigh where it means your asscheek. “I had ‘em follow us. Nobody’s gettin’ in here, so don’t worry your pretty head about anything but this.” He busies himself with your breasts, pressing kisses along the tops of the soft globes. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispers against your breasts. “I needed you for so long.”

You almost say ‘me too’. Their touches and kisses are making you delirious, ready to proclaim your love for two men you barely know. With each passing second, your pussy grows wetter, soaking the tiny cloth attached to the G-string. “Please," you whimper.

“Please what?” Eren asks. He squeezes your chin with his ringed hand, forcing you to look at him. “Open your mouth and ask us nicely.”

Geto grins at the rapper's choice of words. “Us, huh?” he chuckles. He then glides a hand down between your thighs, his fingers gliding against your G-string. “You want us to touch you here?" he whispers. Biting back a moan, you nod, your body quickly growing hotter than a wild fire. “Please….touch me.”

You glide a hand down your thighs to caress your thong-covered pussy, causing your puffy lips to swallow the thin line of fabric. The men groan at the sight, loving how your nails look against your soft, wet, plush pussy lips.

Geto kisses you a rough kiss on the cheek, pleased with your response. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

In the blink of an eye, you are suddenly facing Geto between your legs while Eren is busy peeling your bra off, your back against his broad, hard chest. The smell of their cologne and marijuana drifts in the air, clouding your judgment even further.

Geto's eyes widen as he drags your thong to the aside, exposing your wet, soft cunt and the tiny diamond stud embedded in your clit. “So pretty,” he coos. "And a clit piercing?" He gently huffs his breath onto your clit and the bit of stimulation makes you twitch.

"Lemme see," Eren growls, craning his neck to see. "Fuck, that's so slutty, babe." Once he has your bra unclasped, your breasts and pierced nipples are exposed to their eyes. "My God!" he groans, cupping your tits in his hands. "How are you this fuckin' perfect, babe, huh?"

You thought you couldn't speak before? Words cease to exist when Geto finally gets his mouth on you. He uses his big hands to pin your legs apart as he laps at your cunt, sucking gently on your clit and rolling the diamond stud around with his wet tongue. His tongue piercing clashes with the one in your clit, causing sparks of pleasure to shoot through your core.

All you can muster are loud sobs and whines of pleasure as Geto laps and slurps at your pussy, each stroke of his tongue and suckle of his soft lips sending you into orbit. You can't stop your muscles from twitching and your thighs from clenching, desperate to be freed from Geto's iron grip on them. "Oooh, she’s a cryer,” he chuckles against your hole. “And a squirmer.”

His tongue then slithers into your hole, using the tip of his tongue to shallowly fuck you while his nose glides against your clit. Eren watches from behind you, his hands still groping your tits and tugging at your nipples. “She’s not gonna do shit when it’s my turn," he lightly growls. "Lemme show you how it’s done.”

The two men switch places, but Geto doesn't move from his spot between your thighs. He just watches as Eren absolutely goes feral on your pussy, causing spit and your juices to mix together and stain his chin and lips. All of it slips down your asscrack, making every nice and slippery. Slippery enough to fuck you with his tongue much faster. “O-Oh!” you gasp. “Oh, fuck, Eren!”

The rapper's grey eyes tick up to look at you, hypnotizing you the same way his mouth is. “Yeah?” he teases. “It’s good?”

You writhe on the couch, gripping the cushion below you for dear life. “Yes!” you sob. “Yes, Daddy, please keep going!” The honorific slips out as easy as a breath of fresh air, sounding so natural. Eren begins to lick you faster as if that title has changed him.

Geto side-eyes the rapper before he gives your ass a spank. “He gets an honorific?” he scoffs. “What about me, love? What do I get, huh?” He leans forward, pressing soothing kisses to the stinging spot where his hand collided with your asscheek.

You stare at him through teary eyes, your lashes wet with droplets. “S-Sir,” you whimper. "I'm sorry". Geto grins at you, flashing you all of his pearly whites. “Works for me. Now let's see if you can take two tongues at the same time."

Eren briefly pauses in his meal to glance at the CEO. You think he is about to tell Geto to fuck off, but to your surprise, he scoots over and allows Geto to share in feasting on your cunt. Each one has a firm hand pinned on your thigh, forcing you to stay open for them they lap at your wetness, pausing to spit copious amounts of saliva onto your lips and slurping it back up.

They take turns tongue-fucking you, alternating between one sticking his tongue inside of your wet hole while the other toys with your clit, rubbing the button around and around. You are a wailing, sobbing, screaming mess, writhing and squirming on the couch as if you're possessed. “Oh, God, wait! It’s too much!”

You feel like you're a balloon that has been pumped with too much air. You're about to pop. Geto stares up at you through hooded eyes and his lips drenched in your juices. “But you’re doin’ so well for us, love. You should see how cute you look.”

He reaches over, placing two fingers in your mouth. Greedily, you suck on his digits, coating them in your spit. Eren tears his tongue out of your hole to stare at you adoringly, allowing Geto to fill his spot. “She does look mighty good right now. Little slut.”

You have no doubt you look crazy, titties out, skirt peeled up to expose your ass and pussy, mascara askew and coating your eye sockets. But you don't care. You don't care about anything but cumming as that feeling begins to build in your core. “Oh, sh-sh-shit, I’m gonna cum!” you gasp to the ceiling.

“Mmm-hmm,” Geto hums into your pussy. “Cum for me, love. Give it to me.”

“Bitch,” Eren growls. “Cum for me, baby. You know you love this piercing, dontchu?”

You do, and deliriously, you think you love them too. They keep licking and slurping and sucking and moaning into your pussy until finally, you give a little tremble and your cum floods their mouths. The two men moan in appreciation at your taste, eagerly and happily lapping at what you give them.

Your orgasm is intense, making you shake and moan to the heavens, every word being "fuck" and "oh, shit" which God would not appreciate, probably. You could get used to being treated like this. Maybe a relationship with either of these two studs wouldn't be so terrible. 'Why just one?' a tiny voice in your head whispers. 'Why not both?'

When you come down from your orgasmic high, you look down at the two men, noticing their cocks chubbing against their pants. You giggle, delirious from the pleasure and drunk off of your orgasm. "I think you two might need some help," you purr.

The two pop up like Jack-In-The-Boxes, eager to get your mouth on them. The clothes come off, shirts, pants, and designer boxers discarded, revealing muscles laced and inked with tattoos. You momentarily think about grazing your hands over their abs, licking up their stomachs, and sucking each brown nipple, but all of that flies out the window when you get a look at their cocks.

Both are hard and standing up at attention for you, but while Eren is thicker and curves upward, Geto is longer and his balls hang heavy. You can do nothing but stare, your hands wrapping around each one. "Oh, wow," you sigh, unable to say anything else.

"Like you ain't seen it before," Eren chuckles, referring to the dick pics he has sent you over the course of your 'situationship'. Geto has only sent you two though his cock was covered by his sweats. To see it now here, in your face, is more than you can take.

"Now, you're just seein' it in person," Eren continues, gently tapping his thumb against your chin. "So you gonna do somethin' with it or what?" He doesn't need to tell you twice. Instantly, you open your mouth and wrap your glossy lips around his length.

"Ah, fuck, baby," he sighs, digging a hand in your hair. He lays his hand on your scalp, letting you work his cock up and down, his length stroking your throat. "That's a good girl. I fit so well in that mouth, fuck."

He tilts his head back to expose his throat and the head of his serpent tattoo snaking up the left side of his neck. You yearn to kiss and bite it. With your other hand, you stroke Geto to your heart's content, relishing in his low moans and encouraging swears that drip from his lips.

You can hardly believe that you're here, sucking your clients' dicks in VIP! You have never done anything like this before and probably never will again. These two are just special. With every stroke of Eren's cock in your sloppy throat and every moan that escapes Geto's plump lips, you can feel yourself needing them more and more.

Finally having enough of waiting, Geto yanks you away from Eren and plants your mouth on his dick this time. "My turn," he huffs and apologetically laughs in Eren's face. "Sorry, man, but I couldn't resist. Her mouth just looked too damn good."

He pushes himself deeper, sheathing himself between the plush, wet walls of your mouth. You gag a bit from his bulbous head nearly hitting the back of your throat, but you manage to recover and let him fuck away. "Good girl," he pants. "Sir loves that. He loves your little mouth."

You moan in reply to his dirty words of affirmation, spit dribbling from your lips and pooling between your shaky thighs. At this point, you are creaming, gushing all over yourself and ruining your thong. Eren groans at the feeling of your soft hand stroking him up and down, up and down. "Can't wait to fuck you, babe," he moans. "I know you'll feel just as good as your pretty hand."

Then he is yanking you away from Geto and back towards him. "Fuck offa her. You're takin' too damn long." Then it's back in your mouth he goes where he proceeds to fuck your mouth like it's going out of style. "Not bad, love," Geto sighs, watching in adoration as your mouth is filled with cock. "You suck dick almost as well as you dance."

With a loud groan that overpowers the muffled music from the club, Eren pulls his cock out of your mouth. A line of spit follows in his wake and you take a breath, the taste of salt on your tongue. Eren tilts your chin up to face him and Geto, exposing your fucked-out face to them.

"Are you ready for us to fuck you now, baby?" Eren cooingly asks, his thumb toying with your wet bottom lip. You press a kiss to it, suckling on the digit. "Tell Daddy how you want it," he demands. It takes every bit of energy in your brain cells to conjure up one single sentence. You can barely think straight.

"C'mon now, darling," Geto coos, tapping his cock against your lips. "Don't be shy. I can stand to wait a while." Finally finding your voice and your head, you turn to Eren with big, watery eyes and ruined makeup. "From behind," you whimper. "Fuck me from behind, Daddy."

Eren doesn't need to be told twice. He hikes you up on your jelly-like legs and puts you in position on the couch: face down, ass up. You feel him kneel behind you, his thick cock sliding between your slit to your asshole, up and down, emitting moans from the both of you.

"I'm gonna make you regret ever toyin' with me," he says through panted breaths. "Gonna make sure you know whose you are." And then, slowly, he slides himself inside of you, inch by inch. Your mouth falls open, a loud moan escaping you as you feel the wet walls of your cunt stretch around him.

"A-Ah!" you gasp. "Oh, fuck, Eren, please!" The rapper lays a hand on your ass, giving you a sharp spank that makes your clit jump and your pussy clench.

SMACK!

"See what's you've been missin', baby?" he chuckles. "All of this an' more."

He begins to slowly pump his hips back and forth, sheathing his cock inside of you more with every stroke. "Fuck me back, mama," he coos, his voice breathless and panty. "Show me how good you think this dick is, c'mon. Show me."

You do as you're told and toss your ass back into him, meeting his thrusts and drawing louder moans out of both of you that bounce off of the VIP room's walls.

SMACK!

Geto's big hand takes a turn slapping your ass as it bounces against Eren's pelvis as he sits on the couch beside you. He places your face in his lap and taps his cock against your lips. "Sorry, love, you just looked too sexy gettin' fucked like this," he sighs. "But you don't mind, do you?"

Even if you could respond, you would say no. You want them both to use you. To take every single hole you have and fill it up as much as they want. You want to be used for their pleasure in a way you have never wanted any other man to.

Eren begins to pump harder and faster, causing the couch springs to creak and his moans to grow louder and more desperate. "God, you're so wet," he groans, sweat trickling down his handsome face and gorgeous body. "I'm gonna cum soon, baby. This pussy got me so fuckin' close!"

"Well, would ya mind hurryin' it up?" Geto huffs. "I still need to fuck my little dancer too." Eren glares daggers at the CEO, each word punctuated by a pump of his hips that make your eyes roll back. "Don't. Rush. Me."

You can feel your second orgasm cresting, building inside of you, causing you to reach between your legs to frantically rub your clit. "Daddy," you whine. "I'm gonna cum. Please make me cum."

"You wanna cum for me?" Eren teases. You can hear the smile in his voice, knowing that he is enjoying every second of seeing you like this. "Then you're gonna be my baby, right? You're gonna let me take you out and have you all to myself, right?"

You don't respond. You can't. You're moaning too much and his cock is too good, pumping in and out of you at a fast pace that makes your head spin. When you suddenly feel Eren's thumb gliding against your asshole, it's all over for you. You explode all over his cock, nearly ruining your voice box with how loud you scream. "I'm cumming!" you sob, pressing your face into Geto's thigh.

"Go 'head, baby, cum for me!" Eren groans. "Fuck, I'm cummin' too!" He grips your ass for dear life as he chases his high in your pussy, giving you rougher thrusts until he finally shoots a hot, creamy load inside of your pussy. He lets out a loud, raspy groan as he cums, gripping your ass so tight that you're sure he has left bruises.

You shiver and shake in your position, your head blank and all of your senses heightened. Geto begins to stroke your hair, his hard cock pressed against your lips. "That's a good girl," he coos. "You look so good when you cum, darlin'. I'm gonna enjoy fucking you."

Oh, God...you forgot he was next.

But he doesn't let you forget. When Eren pulls out of you slowly, Geto shushes you when you weakly moan at the loss. "Relax, love," he coos, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You don't have to do anything for me. Just let your Sir take care of you."

You don't think you quite have a choice, especially when he hikes you onto his lap. He kisses you as you lean into his body, his big arms holding you tight as his hard cock sinks inside of the quivering, sensitive, sobbing wet walls of your pussy. "Oh, goddamn," he groans, his handsome face etched in pleasure as soon as he sinks inside of you. "You're perfect."

You whine in response, arching your tits into his chest. You press yourself flush against him, your body going weak and slack from Eren's previous buckshots. Geto embraces this, keeping his arms wrapped securely around you as he draws his hips up to fuck you from the bottom. "Just lay against me, darlin'. Lemme do all the work."

You can't stop any sort of moan or whimper that escapes you, each one weak and desperate as your pussy is filled with Geto's cock. Your eyes flutter closed at the feeling, all of your energy drained from being fucked dumb twice.

Suddenly, you feel two hands cupping your face and the scent of ocean waves in your nose. "Open your eyes, mama," Eren coos. "Lemme see you." Weakly, you open your eyes, staring at grey irises through slits. "Feels good, don't it?" he asks. "Does he feel better than me?"

Geto laughs through a moan, his thighs smacking against your ass as he drills himself inside of you, bouncing you on his cock. "You don't have to answer him, but I'd like to know if I'm gettin' that date after this. You know I expect it."

You can't think of anything remotely close to the end of tonight in this position. The pleasure is too blinding and your mind is going blank. But your clients won't take no for an answer. "You're gonna be mine by the end of tonight, right, darlin'?" Geto growls in your ear. "You'll finally let me take you out on a proper date?"

"Nah, fuck that," Eren hisses, still cupping your face and staring into your eyes. "You're all for me, right, baby? You're not gonna play with my feelings like this, right?"

"Tell us what you want, Y/N," Geto demands, slowing his thrusts down to deep, soul-bending strokes that make you sing. "Tell us who you want."

"I-I want!" You grip Geto for dear life, sinking your nails into his shoulders as his cock strokes every part of your pussy. The words that explode from you fly up after being trapped for so long inside of you: "Both! I want both of you!" you sob.

Eren blinks at you, shocked, and takes a look at Geto. He has slowed his thrusts down into more shallow, gentler ones, just as taken aback at your confession. There it is. All out in the open. And instead of arguing or disagreeing, the two men smile at each other.

"Both it is then," Eren says, pecking you on the lips. "Now cum on that dick like a good girl. Make her sing, Geto."

The CEO goes right back to bouncing you restlessly on his cock, making your tits jiggle and your pussy feel like it's about to fall off the bone as your clit rubs against his pelvis. His callused hands grip your ass, giving you brief smacks and possessive grabs that edge you closer and closer to the cliff.

"Sugu, fuck!" you gasp. "I'm gonna...gonna-"

"Do it, darlin'," he demands. "Cum with me. Give it all to your Sir."

And like a puppet on a string, you are controlled by him and his cock. After a few more rough thrusts, you shut your eyes against Eren's face and cum all over Geto's cock, your third orgasm rocking you to the core. Everything feels like a hot, white light washing you in warmth as each wave of your orgasm sweeps you away.

"Ah, fuck!" Geto groans, his end near too. He pauses and his body tenses as he cums, rope after rope of hot spunk entering your pussy. You gasp and shudder, held onto by him and Eren who continues to grasp your face, watching your O face is adoration. "That's a good girl," he laughs. "You did so good for us, babe."

You can only whimper in reply. Exhaustion comes to you, making your body heavier and your muscles loose. Geto groans as he slides his cock out of you, his and Eren's cum leaking down your thighs. "Easy now," he coos, stroking your back. "Just take it slow, love."

He lays you down on the couch between himself and Eren, your head lulling against the couch. You feel sweat coat the skin beneath your tits and your inner thighs feel soaked. The only thing you wear are your stockings and heels, your skirt, bra, and thong on the floor.

You know that eventually you'll have to go back to finish your shift. You know that people, including Yuki and your boss, will ask about these two men that seem to be mighty close to you now. You know that things will probably become a lot more complicated.

But you also find yourself not caring. Not when the two men snuggle up close to you, pressing you tightly and securely between them. It is better than any dollar bill they could give you. Silence descends upon you, calm and satisfied.

"So," you finally say, a smile on your face, "when's our date?"

THE END.

#emmie recs #broke out into hives with the way I was feining over this one ✊🏾

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emonaculate · 11 days ago

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Everything I wanna say about this would get me banned from this app 🫣

pairing — lost princess!reader x etiquette teacher!gojo

cw : fingering, light bondage, power play & dynamics, public-adjacent serting, mild degradation, mild brat taming. 1.5k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

you were never meant to wear silk.

not with hands like yours—scraped and scarred, callused from climbing rooftops and snatching apples like survival was a game you always won. not with the way you sit, legs sprawled like you’re ready to brawl or bolt, no in-between. the palace maids hiss about you behind their dainty fans, calling you the filth the crown scraped off the streets.

but you’re a princess now. supposedly. last heir to some sunken dynasty, they say. so they drape you in pearls, douse you in rosewater, and call it destiny.

and they stuck you with him.

“good morning, princess.” his voice is velvet, each syllable drawn out like he’s savoring the chance to poke at you. satoru gojo, etiquette tutor by force, professional nuisance by choice. he lounges against the marble pillar in the lesson hall, arms crossed, lips twisted into that infuriating smirk he wears like a crown.

you hate how stupidly gorgeous he is. silver-white hair swept back, a few strands artfully loose, like he planned it. eyes blazing blue, always watching you like you’re a toy he’s itching to wind up. his uniform’s immaculate, tailored to his lanky frame, sleeves rolled up just enough to flash toned forearms, veins snaking like they’re showing off.

“sit properly,” he says, sounding bored of his own voice already.

you slouch harder into the embroidered settee, legs wide, one boot propped on the table’s edge. “bite me.”

he’s on you in three strides.

a gloved hand grabs your chin, tilting your face up to his. the leather’s warm, broken in, pressing soft but firm against your skin. you glare, but your throat’s a traitor, tightening as his touch lingers.

“princesses don’t sit like they’re about to pickpocket their subjects,” he drawls, eyes raking over you like he’s cataloging every flaw just to mess with you. “but i guess that’s your only skill, huh, street rat?”

you want to sink your teeth into him. not his words—him. that smug grin. the way he’s too close, smelling like cedar and something richer. the cocky ease he carries, like he’s never scrapped for a damn thing.

you loathe him. fuck, you do.

“and what do you know about being a princess?” you spit, smacking his hand away.

satoru doesn’t budge. doesn’t blink. just laughs. low. sharp. his voice dips, all honeyed mischief. “i know how to make one beg.”

you blink. your mouth opens to curse him out, but your brain stalls, caught on the way his words curl around you. your pulse jumps, and your body—damn it—heats under that piercing gaze.

he leans in, breath brushing your ear. “bet under all that grit and mouth, you’re just begging for someone to put you in your place.”

you’re up so fast the chair screeches, skirts tangling as you shove past him, storming down the velvet-lined corridor in your boots. your corset’s half-unlaced, hair spilling from its fancy braid, but you don’t care. you need out. away. anything but him.

but satoru’s not the type to let you win.

he catches you in the east wing, where you’re pacing like a trapped wolf. you whirl to snap something vile, but he’s faster, pinning you against the wall with a thud that rattles your bones.

your back hits the wallpaper, cool and smooth. his hands cage you, palms flat on either side of your head. not touching—not yet—but the air between you crackles, electric with his smug, teasing heat.

“lessons aren’t over, your highness.”

his tone’s all mockery, a noble’s drawl dripping with amusement, like he’s toying with you because it’s the best entertainment the palace has to offer. he’s the duke’s heir, dragged here to play teacher, and he’s milking every second for his own fun.

you bare your teeth. “fuck your lessons.”

his grin’s wicked, slow, like he’s been waiting for that. “oh, i will.”

he moves, one hand gripping your jaw, tilting your head back to force your eyes to his, all playful arrogance, like he’s enjoying how you snarl. the other skims down, knuckles grazing your bodice, then hooking your waist, yanking you flush against him until your hips crash into his, his hardness pressing through his trousers.

“we’ll start with posture,” he purrs, gloved hand sliding down your spine, teasing the curve until you arch instinctively, his touch light but maddening. “chin up. legs apart.”

you choke on a breath, rough fingers clawing at his shirt, your street-rat grit meeting his polished taunts. his lips brush your throat, a ghost of a kiss, all tease, all satoru—cocky and holding back, grinning at how you squirm.

“next,” he hums, voice thick with smug delight, “speech.”

two fingers slip past your lips, gloved and warm, testing your defiance. you try to bite, all feral instinct, but he presses down on your tongue, making you gag softly, a sound he savors with a smirk that’s pure, gleeful trouble. he watches your spit slick the leather, your eyes flaring with rage and heat, his fun fueled by your fight.

“speak when spoken to,” he murmurs, all aristocratic tease, like he’s sculpting you just to see how much you’ll snap. “or don’t speak at all.”

you glare, tears prickling—not pain, not fear, just the raw intensity of his game, the way he’s picking you apart with every smug touch. he’s in control, a noble toying with his prey, but it’s his thrill at your rebellion that keeps him playing.

“lastly…” he breathes, pulling his fingers from your mouth, wet and gleaming, his eyes dancing with cheeky mischief. “restraint.”

he yanks a ribbon from your corset, tying your wrists with a flourish, fingers brushing your scarred skin like he’s mocking your roughness. it’s loose enough to wriggle free, but tight enough to remind you he’s got you. it’s humbling, his way of saying he’s running this show.

“still think you’re in charge, little street rat?” his voice is a purr, teeth nipping your neck, a playful graze that’s all satoru—teasing for the hell of it, hungry for the game.

you can’t answer, thighs clenching, aching, your body screaming what your mouth won’t. he laughs, low and delighted, that deep-chested sound curling between your legs. then he mutters, “hold still.”

his gloved hand slides up your thigh—only to pause. he clicks his tongue, almost disappointed.

“can’t feel you like this.”

then, slow and deliberate, he brings his hand to his mouth, teeth catching the edge of his glove. his eyes never leave yours as he bites it off��tugs with a slow, flexing pull until the leather peels from his fingers. it drops to the floor with a soft thud.

bare fingers now, he lifts your skirt and slides his hand under, warm skin meeting soaked heat.

“well, fuck,” he murmurs, voice drenched in smug glee, “all this attitude, and you’re this wet for me?”

his fingers don’t hesitate, two sliding into you slow and deliberate, curling just right to make you gasp, your hips bucking against his hand. he’s relentless, thumb circling your clit with a precision that’s both infuriating and perfect, each stroke a taunt, like he’s proving how easily he can unravel you.

“look at you,” he teases, leaning close, lips brushing your ear, “all that fight, and you’re melting on my fingers.” he’s thorough, stretching you with a third finger, working you until you’re a mess of choked curses and shaky moans.

your wrists strain against the ribbon, the silk biting your skin as you twist, trying to keep some shred of control, but he’s too good, too smug, his fingers pumping in a rhythm that has you trembling, walls clenching tight.

“fuck, you’re loud,” he laughs, voice dripping with aristocratic charm, “gonna let the whole wing know you’re my little project?” he angles his hand, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and you snarl—“you prick”—but it’s a whimper, and he’s eating it up, his grin pressed to your throat.

he doesn’t let up, fingers relentless, thumb flicking faster now, slick sounds filling the corridor as you shake, so close it hurts. “come on, princess,” he mocks, voice low and filthy, “show your tutor what a good student you are.” his free hand grips your hip, holding you still as you buck, and when you come, it’s with a ragged cry, legs giving out, only his body pinning you to the wall keeping you up.

your orgasm crashes over you, molten and merciless, clenching tight around his fingers. he doesn’t stop—just keeps moving with that infuriating, measured pace, coaxing every last tremor from your body. you're gasping, twitching, coming undone in his hand while he watches you like you’re more entertaining than any duel he’s ever fought, more compelling than the rarest blade in his private collection.

he pulls his fingers free, slick and shining, and pops them in his mouth, licking them clean with a grin that’s pure, cheeky bastard.

your breath stutters. heat floods your cheeks, your chest, low in your belly like a second wave threatening to drag you under. you should look away—but you can’t. not when he’s savoring the taste of you like it’s dessert, like he’s earned it.

your legs tremble where they’re spread, your hands fisting the silk under you just to stay grounded. somewhere in your mind, a fragile thought surfaces—you loathe him. but your body? your body’s already begging for more.

“lesson one,” he says, voice all noble-born taunt, “you’re fun when you break.” he unties your wrists with a flick, letting the ribbon fall, and steps back, leaving you slumped against the wall, skirts bunched, panting like you’ve run a mile.

you were never meant for silk.

but maybe you were meant for him.

#Emon recs

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emonaculate · 13 days ago

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Gojo and his bitchy girlfriend...

Looking at Mr. Satoru Gojo I can honestly say with confidence that he is the type of guy to have a really mean and rude... overall "bitchy" girlfriend and what's worse is he likes it.

Warnings: 18+, SMUT, Gojo is a FREAKKKKK, Language, Y/n is mean obvi, Brat-Tamer Gojo, Gojo has a very filthy vocabulary, Toxic relationship dynamic?? It works for them but unhealthy irl, Gojo's powers are practically eldritch horror level, Gojo threatens Y/n (he's bluffing but she doesnt really wanna test it), Emon gets carried away.. again, Dubcon, Gojo is scary, Sadistic!Gojo, god complex??Gojo, Y/n might be freaked out too, Masochist!Y/n, mentions of Black!reader but anyone can read, spitting, choking, spanking, crying kink??, overstimulation, head (fem receiving), Gojo possibly has no regard for the life of strangers??, unprotected sex, abuse of Gojo's powers,

Satoru Gojo has the patience of a saint, well, at least that's what everyone thinks, seeing him interact with you.

Don't get me wrong, you're a very nice woman when it comes to literally anyone else. You help elderly women cross the street, hold the door for truck drivers whose hands are full with packages to deliver. You would give your last dime to help a misplaced person on the street if they asked. So why were you so rude to your own boyfriend.

If people did not see how you treated Gojo with their own eyes; they would not believe you were even capable of being so cruel.

Itadori would never forget how fast your personality switched from the loving instructor he had grown to care deeply about to a woman that looked as if she wouldn't so much as piss to put out a flame if Gojo were lit on fire. He honestly thought you were also possessed by an ancient demonic spirit.

The biggest question is why does Gojo just take it? Why does he turn off his infinity to just be slapped by you? He's the strongest after all.. I mean, sure your technique is powerful, but it wouldn't even hold a candle to the amount of power the man possessed.

Even now, as you stand in front of him, whilst he towers over you in not height but sheer muscle, yelling about something trivial like him being late for a dinner date you planned using his card by the way. He just watches you scream in his face, jamming your manicured nail (he's pretty sure he paid for them too) into his chest.

His smile never leaves his face as passersby watch in confusion and pity. Poor him. He deserves so much better. People often think but what they don't realize is he's exactly where he wants to be. The damn man encourages it in fact.

Gojo Satoru has known who he was for as long as he could remember. Yes, he is the strongest sorcerer of the modern century, but he is also a degenerate. He was raised with no other option but to be the head of Gojo clan. A symbol of power. People feared him and what he could do. At times, he feared his damn self. How easy it could be for him to lose control and lash out, wipe out all life on Earth for no reason other than he just feels like it. People should thank you honestly.

If not for you, all that pent-up anger he has would have been unleashed long ago. Instead he get to unleash it on and in your cunt whenever you really push his buttons. Kind of like how you're doing right now.

Gojo had to admit you really were outdoing yourself right now. Screaming in a public place? Putting your hands on him? Swear at him? Every nerve in his body was twitching to activate his infinity on you. God, you were so fucked today.

You feel the energy shift in the air as the temperature fucking changes. Your posture stiffens up ever so slightly as you feel Gojo gently pull you into his chest, rubbing small circles into your back. Had you overdone it? You know he had been stressed out trying to figure out how to plead his case in keeping Yuji alive. Every minor inconvenience he experienced lately would cause a power outage within 50 miles if he so much as twitched his eye too hard. His curse energy was so high it felt like putting metal in a toaster while it was on if you so much as brushed past him and grazed his skin.

He hadn't slept or ate in days; it was very clear he was being affected when he was teaching a lesson, and he decided to write something on the board, but instead created a crater through the left side of the entire school. Thank goodness there were no casualties.

You still knew you had to do something. You had tried everything to get him to talk about how he was feeling instead of resorting to acting this way, but nothing else had worked. Sure, the sex was great, but it was very clear he was more focused on not hurting you. You knew that you had to bring out the big guns. Put on a real show.

So that brings you back to your current situation. His hands cold to the touch as he rubbed small electrifying touches into your back. Was he writing something with his touches? Oh-

Yeah you were so fucked.

Gojo pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before pulling away and smiling even wider at you. To the onlookers, he looked so sweet and understand despite having such a nasty and cruel girlfriend— but to you, who actually knew what he was capable of and how that kindness he displayed was faker than the acrylic nails on your finger—you were terrified. You had over done it by a long shot.

He remained silent as he guided the awaiting car. Your protests and pleas falling on deaf ears as he only responded with soft whispers of "I know baby, I know."

He knew exactly what you needed. You were another curse he needed to exorcise. It was the only excuse for why you would act like that in public. You did so much more than just annoy him today. Gojo was pissed. Beyond pissed actually. He had just gotten back from yet another meeting with the higher-ups and they denied his request to spare Yuji yet again. Now, he knows you couldn't have known but what perfect timing this was. He was boiling with anger and now didn't have to hold back at all. You managed to save the higher-ups from a well-deserved death yet again.

You practically vibrated in the seat of the luxurious car with fear, watching every move your boyfriend made. If it came to it, you were prepared to jump out of the car; you had never seen him this upset before, and surely it wasn't just because of your little display back at the restaurant. Even in the past, when he got upset by your rude behavior, he was never silent. He always would talk and humor your attitude before pulling you close and whispering the things he was going to do to you as soon as you two were alone. This was different.

The car came to a halt in front of Gojo's place. His private residence. Not the Gojo Clan housing but a separate place entirely. You had never been here before, usually opting to go back to your place because he preferred how much more "lived" in your place was compared to his. Gojo steps out of the car and stretches slightly before turning back to you; eyes immediately narrowing into a icy glare.

"Get out of the car." His voice was no longer that usual playful octave but deeper and cruel.

You remain seated, not in rebellion but paralyzing fear. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. This was bad. Really bad. Gojo snaps his finger in your face, electricity shooting out from his fingertips blowing out the surrounding streetlights immediately.

"If I have to repeat myself, I'll crush this fucking car. You know I can, Y/n."

You scramble, practically tripping over yourself, to get out of the car. Not for your own safety; you know Satoru well enough to be certain he'd never hurt you intentionally. The same could not be said about the innocent driver. While you were sure he was just bluffing, you did not want to test that theory with how mad he was.

As sick as it is, Gojo's eyes twinkle with delight as he watches you run to join him outside the car. Good, you understand how serious this is. His hand snakes around your waist as he leans down to press another loving kiss to your temple. He tells you to go inside and wait for him. You obey without a second thought. Gojo looks back at the car door you left ajar in your rush to exit. A scoff escapes his lips in disbelief. You can't even close the door behind you? He really needs to teach you some manners.

He tries his hardest.. really his absolute hardest to close the door as gently as possible (not wanting to scare the driver anymore than he already has) but even with just pressing one finger to the door; the materials of the door dent completely inward. If the driver is concerned he doesnt say only facing forward with both hands on the steering wheel trembling.

Gojo clicks his tongue in disapproval before muttering an apology and telling the driver to make it home safe. As if he, himself, isn't the most dangerous entity alive. The driver weakly nods and speeds off.

Gojo then turns his attention back to one of his many houses and teleports inside, finding you standing in the empty hall with tears threatening to roll down your soft cheeks. He only tilts his head and laughs mockingly.

"You crying?"

He teleports again, this time with you, to his bedroom. You hadn't even seen him touch you. He tosses you onto the bed as if you weighed nothing, and unbuttons his shirt. His eyes were crazed and wild, swirling with what could only be described as raw power.

"I haven't given you anything to cry about. But don't worry, I'm gonna."

He's on top of you before you can blink; one hand pinning both of yours to the bed. You don't know where to look, all you can do is feel the raw power radiating off him and try to control your own breathing. You know you have no reason to be afraid, but your body says otherwise. The loud RIIPPP— brings you back to the present; he tore your dress straight down the middle. You didn't even feel the tug either; it was instant.

Satoru leaves open-mouthed, wet, and passionate kisses everywhere that he sees exposed melanated skin. One of his favorite things about you is how your skin looks compared to his. He loves how rich and deeply tanned your skin is compared to his pale skin tone. He also loves how hard he has to work to make sure the bruises and marks he wants to leave show up.

You feel like you could get whiplash from the way you spin as Gojo teleports yet again and has you placed over his lap; ass up with your hands somehow tied behind your back. He's moving even faster now. Just how much did he hold back usually?

"Been a really bad girl today. So I'm not gonna hold back, mkay? Make this easier for yourself and count. If you don't I'll start over and if you fuck that up.." He pauses to think and a sinister chuckle escapes his mouth, "Just don't fuck up more than once."

You realize he left your mouth ungagged because not only does he want you to count. He wants to hear your cries and sobs. You almost forgot how much of a sadist Gojo is normally, so you can only imagine how much it's been dialed to 1000. Gojo places a kiss to your bare ass cheeks as a silent apology for what he's about to do. You brace yourself, already fighting the urge to squirm, but you still are unprepared for the impact of the hit.

The sound that leaves your mouth shocks you as the tears that were already welling in your eyes begin to pour almost immediately. You have fought special grade curses before and made it back to tell the tale but fuck— the pain you were feeling right now hurt. You grit your teeth and mutter out the number one but as soon as it leaves your lips; your poor ass is met with a black flash level of back to back hits.

Despite the warnings you know are in the back of your head, between broken sobs, you apologize and tell Gojo to stop. That you're so sorry and won't act out anymore.

Satoru raises an eyebrow; he had given you clear and concise orders, and you still defied him. Besides, you know the safeword so its not like he's a total monster and wouldn't stop if you used it. His six eyes reveal all and the arousal pooling on his lap from your aching and neglected cunt is saying otherwise but he'll humor you.

"You know the safeword. Use it."

He waits as you think it over, but then you remain silent. Gotcha. You pathetic bitch, always were into being degraded and hit. His perfect little masochist. Match made in heaven or hell; Gojo didn't give a damn. He smirks and feins concern as he grabs roughly onto your hair; pulling your head back just enough to make it uncomfortable.

"You do remember the same word right?"

"Ngh—"

A whimper escapes your mouth as your head is jerked back and forth in a demeaning motion. Not hard enough to hurt you, but enough so you feel it. You choke out the words that you do know the safeword. It seems to ignite an even bigger fire under Satoru. He leans forward and you can feel his breath tickling your neck.

"Y'know. I think you like this. You like being used like a toy. You like being fucked like a slut. You like when I treat you like some bitch I would meet at a club."

A wanton moan breaks past your lips as you shake your head. Gojo hums, letting go of your head, watching you fall abruptly back over his lap. He tells you that this is your last chance to stop being a brat and count. This time you have no warning before rapid hits blind you with hot pain. Despite that, you keep count sobbing as you fight to keep your legs from kicking.

The precision is what hurts most. He keeps hitting the same exact spots on both cheeks at a breakneck speed. By the time you say twenty you're prepared to use the safeword to get his reign of terror to stop but thanks to whatever higher being... well whatever being thats higher than Gojo— he stops to admire his work. No matter what your shade is, both of your ass cheeks are a blistering red. Arousal as dripped down your legs creating a puddle on the floor and your tears have stained your cheeks and soaked his pants leg.

"You did so well, sweets."

The nickname is back. Maybe he's calmed down enough to ease up. You cock your head slightly to look up at him and are met with a beautiful sight. His hair is frazzled and wild; the power in his eyes sparks a blue hue every couple of seconds, and his cheeks are the prettiest shade of red. He's fucking gone.

"Sator—"

You're cut off with a harsh slap to your ass again. He tells you that only good girls have the privilege of using his first name. You can only refer to him as Gojo right now. If he were still really angry with you, he'd have you refer to him as Lord Gojo.

But since he's feeling nice now; he supposes he'll let you have a reward for doing so well with your punishment. With your hands still bound he demands that you sit on his face. You know you're in no place to protest so as he moved to lay back on the bed; you do as your told and hover over his face not wanting to sit down too hard or suffocate him. You want to ease down; your ass still hurts afterall. A sudden force slams you down; Gojo's hands remained by his sides so you wonder what exactly did he do? Or the more important question is what can he do?

You have no time to think about the unknown powers that Gojo has and what it could mean for the future of sorcery as a whole, because the moment you are settled on his face, you feel his strategic tongue attacking away at your innards. You know he's using 'Six Eyes' and it's not fair. You have no defense against his attack; all you can do is moan his name like a prayer.

Satoru swears you're the best thing he's ever had the pleasure of tasting; the sounds you make is a fucking bonus. He's been with you for so long; he knows exactly what makes you tick. What your body wants— what it needs. He can work you out in less than five minutes, but where's the fun in that? Why would he give up his ambrosia? The nectar a God like him deserves to feast upon.

Your eyes roll back as you all but ride his face, chanting his name, telling him how close you are, how good he's making you feel. Then it hits you— your climax. It's intense, and your chest heaves up and down in overexertion, but he continues his onslaught. Eager like a puppy, he laps all of your fluids, a desperate moan muffled between your thighs as if he is addicted to the taste of you. You want to run but there's no where you can go especially with the way his hands dig into your plump ass dragging you back and forth over his mouth.

He finally releases whatever magical hold he has on you and lifts you off of his face with a loud pop from sucking on your clit. He teleports, and you're laid on your back with him on top of you, your essence dripping from his face and a smug grin on his face. You don't give him the chance to say something to ruin the moment by capturing his lips into a passionate kiss. It only lasts for a fleeting moment (he had a relapse in his judgment), and you're being shoved into the bed with his hand securely around your neck.

"Did I give you fucking permission to touch me?"

You open your mouth to protest and quickly shut it, feeling his grip tighten, silently daring you to say anything slick. You get a good look at Gojo and realize the only thing he has on is a gold necklace you insisted he buy to match the cross necklace you wore all the time. It dangles mockingly in your face as he leans closer to your face and tells you to open up.

By this point, you know what he wants, but every time, it is the only thing that makes you feel bashful. You slowly open your mouth, making eye contact with his blown-out, crazed sapphire eyes, and your tongue is met with a wad of his saliva. He coos in approval as you swallow on command.

"See? You can be my good girl. You know what to do."

His words were slurring together, and he knew he was losing it. His dick was throbbing with anticipation and he wasn't sure how long he'd last before the lights blew out in the room. You might not have realized, but the bed frame had already cracked, and the lights flickered in and out. He was also sure he heard more streetlights pop from outside.

"Fuck me, please."

Your voice is whiny as you rock your hips into the air, bringing the white-haired man out of his own thoughts. He pretends to consider it as if his tip isn't crying in agony with pre-cum desperate to feel your tight velvety walls clamp down around him.

"Hm.. you don't seem like you really want it. Beg."

You normally hate to ask Gojo for anything more than once. It hurts your pride, actually. Why should you have to ask when he should just give? You were the prize after all. However, today you know better; you don't know if he'd just leave you like this if you made him mad again. You needed this— need him. Want him. You're pleading before you realize the words are coming out of your mouth. Begging for him to put his dick in you and fuck you until all you can do is spasm from the weight of your orgasm— to rearrange your guts until you feel him in your stomach. To fuck you, like you know only he can.

Satoru's ears burn from your lewd vocabulary but he loves every minute of it. He loves how your tears soak your cheeks, how choked sobs escape your mouth, how you're rutting into nothing but air— he loves it all.

This is why he likes you being mean and a bitch. It gives him the opportunity to treat you like a stress toy— toy that he loves to fuck. Anytime you go too far or work his nerves just right, he can split you open like he is right now. Lifting your legs up, folding you into the meanest mating press, and pushing into you with no resistance from how soaked you are. Not stopping until he feels his tip kissing your cervix, with the lewd wet noise coming from where you two are connected intimately.

And maybe somewhere... deep. deep. deep. down he really fucking likes seeing you angry and yelling at him because mean women just turns him on. He has always liked a challenge. Why would he want a girl who never challenged him? Someone that agreed with everything he said and did; at that point he might as well date a fucking fan. Easy is boring. Nothing about Satoru is easy, so why would his relationships be? You excited him; which was damn near impossible considering he could see everything and anything all at once, all the time.

He liked the way you'd claw deep scratches into his back when he'd fuck you like this. How you'd cry about how deep he was. How no one ever made you feel this good. How you'd be a good girl from now on (he knows thats a lie). He loved you. Everything about you. Another reason he had been so mad today was not just because the higher-ups said something about the Yuji situation; they had tried to threaten him with the mere mention of something happening to you if he brought up Yuji's execution again. He would have killed everyone in the room with no regard for what happens next if not for Yaga shutting the conversation down by defending you. It only barely saved them. Barely.

"—Cum?"

You were babbling gibberish as he fucked in and out of you at a fast pace with his own moans tumbling from his lip. He hid his face into the crook of your neck, lapping at the skin before biting down. It sent you over the edge immediately, and Satoru followed shortly after.

He collapsed on top of you, panting like he had just run a marathon with no prep. His ears rang slightly as he rolled off you and let his eyes readjust to the room. He let out a cackle looking at his surroundings. The headboard was split in half. Lights completely blown out. Yeah he was real pent up.

Satoru rolled over to crack a joke to make you laugh; moments after sex were when you were the nicest. You got to be super soft, and you two were just two people dating. You weren't just dating the strongest, but the real Satoru. His gaze softened as he realized you were already knocked out. He opted to clean you up and teleport you both to your place. It was more comfortable there anyways. He nestled under the covers with your unconscious body and pressed a loving kiss to your forehead, pulling you tightly into his embrace.

So yeah, maybe you were bitchy but he wouldn't have you any other way. After all, you're the only one who can handle him.

#gojo x black!reader #gojo smut #satoru gojo smut #satoru x reader smut #satoru x reader #jjk x black!reader #satoru smut #gojo satoru #gojo x you #smutty smut smut #smut fic #gojo rough smut

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emonaculate · 13 days ago

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It's always being the one making these types of comments, yet never receiving :(

Normalize leaving unhinged comments on ao3 fics you like. I'm tired of being the only one brave enough to write "I am chewing on this fic" in the comment section. Be weird. Authors will love you for it

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emonaculate · 15 days ago

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Looking Out for You

❄ Author's Note: No way! Em has the inspiration to write something? I did not forget about "S?ABT" it is my baby and I am currently revising some of the upcoming chapters I just wanted it to be more fleshed out before posting any updates. Anyways let me know what you guys think of this I am really proud of it and I love hearing your comments!

❄ Synopsis: Yn is grappling with the humbling experience of being gifted kid burnout, burdened by family turmoil, and the weight of her inner demons. Just before her senior year of high school, she's reluctantly roped into volunteering as a counselor and teacher at a winter camp. There, she formally meets Gojo Satoru—an aggravatingly handsome hockey player with an ego to match his skill, all charm, smirks, and know-it-all energy. Y/n doesn’t realize that beneath Gojo’s confident exterior lies a storm of his own—wounds he’s hidden just as deeply as she has.

The vinyl seats of the cruiser stuck to the back of Y/n’s thighs like a second skin, the plastic creaking every time she shifted her weight. Outside, the early winter evening painted the town in a watery gray haze—frosted windows, crooked streetlights buzzing faintly with static, and snow half-melted into dirty slush along the curb. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked like it had something to prove. Just when she thought her day couldn't get any fucking worse.

Y/n sat in the back of the cop car like it was routine—elbows propped on her knees, chin resting in her hand, face unreadable. The flashing lights had long since been turned off, but the phantom red-and-blue still pulsed behind her eyelids like an annoying screensaver. Across the windshield, her mother stood stiff in her department store coat, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was holding herself together just barely. Tired didn’t even begin to cover it. Her voice was low, tense, but Y/n couldn’t make out the words—just saw her lips move with the careful precision of someone trying not to snap. Again.

Next to her, the officer on duty leaned against the car door, one hand on his belt like he wanted this over ten minutes ago. He barely nodded, barely blinked. The third figure was who Y/n assumed to be the unfortunate owner of what she considered her latest masterpiece. Y/n’s gaze drifted lazily to her reflection in the scratched plastic partition, eyes half-lidded with indifference. Deep plum-colored shadows clung beneath her dull, hickory eyes—like bruises left behind by too many sleepless nights. Her hair, once long, uniform, and silken black, now barely grazed her shoulders in uneven layers, dyed a moody shade of wine that clashed with who she used to be.

If someone had shown this version of her to the girl she was five years ago—bright-eyed, polished, full of promise—she would’ve laughed in disbelief. Or cried. Maybe both. Y/n was snapped out of her daze by the creak of the cruiser door swinging open. Cold air rushed in, biting at her cheeks, but she barely flinched. Standing there, silhouetted against the dim streetlights, was the same officer who’d had the unfortunate task of throwing her into the back seat to begin with.

Her gaze drifted up to his face, and a slow, amused smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. There it was—a purplish bruise blooming across his cheekbone, just below his eye. Sloppy, but satisfying. She remembered the sharp jolt of her elbow making contact, the brief moment of chaos before they’d finally wrestled her into cuffs. Worth it.

“Good evening, officer,” she drawled, voice smooth with mock sweetness.

He didn’t answer, just leveled her with a look that said he was far too tired for her games. She stepped out of the car with practiced ease, shoulders relaxed, like she wasn’t the reason this entire scene had been set in motion. Y/n’s flicker of satisfaction vanished just as quickly as it had come—snuffed out by the sharp, familiar sting of her mother’s voice slicing through the cold air. Her full name. Said with that deadly, no-nonsense cadence that mothers seem to master from the moment they give birth to you. The kind of tone that meant no amount of smirking or silent rebellion was going to save her this time.

Y/n’s eyes flicked away from the officer, her smirk slipping into something colder. She shoved her hands deep into the frayed pockets of her oversized, black, ripped pants—the loose fabric hanging dangerously low on her hips. Her boots crunched softly against the snow-dusted pavement as she started toward her mother, each step weighted with the kind of practiced indifference only a teenage girl with a long list of mistakes could wear well. She didn’t walk fast. Didn’t look sorry. And she sure as hell didn’t plan on explaining herself.

"Yes, mother dearest?" Y/n’s voice dripped with sarcasm, a sickly sweet lilt curling off her tongue as she came to a lazy stop in front of her mother and the elderly shop owner. Her smile was insincere, daring.

Evangeline forced one of her own in return, but the twitch in her eye betrayed her composure. She was clearly clenching her jaw, holding back the thousand thoughts that must have been running through her head—none of them kind. Y/n knew the look well. She'd seen it every time she'd managed to sabotage yet another one of her mother’s carefully cultivated professional relationships. It was starting to become a pattern.

"I believe you owe Mr. Soraoka an apology," Evangeline said evenly, though her voice was tight. "For breaking into his store and destroying his property. You are very, very lucky he’s chosen not to press charges."

Y/n rolled her eyes, slow and deliberate, then turned to the elderly man beside her. He looked as soft as he sounded—kindness etched into the wrinkles of his face, his hands folded gently in front of him.

"Nonsense," Mr. Soraoka said with a chuckle, waving dismissively at Evangeline as if she'd just suggested something absurd. "After all you did for me when my wife passed, helping me manage the will and keep the shop… It’s the least I can do, Mrs. Kashiwagi."

Evangeline froze—her lips parted slightly, like she might correct him. But before she could speak, it was too late. Y/n's eyes glittered with something venomous as her smirk sharpened.

"Oh, you haven’t heard, sir?" she said lightly, though the bitterness was unmistakable. "She got remarried. I’m the only Kashiwagi now. Especially since he’s gone. Guess it’s up to me to carry on the family legacy—"

She didn’t finish. The words caught in her throat, burning like acid as the emotion snuck up on her—uninvited, unwelcome. Her voice faltered, and she blinked fast, hoping it would stop the tears before they had the audacity to fall. Not here. Not in front of her mother.

Especially not in front of her.

"M’going to the car," Y/n mumbled, voice raw and small as she rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and walked away, ignoring the sound of her mother calling her back.

Evangeline stood still, her shoulders stiff as her daughter disappeared toward the car. Her lips pressed into a hard line, then softened with a sigh—quiet and resigned. She turned back to Mr. Soraoka, offering a hollow laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Teenagers…" she muttered. "One minute they’re crawling all over you, and the next they wish you didn’t exist."

Mr. Soraoka didn’t laugh. He watched her carefully, taking in the exhaustion beneath her polished exterior. Her beauty was undeniable—graceful, poised, but weathered by years of silent struggle. It was obvious to anyone who looked close enough: the past four years had worn her thin. The sudden loss of her husband. A daughter spiraling in grief and rebellion. Balancing her career as a foreigner running her own law firm in Tokyo—none of it had been easy.

"Thank you again," she said after a pause, her voice gentler now, bowing slightly in respect. "For not pressing charges. She’s… she’s a good girl. She’s just been through a lot."

Mr. Soraoka nodded slowly, his expression shifting from solemn to certain.

"Actually," he said, tone suddenly firmer, "I do have one request."

Evangeline blinked, caught off guard. There was something knowing in his eyes now—something resolute. He’d seen this before: a teenager so full of anger they couldn’t feel anything else. A family worn thin. A mother doing her best to hold everything together. And he remembered how a place, a purpose, had once helped another broken-hearted Kashiwagi find peace.

"I know exactly what she needs," Mr. Soraoka said, quietly but with conviction.

"It worked for her father. Why not her?"

Y/n lay sprawled on her bed, eyes fixed on the faded constellation stickers scattered across her ceiling—little glimmers of soft green glowing faintly in the dark. They were uneven, a little crooked, their edges peeling with age, but to her, they were perfect. Each one a frozen moment, a quiet echo from a simpler time. She remembered exactly how they got there. It was a memory etched into her mind with sharp clarity—one she often revisited when everything else felt like it was slipping out of focus.

She’d been a wide-eyed little girl, full of wonder and stubborn ideas. And she had begged her father to put the stars up—despite his initial protests about how tacky they would look compared to his carefully curated, traditional Japanese decor. Shoji screens, minimalist calligraphy, warm cedarwood tones… and glow-in-the-dark plastic stars? Absolutely not.

But her father, Harukemi, caved, as he always did when it came to his baby girl. His only baby girl. She remembered sitting on his broad, heavily tattooed shoulders as they worked together to scatter the stickers across the ceiling. Her tiny fingers peeled each one carefully while he guided her from below, one large hand pointing to where each star should go, the other steadying her.

"Why do constellations even exist?" she had asked in that childlike wonder voice that always made him flash his dimple-filled smile.

He hummed thoughtfully before answering, as if plucking the story from the stars themselves.

"They’re people who chose not to be reincarnated," Harukemi said, voice baritone and tender. "Because they wanted to stay close to the one they were fated to love in this life."

Y/n had gone quiet, thinking hard. Then—

"But what if someone chooses to be reincarnated… and their soulmate doesn’t?"

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated in her small frame. Nothing got past his little girl; her big brain definitely came from Eve.

"Then they become brand new galaxies," he answered, after a short moment of thought. "Endless and vast—so they can keep searching, lifetime after lifetime, until they find each other again."

She placed the final sticker—an uneven little crescent moon—before he gently lifted her from his shoulders and cradled her close to his chest. Warm. Safe. Home. The creak of her bedroom door pulled Y/n abruptly from the safety of her thoughts. She scowled instinctively, already prepared to snap at whoever had dared to interrupt her rare moment of peace. Her expression fell flat the second she saw who it was.

Kiara. Of course. Her fifteen-year-old stepsister stood awkwardly in the doorway, refusing to make eye contact, as if she already knew she was unwelcome.

"Dad cooked, if you're hungry." Kiyara muttered, voice low and uncertain.

Y/n narrowed her eyes, her tone flat and dismissive. "Heard. Now leave."

Kiara hesitated for a moment, her jaw twitching with something unsaid. Then she turned on her heel with a muttered comment under her breath—inaudible but definitely laced with attitude—before slamming the door behind her. Y/n didn’t even flinch.

Instead, she picked up her phone and scrolled aimlessly through her gallery, her thumb pausing on every photo of her father. There were dozens—maybe hundreds. Him beaming behind her as she skated on wobbly legs at the ice rink. The two of them in front of a massive lion enclosure at the zoo. A blurry shot of them eating cotton candy on a roller coaster platform. Them being at the dance studio he taught regularly at. Her sitting on the back of his dangerous motorcycle, holding a box of groceries like it was some grand mission.

They weren’t just photos. They were proof. Little frozen frames of a world where she felt understood. Where someone looked at her and saw her—not a problem to be fixed or a responsibility to pass off. Sometimes she wondered if he was the only person in the whole world who ever truly got her... and now he was gone.

After a while of more bed-rotting, Y/n forced herself up and threw on a random oversized graphic t-shirt and left her room to find something to eat. Like hell she'd eat anything made by that sorry attempt at replacing her father. Instead, she slipped down the hall toward the kitchen, her socks silent against the hardwood floor. The house was too quiet—eerily so. Like it was holding its breath.

She opened the fridge, pulled out a crisp Fuji apple, and set it on the counter. The dull slice of the kitchen knife against the cutting board was rhythmic, familiar. She reached for a slice, but stopped mid-motion. Her eyes caught on something. Or rather—the absence of something. The key. The old brass key that always hung on the tiny hook in the dining room alcove, just beside the display shelf with her dad’s tea set. The key to his study. His sanctuary. It was gone. Y/n’s heart skipped. No. No one touched that room. No one was supposed to.

Her limbs moved before her thoughts could catch up, leaving the apple slices forgotten on the cutting board as she stormed down the hallway, anxiety building in her throat like bile. Her breathing quickened. The world narrowed. The door to his study—a door that had remained sealed since the day of the funeral—was cracked open. Y/n froze for just a moment. Her stomach dropped. Then she pushed it open. Empty. The room was empty.

The shelves that once held her father’s meticulously organized books, his framed photographs and tattoo designs, his incense burner and ink brushes—gone. His desk, where he spent hours scribbling in his worn leather journal, empty. The rug they used to sit on when she’d draw while he worked—rolled up. Even the scent of sandalwood and old paper had vanished, replaced with sterile emptiness.

And then came the sound. It tore out of her chest, raw and guttural—a sharp, shattering cry that cracked through the silence like glass meeting concrete. Not loud. Just devastating. She stood frozen in the center of the hollow room, fists clenched, nails digging crescents into her palms. Her grief was no longer silent. Then came the footsteps. And around the corner, as if summoned by her pain, came him...her mother's new husband, Evan. Holding a box.

Her father’s box. She saw it before she saw the rest of him. The edge of her dad’s favorite scarf hung out from the top, crushed beneath God knows what else—loose papers, a ceramic pen holder, maybe even the sketch of her he kept by the window.

Y/n felt like she was going to explode. There were not enough crude words in the entire world that would help express what exactly she was feeling in the moment.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

Her voice wasn’t loud—but it was sharp, jagged. Evan (the step-father in question) froze mid-step, eyes widening for a second. He looked ridiculous standing there with a cardboard box of memories he had no right to touch.

"Y/n, your mother and I—"

"Don’t. Don’t you dare say her name right now." Her voice wavered slightly, but the fury was taking over, swallowing the ache like a firestorm.

"This was his space. This—this is all I have left of him!"

The older man’s mouth opened, then closed again. He looked down at the box in his hands as if just realizing the weight of what he was holding. It appeared that he was mentally weighing the options of pissing off the angst teenage ticking time bomb or upset his wife. Evan had never been a strong-willed man; he was rather timid in all aspects of his life and preferred to stay out of the limelight whenever possible. How he managed to pull a woman like Evangeline was beyond him.

"Put it down. Now." Y/n stepped forward, eyes blazing.

“Put it down.”

Y/n’s voice trembled, not from fear—but from fury. Her fists were clenched, her entire body taut like a rubber band stretched too tight.

“Put. It. Down.”

Evan didn’t move. He adjusted his grip on the box instead, standing a little taller. “Y/n, this stuff doesn’t belong in a shrine anymore. It’s been four years—your mom and I agreed it was time to clear the space.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat.

“You mean erase him.” She sneered at the man.

He exhaled through his nose, clearly trying to stay calm. “That’s not what this is.”

But she was already shaking her head.

“You don’t get to decide when I let him go. You don’t even get to touch his things.”

His jaw tightened. “Y/n—”

“You moved into his house. Slept in his bed. Fucked and married her. You don’t give a damn about what he meant to me!”

That’s when his composure slipped. Y/n had a really bad habit of getting under people's skin and making them feel as ugly as she felt most days on the inside.

“You’ve had four years to grieve, Y/n. How much more do you need?” He let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

The silence that followed was deafening. Even he looked like he hadn’t meant to say it. His face paled instantly, regret flickering across his features like a crack in glass. But the damage was already done.

Y/n’s eyes went wide—then narrowed into a sharp, unforgiving glare. Her grief ignited like gasoline hitting open flame. Without thinking, she lunged forward, her hands grabbing at the box, shoving him backwards, sending some of her father’s belongings tumbling to the ground.

“You selfish—soulless—bastard! Spineless piece of shit” she screamed, shoving him again.

He stumbled, catching himself on the wall, just as Y/n kicked the box across the hall. The contents spilled—a watch, a framed photo of her as a toddler, an old Japanese poetry book. Pieces of a life that didn’t belong to him. Before she could do more, a sharp voice cut through the chaos.

“Y/N!”

Evangeline’s heels clicked furiously across the floor, phone still clutched in hand, freshly off yet another business call. Her expression was tight and tired, but her eyes were blazing.

“What is wrong with you?”

Y/n turned to face her, chest heaving, throat raw.

“Me? What’s wrong with me? Is everyone in this fucking house insane?” Y/n hissed in frustration.

And then it all spilled out—everything she’d been holding in for years.

“You wanna talk about what’s wrong? Let’s start with the fact that you haven’t looked at me since Dad died. You checked out! Mentally, emotionally—everything. And you only got your life together after he showed up!” Y/n jabbed a finger toward her stepfather.

“That’s not true,” Evangeline snapped, her voice dangerously low.

“Oh, please! You left me to drown in this damn house with the ghosts of yesterday, and now you want to punish me for acting out? Maybe if you were actually around, I wouldn’t have turned into this mess you keep trying to fix!”

“You barely passed this semester, Y/n! You don’t even try anymore!” Evangeline’s voice rose with every word, “You walk around looking like you haven’t seen a mirror in weeks! You’re mean, cruel to everyone who tries to care. You shoplift! You vandalize shops! You stopped ice skating—you were good, Y/n. You don't dance anymore You could’ve gone somewhere with it! But you gave up on everything.”

Y/n’s mouth fell open in disbelief. No way. No way her mother could be this delusional. What the fuck do you think happens when you leave a freshly fourteen year old whose father just died alone to process grief?

“You think I gave up? Maybe I just didn’t have anyone left to fight for. Maybe I was too busy surviving in a house where my mother pretended I didn’t exist!”

Evangeline’s eyes burned with unshed tears. She needed to calm down; this is not how she wanted this conversation to go. It wasn't time yet.

“I was grieving too—”

“Bullshit!” Y/n screamed, “You didn’t grieve! You buried yourself in your job and him, and pretended Dad never existed! You left me behind. You weren’t there. Not once. Not when I needed you. Not when I cried for him at night. Not when I stopped eating. Not when I begged for someone to see me—you weren’t there!”

Evangeline’s voice cracked with something low and furious; to hell with trying to spare feelings and save face. Clearly, Y/n only understood when people stooped to her level. She was just as headstrong as Harukemi, only less endearing.

“He might have been your dad…” Evangeline started, teeth clenched,“…but he was my husband. I lost my husband. And now I’m stuck with a horrible, entitled child who blames the whole world for her pain.”

Silence. Time stopped. And then, slowly, Y/n's expression hardened into something unreadable. Her lips parted—and the words came out like venom.

“It should have been you.”

Evangeline went still. The color drained from her face. Her mouth opened slightly in shock—but no words came. Only silence. Cold, sharp, final. Then, as if something inside her snapped, her face shut down. Emotionless. Cold.

“You’ll be attending Tengen’s Star on Ice Camp,” she said flatly, “It’s two months. After that, you’ll finish your final year of high school. Then—when you turn eighteen—you can leave. Go wherever the hell you want. I don’t care anymore. I'm done.”

She turned and walked away. Her pathetic husband followed right behind her, calling after her, but to no avail. Kiyara, who had witnessed the closing remarks, looked at her stepsister with a sad expression on her face as she bent down and picked up the items that had fallen out of the box. Y/n watched the girl with an unreadable expression as Kiyara finally sat the box down in front of her before making a quiet exit out of the hall.

Y/n stood there, still breathing hard, her chest tight, her throat raw. The box lay at her feet—scattered memories of a better time. She didn't cry. She just stood there. Alone. Again.

The weeks leading up to Y/n’s departure bled together in cold silence. She spent most of her time barricaded in her room, headphones in, lights off, buried beneath thick blankets like a fortress. When the walls felt too tight or the air too stale, she’d slip out unnoticed, making her way to the same ice rink she’d frequented as a child.

She never brought her skates. She just watched. Children laughed as they stumbled on the ice, couples clung to one another for balance, and seasoned skaters sliced across the frozen surface like it was second nature. It should have brought her joy—the sound of blades scraping ice, the smell of hot chocolate, the familiar hum of music from the old speakers—but now, it just felt like another reminder of everything she'd lost. Of everything that had changed.

No words had been exchanged between her and Evangeline since that day. Not a glance. Not a knock on the door. Nothing. The house was too big for that kind of silence, but somehow, they managed. And that, in itself, said everything. It was clear where the two stood now. No bridges left to burn. Just ash and distance.

Y/n told herself she was fine with that; she was seventeen now, anyway, only a couple of months left, and she could go wherever she wanted. Finally free. Finally unburdened. She could leave soon—really leave—and never come back. No more suffocating conversations. No more sideways looks. No more pretending. No regrets.

At least, that’s what she whispered to herself as she stared at the rink through fogged glass, heart aching in a way she couldn’t quite name. Because grief had a funny way of hiding itself in the quiet. And loneliness? It was best disguised as freedom. The night of her departure arrived cloaked in a thick, still quiet—the kind that seemed to hang in the air like a breath being held.

Y/n stood in the middle of her dimly lit room, zipping up the second of two small duffle bags. She hadn’t bothered to organize them with any real thought. A few sweaters, worn jeans, a couple pairs of shoes, and the same black hoodie she always wore when she didn’t want to be noticed. That was enough. It wasn’t like she cared to impress anyone at the camp. She wasn't going to make friends. She wasn’t going to start over.

She was just… going. She threw the bags near her bedroom door and sat down on the edge of her bed, the mattress creaking slightly under her weight. Her eyes flicked up to the ceiling, where the faded glow-in-the-dark constellation stickers still clung stubbornly to the plaster like ghosts of her childhood. They didn’t shine like they used to.

She leaned over to grab the crumpled scarf from her nightstand—the one that had belonged to her father. She wasn’t sure when she’d started sleeping with it under her pillow, but the scent had long since faded. Still, her fingers ran over the frayed edge like it might anchor her to something—anything—that felt real.

No one had said goodbye. Evangeline hadn’t even come to her room. Not that she expected her to. Not anymore. Y/n gave one last glance around the space that had once been her whole world before standing up, slipping her duffle straps over her shoulders. As she opened her bedroom door, the hallway light buzzed dimly above her. She didn’t look back. There was nothing left here for her to hold onto.

Just before leaving her room, Y/n paused. Her eyes lingered on the worn pair of ice skates tucked in the corner beneath her bookshelf—dust collecting lightly on the laces, blades dulled from lack of use. She told herself it was pointless to bring them. But her hand reached out anyway. Just in case.

The train platform was quiet, kissed by early morning frost and a sky still painted in faded hues of lavender and silver. Y/n boarded the nearly empty carriage, choosing a window seat near the back where she could stretch out, headphones already looped around her neck.

As the train lurched into motion, the city bled away behind her, tall buildings and traffic slowly giving way to open roads and fields blanketed in snow. They passed through valleys where the sun peeked through clouds, casting golden halos over snow-covered pines. Mountains loomed in the distance, their ridges softened by white drifts, like powdered sugar over a dream.

Snowflakes danced against the windows, soft and slow, like the sky was exhaling. Y/n leaned against the glass, pressing her cheek to the chill. She thumbed through her phone until she found it—the wedding playlist. The one her dad had made for Evangeline all those years ago. An odd mix of Motown classics, begging and pleading R&B (Harukemi's words, not hers), soft jazz, and powerful Japanese ballads her father had adored. She pressed play. Let it wash over her. She didn’t cry. She just... listened. And slowly, the lull of the train and the warmth of the music pulled her into sleep. When she woke, the train had stopped moving. A soft nudge pulled her from her dreams.

“Hey,” a voice said gently. “We’re here. You slept for a while.”

Y/n blinked groggily, squinting against the now-orange glow of the setting sun slanting through the train windows. She turned to find herself not alone, as she had thought. Her head had somehow—and she had no idea how—ended up resting against a stranger’s shoulder. A boy. He wore distressed black jeans, a tattered band tee under a plaid flannel, and a chain hanging from his belt loop. His ears were lined with mismatched silver piercings, and a subtle nose ring curved through his nostril. His shaggy shoulder-length dark brown hair peeked out from under a beanie that looked like it had seen better days. Despite the grunge armor, his expression was soft. Genuinely concerned.

“I—” Y/n scrambled upright, suddenly embarrassed at just how long she had been lying on him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—fall asleep—on you.”

He smiled a little, brushing off his shoulder like it was nothing. “It’s alright. You looked tired.”

His voice was calm. Unassuming. Not what she expected. Y/n mumbled a vague “thanks” under her breath, already avoiding eye contact as she grabbed her bags and skates. Her body was stiff from the five-hour nap, her pride even stiffer. She didn’t know what was worse—accidentally sleeping on a stranger or the fact that it had been the best sleep she’d had in months. No point in thinking about it now. She had a camp to survive. The cold bit at Y/n’s cheeks the moment she stepped off the train, her boots crunching into fresh snow that sparkled like crushed diamonds beneath the setting sun. Her breath came out in visible puffs as she took in the scene around her.

Everywhere she looked, groups of late teens and young adults were laughing, hugging, or shouting each other’s names across the platform. Some had clearly been coming to this camp for years—joking like old friends reunited. It was loud, chaotic, and warm in that annoying way that made her feel even more isolated. She kept her distance, clutching the strap of her bag tightly as she walked past them. Her skates were slung over her shoulder, bouncing lightly with every step. Then, her eyes lifted.

Beyond the crowd, the camp stretched out like something from a storybook. Wooden lodges lined with twinkling string lights. Candy cane–striped poles marking the paths. Icicles dripping from rooftops. Flakes of snow gently drifted down in slow spirals from the mountain ranges behind the camp, making the whole place look like a snow globe someone had just shaken. It was... beautiful. Painfully so.

“Still not impressed?”

A hand landed gently on her shoulder. Y/n shivered from the cold feeling of metal touching her exposed skin. Maybe wearing an off-shoulder sweatshirt wasn't the best idea. Just how many rings did one person need to wear on one hand? Y/n turned and met the gentle gaze of the boy from the train. He stood beside her now, lips tilted into a slight half-smile. It was like he was silently telling her to get used to seeing him because he wasn't going anywhere.

“Choso,” he said simply, offering the name like a quiet olive branch.

Y/n gave a small nod. “Y/n.”

He glanced around the camp. “Looks like we’re stuck here for a while.”

She let out a soft exhale through her nose. “Fantastic.”

Before either of them could say more, movement pulled their attention toward the entrance gates of the camp, where a raised wooden stage stood decorated with garlands of evergreen and silver ribbon.

Five figures approached it, stepping up onto the platform, followed closely by none other than Mr. Soraoka himself—his cane tapping lightly against the wood as he smiled at the crowd. Y/n’s eyes flicked to the five people flanking him. They were clearly counselors or returning seniors, dressed more put together than the chaos of everyone else. But one in particular stood out—like an explosion of sunlight on a cloudy day. A tall boy.

His hair was impossibly white—almost the same color as the snow around them—and fluffed out like freshly fallen powder. His skin glowed under the lights with a slight tan, and his eyes, an electric blue, scanned the crowd with practiced ease. Thick-rimmed glasses rested lazily on top of his head, pushed up like he hadn’t decided if he needed them or not.

He wore a baby blue oversized crewneck on it was a small logo belonging to a brand Y/n did could not make out, with a crisp white collared shirt peeking out from underneath the crewneck. The sleeves strained slightly over thick, muscular arms, the kind you wouldn’t expect someone so pretty to have. His legs, despite being mostly covered by mid-length khaki cargo shorts (how was he not cold?), still showcased evidence of a life well-lived—small bandaids, healed scrapes, light bruises like he collected them for fun. And on his feet—classic tan Timberlands, dusted in snow. He was… effortlessly chaotic. And irritatingly eye-catching.

The murmurs of the crowd quieted as Mr. Soraoka stepped to the center of the small wooden stage, the falling snow settling softly on his dark wool coat. Though his age showed in the curve of his spine and the lines around his kind eyes, his voice rang out strong and full of warmth.

“Welcome, welcome, my dear volunteers,” he began, raising his arms wide. “I must say, seeing all of you here so early, so eager to give back… it fills this old heart with joy.”

A soft round of applause rippled through the crowd.

“This camp,” he continued, motioning to the snow-covered grounds behind him, “was founded many years ago by my great-grandfather, Tengen. A man with a wild soul and a heart bigger than this mountain. He believed in the magic of youth, in the gift of joy, and most importantly—in the power of discovery.”

He paused, letting the wind carry his words.

“Tengen’s Star on Ice wasn’t just a winter camp. It was a place for children to find themselves, to build confidence through skill, to make friends who feel like family, and to create memories that last lifetimes.”

All around Y/n, heads nodded in agreement. It was clear—most of these people had lived that magic.

“Many of you were once those wide-eyed kids, bundled in oversized scarves and falling on your faces in the snow,” Mr. Soraoka chuckled, the crowd joining him. “And now look at you. Back here again, this time not as campers, but as guides. Mentors. Counselors. It’s your turn now—to carry the torch, to be the magic for someone else.”

Y/n’s eyes drifted upward, snowflakes catching in her lashes. Something in her chest shifted, uncomfortably so.

“And now,” Mr. Soraoka smiled, “let me introduce the people who have not only walked this path before you—but have practically carved it into the snow.”

He gestured to the five figures lined up beside him.

“First, our head counselors. You’ll report to them with questions, concerns, or if you simply need someone to talk to. Think of them as an extension of me; if they say it.. I said it.”

One by one, they stepped forward.

“Suguru Geto, let's make this break a good one. ” The tall, calm boy with a soft bun gave a graceful bow, hands tucked neatly behind his back. While he appeared kind and sweet, his baggy attire gave a different impression, especially with the piercing through his lip, and the slight condescending look as he gazed down at the crowd.

“Shoko Ieiri, stay out of the infirmary this year, please.” A girl with short, choppy hair and tired but kind eyes waved lazily, cigarette tucked behind one ear despite the posted no-smoking sign nearby.

“Utahime Iori, I'll do my best to not let you all down.” Stern and elegant, she bowed crisply, her dark bob unmoving even in the breeze.

“Nanami Kento,” who seemed to be the only counselor who wore a uniform, even in the snow, nodded sharply. “Follow the rules,” he said flatly. “And we’ll all survive the winter.”

Soft laughter bubbled through the group.

“And finally,” Mr. Soraoka sighed as though preparing himself, “Gojo Satoru.”

So his name was Gojo Satoru. The name fit him oddly. He stepped forward, flashing a blinding smile as he lifted his hands to gesture a peace sign.

“Call me Gojo,” He introduced himself innocently before sticking his tongue out and tugging his oversized baby blue sweater halfway up to reveal a flash of a very well-defined set of abs beneath.

The crowd erupted. Cheers, whoops, and groans of recognition. Utahime muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Shoko rolled her eyes. Nanami visibly pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Put your damn shirt down, Satoru,” Suguru sighed, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smirk.

Gojo obeyed—eventually—and shot the crowd a wink.

Mr. Soraoka let out a deep belly laugh. “If I were twenty years younger, I’d be just like him.”

Then, his eyes scanned the crowd again. Y/n shifted uncomfortably. Something about the look he was giving… And then it happened. The old man’s grin widened.

“This year,” he said, his voice now layered with something impish, “we’re doing things a little differently. In the spirit of growth—and to make this year even more unforgettable—we’re not stopping at five head counselors.”

A hush fell over the crowd, followed by an excited murmur.

“We’ve decided to add one more.”

Cheers. Whispers. A few confused expressions.

“Settle down,” came Nanami’s sharp tone, instantly restoring order.

“Thank you, Kento,” Mr. Soraoka chuckled. Then he straightened, his voice rising with significance.

“I would like to welcome our sixth counselor this year—a new face to some of you, perhaps. But to me… someone I’ve watched grow from a bright-eyed little girl to a force of her own.”

Y/n’s blood ran cold. Oh, no.

“Please welcome… Y/n Kashiwagi. Come on up here, my dear.”

A thousand eyes turned. Y/n froze. She didn’t move. Gojo’s eyebrow arched with intrigue. Choso looked over at her with a flicker of concern.

Mr. Soraoka just smiled warmly. “Don’t be shy now.”

Y/n’s legs felt like lead as she forced one foot in front of the other, the snow crunching softly beneath her boots as she reluctantly made her way toward the stage. The murmurs were like thunder in her ears. She kept her gaze low, wishing she could melt into the ice-covered ground. This had to be his twisted revenge for what she did to his shop. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t like them. Just as she was about to step up, a sharp voice pierced through the cold air like a dagger.

“Excuse me,” a girl’s voice snapped. “Why is it that some random newcomer gets to be a counselor, but people who’ve attended this camp for years are overlooked?”

A ripple of gasps spread through the crowd like wildfire. More voices rose in agreement.

“Yeah, that’s not fair—”

“She’s never even been a camper—”

“What makes her so special?”

Y/n’s chest tightened as the angry buzz of the crowd grew louder, the warmth in her cheeks turning into a stifling burn. Her breath hitched in her throat. She didn’t know where to look. Her vision blurred. Her heart raced. They were right. They didn’t know her. And they already hated her. She didn’t even see Choso move until his hand engulfed hers—cool, large, steady.

“C’mon,” he said, voice low but firm, pulling her gently but quickly away from the center of attention.

She stumbled for a moment, overwhelmed by the noise, the eyes, the shame. She didn’t like being touched, not really, but this… this wasn’t bad. This was grounding. Her panic softened into a numb daze as Choso guided her down a snow-dusted path toward the staff cabins. They passed rows of tall pine trees, the smell of fresh snow and wood smoke hanging in the air. The camp’s chatter faded behind them, replaced by the quiet crunch of boots in the snow and Y/n’s quickened breathing.

Choso stopped at one of the cabins—dark wood, slightly weathered, icicles dangling from the roof. He pushed the door open and led her inside before shutting it behind them with a soft click. The cabin was small but warm, rustic with a couple of bunk beds, soft blankets folded neatly, and a heater humming softly in the corner. Y/n stood frozen in place, unsure of what to say, what to feel, what to do. She looked up only to find Choso staring at her, one dark brow raised in quiet question. His look wasn’t judgmental—it was curious. Calm. Like he was trying to figure her out, but wouldn’t press if she didn’t want to explain. Y/n felt her hands clench at her sides.

“I didn’t know,” she muttered. “They didn’t tell me. I didn’t ask to be some special sixth counselor or whatever.”

Choso nodded once, slowly. Still silent.

“I just… I didn’t even want to come here.”

Still nothing. His silence was almost irritating. But not in a bad way. More like… it gave her space to think. She hadn't ever experienced such kindness from a total stranger. This camp is way too weird.

Y/n sighed heavily, shoulders sagging. “All I wanted to do was coast through this whole thing. Now everyone knows who I am and already has some stupid ass opinion. So that’s great.”

Choso finally moved. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his black long-sleeve, still silent but exuding a calm that somehow made the air less suffocating. She looked at him again. The nose ring. The dark eyes. The face tattoo across the bridge of his nose. The chipped black nail polish on his fingers. The cool indifference in his stance. And yet, he’d pulled her out of the fire without hesitation. She swallowed thickly and turned away, hugging her arms around herself.

“…Thanks,” she said quietly, almost too soft to hear.

Choso shrugged. “Didn’t want you to pass out on me. You looked like you were gonna.”

Y/n huffed a laugh, bitter and embarrassed.

He looked over at her again. “You good?”

She hesitated, then gave a weak nod.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward the door, pausing before opening it. “Take a breath. Let ’em cool off. I’ll be outside.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he stepped out into the snow and shut the door behind him. Y/n was left in the still cabin, her chest slowly rising and falling as she stared at the closed door, wondering why the hell he had helped her. And more importantly—what the hell she was supposed to do now?

Y/n sat on the edge of one of the lower bunks, the tension still coiled tight in her chest like a snake ready to strike. She sighed and raised a hand to her head, running her fingers through the thick, dyed strands of her hair—a nervous tick she hadn’t realized she’d started doing again. But her fingers snagged halfway through.

“Shit,” she muttered, wincing as she tugged them free. Her hair was dry and tangled from weeks of neglect. Frizzy at the ends, dull in color, no real shape. And her hoodie had a paint stain across the sleeve from when she "accidentally" vandalized the corner store with her latest emotional outburst.

For the first time in months… she felt it. That weird gnawing feeling in her gut. Self-consciousness. Y/n stared down at her scuffed boots. The old ones her dad bought her for a winter trip years ago. They were still her favorite, but the soles were half worn. She bit the inside of her cheek and slapped both cheeks lightly.

"Pull it together," she whispered to herself. "They don’t know you. They don’t matter."

But the truth was—they did. Somehow, this place already felt heavier than home. Like the air here carried expectations she hadn’t agreed to meet. That speech, that title, those eyes. All of it made her feel like she’d walked into a play halfway through and someone shoved her on stage without a script. She needed to find Mr. Soraoka. Say something. Apologize, maybe. Explain that she had zero business mentoring anyone when she could barely take care of herself. Offer to clean bathrooms, collect trash, whatever. Anything but being a counselor.

She stood, ready to do just that when the cabin door creaked open. Nanami Kento. Blond hair perfectly parted. Sweater vest and slacks like he stepped out of a different universe. His eyes didn’t just look at her—they evaluated. Cold. Precise. Y/n stiffened under his stare.

“Mr. Soraoka wishes to see you,” he said, voice clipped, professional. “Now. His office. The rest of the counselors will be present.”

The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Y/n opened her mouth to speak—maybe to ask if she had to go, or why everyone was there—but Nanami had already turned on his heel, expecting her to follow. She exhaled shakily and grabbed her hoodie, yanking it straight over her shoulder. No more time for breathing. No more space to think.

Y/n trailed behind Nanami, the silence between them almost comforting in its awkwardness. No lecturing, no side-eyeing, no passive aggressive remarks—just quiet footsteps crunching against the snow-packed gravel path. But even that peace was short-lived. As they passed the last staff cabin, Choso stood waiting. Arms crossed, brows knit together, that ever-present calm demeanor fraying at the edges. The worry on his face was so out of place on someone who looked like he regularly got into fights behind convenience stores.

Y/n’s steps slowed, and before she could overthink it, she gave him a small, reassuring smile. Barely there, but honest. Choso blinked at her in surprise—just for a moment—before giving a subtle nod in return. Maybe… tolerating one person here wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Her eyes drifted to the windows they passed. The reflections were not kind. Each glimpse at herself dragged her confidence down another notch. Her hoodie hung awkwardly, the sleeves bunched at the elbows, the frizz of her hair puffing like an unbrushed storm cloud. Dark under-eyes. Dull complexion. Just a mess.

Y/n clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Son of a bitch”

With a few deft motions, she tugged a loose drawstring from her hoodie and quickly pulled her curls into a high puff, gently leaving a few strands out in the front to soften the look and avoid pulling too tight. She tied the paint-stained hoodie around her waist in a practiced swoop, letting it cover the worst of her jeans, then adjusted her off-shoulder sweatshirt so it slouched in a purposeful, grungy kind of way.

She bent to fix the cuffs of her ripped jeans, folding them neatly above her winter boots before retightening the laces with quick, precise tugs. Was this her best? No. But it was the version of her that wouldn’t walk into a room looking like she just lost a bar fight with her bedroom mirror. Nanami paused just before the door to Mr. Soraoka’s office. He glanced back at her—just a second longer than necessary.

“You look… better,” he said, then cleared his throat as if the words tasted weird.

Y/n quirked a brow at him.

“I meant… composed.”

She almost laughed. Almost.

But then, his expression softened, only slightly. His eyes lowered in thought, then lifted to meet hers as he spoke quietly.

“Don’t stress too much.”

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t casual. But coming from Nanami Kento, who she had already deduced did not hold his tongue by any means at all. That was practically a bear hug of encouragement. Y/n nodded once, then followed him as he pushed open the door. Inside, five pairs of eyes turned toward her.

Mr. Soraoka smiled warmly from behind his old oak desk, surrounded by Gojo, Suguru, Shoko, Utahime, and Nanami—who stepped aside to stand near the back. The room crackled with layered personalities and long-standing familiarity. And then there was Y/n. The outsider. She swallowed hard and kept her chin up. Time to find out what the hell this was all about. Or get on her knees and beg for him to have mercy. Mr. Soraoka’s warm expression brightened the moment Y/n stepped into the room. He sat up straighter in his worn leather chair, the aged wood creaking beneath him as he adjusted himself with purpose.

“Ah, Y/n,” he said, voice honey-smooth with that signature glint of affection only old mentors seemed to master. “I’m glad you came so quickly.”

His voice lowered in tone—not scolding, not stern, but something in between serious and apologetic. “First and foremost, allow me to offer a proper apology. What happened earlier… that introduction, the crowd, the chaos—it wasn’t right to spring that on you the way I did. That should’ve been a private conversation, not some grand stage reveal.”

Y/n blinked slowly but kept her gaze fixed on him, her posture stiff but not defensive anymore. His words—while they didn’t erase what happened—meant something. Enough to let her exhale, even if only just a little.

“I take full responsibility for the discomfort you endured,” he added. “It was unfair.”

She nodded, barely. Just enough. Mr. Soraoka’s eyes crinkled slightly, the smile that returned was softer this time—gentler.

“But I do mean what I said. You are the sixth counselor this year. That’s not a stunt. It’s not some filler role. It’s real.”

Y/n’s brows creased, but she said nothing.

He chuckled quietly. “I knew it from the moment we crossed paths in that shop downtown. You remember—the one you decided to redecorate with spray paint and attitude?”

The tension in her shoulders spiked immediately. Ah. There it was. The first true reaction. Her jaw clenched instinctively, but her gaze faltered—just for a second. The surprise, the unease at that being brought up in front of the others—until she realized… they weren’t reacting.A quick glance confirmed it: confusion colored the faces of Gojo, Suguru, Shoko, Utahime, and even Nanami. They didn’t know. Mr. Soraoka hadn’t told them anything. And that... was a relief.

She opened her mouth, her voice dry as dust. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

His brow rose, but he stayed silent.

“I didn’t come here to inspire anyone or… make kids feel magical or whatever. I’m just here to cruise through winter break and stay out of trouble.” She tried to keep her tone measured, but it wavered on the edges. “That’s it.”

Mr. Soraoka’s smile disappeared—not into disappointment, but into something far heavier. A solemn silence settled over him before he gently waved his hand toward the counselors.

“Would you all give us a moment?” he asked softly.

Gojo made a dramatic sound of disappointment but stood anyway. Suguru sighed, sharing a look with Shoko as they both gave Y/n a final, unreadable glance. Utahime said nothing, her expression unreadable. Nanami was the last to leave, giving Y/n a longer look than the others before quietly stepping out and closing the door behind him. And then it was just them. Mr. Soraoka and Y/n.

The old man leaned forward slightly, fingers lacing together atop the desk. When he spoke, his voice was low.

“You’re right. You didn’t come here for this.”

Y/n didn’t respond. Just stood stiffly.

“But Y/n… you’re not here by accident. You may not believe in fate, or timing, or second chances. That’s fine. I won’t try to change that today. But I will tell you this: I see something in you. The kind of something that Tengen dreamed this camp would uncover in people. Even if they don’t see it in themselves.”

Y/n’s lips parted slightly, unsure what to say to that.

“You’re not broken,” he added gently. “You’re grieving. And grief can make you feel ugly. It can make you act ugly. But it doesn’t make you unworthy of healing. Or of finding something beautiful on the other side.”

The words hit deeper than Y/n was ready for. She felt her throat tighten but shoved the emotion down like second nature. Mr. Soraoka leaned forward again, the lines in his face deepening—not from age, but from the weight of memory.

“You’re right, Y/n. You didn’t come here to be anyone’s role model. And maybe you think I’m making a mistake choosing you. But I didn’t choose you because I expected perfection.”

His gaze sharpened, eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her freeze.

“I chose you because I knew your father.”

Y/n’s lips parted, and this time she couldn’t hide the flicker of surprise that crossed her face.

“I watched Harukemi grow up at this very camp,” Mr. Soraoka continued, voice dropping to something close to reverence. “From the first time he stepped onto the ice, all knees and nerves, to the day he left with more confidence and kindness than most men twice his age. I knew him before he was your father. Before he met your mother. Before the world shaped him into who he became.”

Y/n’s throat tightened, but she remained still, unsure where this was going.

“I have things,” he said slowly, deliberately. “Items. Stories. Pieces of him that no one else alive knows about or has seen. Things that could help you understand the man he was… the kind of father he tried to be even when you weren’t looking.”

Her breath caught, lashes lowering slightly as if she could hide from the sheer weight of those words.

“But here’s the deal, Y/n. A gamble, if you will.” Mr. Soraoka stood now, walking around the desk until he was just a few steps in front of her. “Complete one full day. One. Be present, be part of this. At the end of that day… I’ll give you something that belonged to Harukemi. Something real. And I’ll tell you the story behind it.”

Y/n’s heart pounded.

“But if you walk away now,” he added, the finality in his tone razor sharp, “then you’ll walk away from all of it. No second chances. No pleading, no begging, no matter how much you want to know. The door will close.”

Silence stretched between them like the hush before a winter storm.

“You choose, Y/n. Stay… and learn something that only I can give you. Or leave… and carry that emptiness forever.”

For a long moment, Y/n didn’t speak. Her eyes, which usually carried the weight of indifference and veiled frustration, shimmered with something unfamiliar—something raw. The crack in her armor was small, but undeniable. Her fingers moved slowly, as if unsure of themselves, until they gently wrapped around Mr. Soraoka’s weathered hand. The contact was soft, tentative, but sincere. Her thumb brushed against a callus near his knuckle, and her voice came out quieter than even she expected.

“What do I need to do first?”

Mr. Soraoka blinked, surprised—almost taken aback by the sudden shift in the girl who’d spent every second resisting connection like it was poison. But his surprise melted into something warmer, something deeply paternal. He smiled—no, beamed—and with his other hand, he gave her knuckles the gentlest rub, like how a father might comfort a child afraid of falling again.

“The first day is the easiest,” he said gently. “Today’s just about getting to know the other staff. Mingle, talk, let people see you. Let yourself… be seen.”

Y/n swallowed hard, trying to process the flood of unfamiliar emotions that stirred in her chest.

“You’ll be spending the next sixty-eight days with these people,” he continued. “You don’t have to make best friends, not today. But I want you to try. And even if it takes a minute—or a few—just keep trying. That’s all I ask.”

His words sat with her like a small fire in the cold.

“If you make it through the day,” he added, giving her hand one final squeeze before letting go, “come to my office tomorrow morning. I’ll be waiting—and I’ll bring something of Harukemi’s with me. A story worth hearing.”

Y/n nodded once, the motion stiff but full of intent.

As she stepped back, her chest felt tighter—but not in the suffocating way it usually did. This was different. Something was pulling her forward now, however fragile the thread might be.And for the first time in a long time, she whispered inside her own head: Okay. Just try.

The first staff mixer of the day had quickly devolved into a teeth-grinding cacophony of I love love! and camp is like, totally the best way to discover your true self! sentiments. Y/n sat cross-legged in the circle of counselors and volunteers, her hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands and her expression utterly unreadable—except for the eye twitch that had made a persistent home on her left side. If she heard one more sentence that ended in “because love is the answer,” she might actually commit a felony... well another felony.

Would Dad be disappointed if I just… didn’t see this through? she thought, rubbing the back of her neck with a groan only she could hear. Her spiral of internal sarcasm was interrupted by a voice that struck her as familiar and annoying all in one.

“Huh?” Y/n asked, blinking as her focus snapped back to reality.

The same girl from earlier—the one who had pitched a fit about Y/n being named a counselor—was smirking at her with forced sweetness. But the second Y/n’s bored, flat tone hit the air, the smirk dissolved like sugar in water.

“I asked you a question. Are you even paying attention?” the girl pouted, clearly hoping to provoke something that just wasn’t going to come.

Y/n blinked once, slowly, then rolled her eyes and said absolutely nothing. Not today. She wasn’t going to get baited into a scene—not when she had something to prove. Something real. This girl and her issues weren’t her problem. Then, like a spotlight cutting through stage fog, a voice rang out over the chatter:

“Yo, newbie!”

Every head turned at the sound of Gojo’s voice—loud, smooth, and dripping with charisma he didn’t even try to contain.

“Come here,” he called, waving his long arm in a wide arc like a kid summoning a lost puppy. “All of us counselors wanna bond with you!”

There was a grin plastered on his face like he knew something she didn’t. Which made Y/n’s stomach twist with suspicion. What the hell does this guy want? She wondered, closing her eyes and grinding her molars together for just a second before forcing herself to stand up.

She didn't say a word to the group she was leaving behind—especially not to the pouty girl who now looked even more irritated at Y/n’s lack of reaction. She walked Gojo, who stood alone by an old totem pole wrapped in sparkling fairy lights and delicate snowflake garlands. Everything in the camp so far has screamed whimsical winter vibes—everything but the six-foot-something man himself. The closer Y/n got, the more aware she became of how tall Gojo actually was. He wasn’t just tall—he was tall tall. And it wasn’t just his height. His presence practically buzzed in the air, if chaos could wear sunglasses and crack jokes, it would look just like him.

Gojo’s bright blue eyes—so eerily similar to the icy wonderland around them—met hers. He smiled like the two of them were old friends even though they’d barely shared two words.

“Man, you’re tiny,” he said with a faux-pity sigh, resting his elbow on top of her head like she was furniture. “You sure you’re not here for the junior skaters' camp?”

Y/n glared up at him, deadpan. He was annoyingly even more good-looking up close. With how close they were, Y/n realized that he had healed cuts and scrapes on his face. Some of them looked as if they were deep and painful when they were first formed, but it did nothing to falter his beauty. Feeling as though she had been staring at him for far too long to be normal, Y/n opened her mouth.

“Touch me again and I’ll snap your arm like a twig.”

Gojo laughed—hard. A rich, full laugh that turned a few heads. But instead of being offended, he looked delighted. Almost as if the reaction Y/n gave is exactly what he wanted.

“Oh, I like you,” he said, taking a step back and motioning her to follow. “C’mon. We’ve got a game going—‘Two Truths and a Lie: Counselor Edition.’ You better not be boring.”

Y/n sighed but followed anyway. She had a deal to keep. Sixty-eight days. One day at a time. And if she had to deal with Gojo’s walking chaos generator of a personality to get there... fuck it we ball.

Y/n followed Gojo through the corridors of the camp, feeling the sharp bite of cold air through the large windows that dotted the halls. The camp was built like a small village, with sprawling cabins and wooden walkways that led to cozy rooms hidden away from the bustling activity outside. Gojo hummed a catchy tune as they walked, clearly unbothered by the chilly atmosphere, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets. Y/n, for her part, felt a prickling sense of unease, but she didn’t let it show—her mind was already somewhere else, counting down the minutes until she could disappear back into the shadows.

After a few turns, Gojo stopped in front of what appeared to be a newer small building that had a red door. He pulled out a key chain from under his shirt and inserted the key into the door lock.

"Alright, welcome to our little slice of peace," Gojo announced as he pushed the door open wide. Y/n stepped through, her eyes immediately scanning the room.

It was small—cozy, even—with soft lighting and plush chairs. A fireplace crackled in the corner, and a table was cluttered with snacks, drinks, and half-opened board games. But what stood out most was the atmosphere: the room was intimate, and there was a quiet, relaxed air to it that Y/n wasn’t expecting. Only the six counselors were inside, lounging around like old friends, casual and easy in a way Y/n wasn’t used to seeing from adults. This wasn’t the bustling mess of the camp’s main hall; this was a special break room, the kind of place that only certain people had access to.

“Okay,” Gojo continued, his eyes scanning the room. “We’ve got short-pint here, which means it’s time to get to know each other better. Two Truths and a Lie—camp edition. Don’t worry, I’ll play nice this time and keep it PG.”

Y/n glanced around, trying to get a sense of who the others were. There was the tall, gruff teen from earlier—Nanami, the one who had looked through her like she was invisible. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his usual stern expression softened slightly, though Y/n could tell that he was still sizing her up. Then there was Suguru, the one with the quiet energy, sitting on the armrest of one of the chairs, chewing on something that looked like a granola bar. Shoko, the girl with sharp eyes and a cool demeanor, was sprawled out on the couch with her feet propped up on the cushion reading some magazine. Utahime, the more composed one with a delicate smile, was seated at the table, sketching away in a drawing book.

Gojo, ever the center of attention, leaned against the doorframe with that infuriatingly confident smile of his. He glanced over at Y/n jerking his head ever so slightly to encourage her to find a spot to sit. Y/n opted to sit in the bright red bean bag chair conveniently away from everyone else's seats.

“Alright, two truths and a lie: 1) I’ve been to five countries before I turned 10. 2) I can tie cherry stems in my mouth with nothing but my tongue. 3) I can do fifty pullups if not more in less than ten minutes.”

The others immediately started muttering among themselves, trying to guess which was the lie. Except for Suguru; who seemingly already knew the answer.

Y/n wasn’t interested in playing. Instead, she stood at the back of the group, arms crossed, watching them all interact. The banter was lighthearted, but it felt... forced to her, as if everyone was playing a role they were expected to fill. Her gaze flickered to Gojo, she was confused on why he seemed so adamant about the "bonding" game. It was clear they all knew each other so why do this?

Nanami, not one for games, didn’t waste any time. “The amount of countries is the lie; You've travelled to far more. You probably have been banned in a few of them.”

“Hey! I am always on my best behavior.... in foreign countries.” Gojo protested with a mock offended expression, puffing out his chest dramatically. “But you’re right— I think it was twenty seven? I don't really remember. That’s was my lie.”

“Alright, my turn,” Suguru said, sitting up. “1) I strategically complete 1000 brushes of my hair at night. 2) I used to collect rare insects. 3) I can hold my breath for over five minutes.”

“Man, I’d like to see that first one. Mr. Barbie,” Shoko teased with a smirk. “You definitely don’t strike me as flower, gleam, and glow type”

Suguru shrugged casually, clearly unfazed. “If you're ever stuck outside my tower, I would not let my hair down for you.”

They went around the circle, each counselor revealing little facts about themselves—some true, some not. Y/n couldn’t help but listen, though she wasn’t quite participating. The game remained lighthearted among all of the teens. Even Nanami participated.. When it was Y/n’s turn, Gojo raised his eyebrows, clearly expecting some kind of spectacular reveal.

“Well?” he prodded. “Your turn, short-pint.”

Y/n didn’t answer immediately; she only frowned in annoyance from the already aggravating nickname. She wasn't even short; he was just a fucking giant. She let the silence stretch, allowing the weight of her words to settle. What should she say? Be honest? Lie? With a glance at each of the counselors, she finally spoke, her voice casual but flat.

“Um.. Okay. 1) I have three tattoos. 2) I once did a backflip on ice in skates. 3) My nipples are pierced.”

A small choking noise came immediately from Nanami's mouth as he looked away from Y/n. Shoko and Utahime doubled over in laughter at the blush rising on the blonde's face. Suguru smirked slightly before nodding in approval while Gojo's eyes flickered down to her chest, but came back up as he felt the hard shove from Suguru on his side.

"What? I just wanted to confirm." Gojo shrugged, holding back a laugh

“I wonder which one could be the lie?” Utahime asked, cutting Gojo off between her giggles.

Y/n didn’t respond, instead letting the silence drag on. There was something satisfying about making them work for her attention. Nanami let out a quiet sigh, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater as he finally looked back at Y/n. “The lie is the piercings” he stated firmly.

“Aw... boo... I had mad respect for you” Shoko pouted, tossing a piece of popcorn into her mouth without missing a beat.

Gojo laughed, “I think you just wanted to see them, Shoko."

“Like you weren't staring. ” Suguru teased with a small smile, to which Gojo gasped and elbowed his friend playfully.

“Now that,” Gojo said, “was for research nothing more.”

Y/n rolled her eyes. “You both are exhausting. But yes that is the lie. ”

Gojo placed a hand over his heart. “What are you saying fuck me for? What did I do?”

Despite herself, a small chuckle escaped her lips. Just barely. It died quickly, but it had happened, and unfortunately for her, they all noticed.

“So,” Utahime said with a curious smile, “you really have tattoos? But you're so young though”

Y/n shrugged and leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms. “Not that young; I'm 17.”

“Definitely the youngest here. You're the baby now” Shoko said. “Utahime is the oldest so she'll take good care of you.”

Gojo tilted his head, watching her a little more closely now. “You're 17? Jeez, I feel old now. I almost 19.”

“You are only a year and some change older than me; relax buddy. Y/n replied, tapping her foot against the wooden floor lazily. "I'll be 18 soon anyways."

There was a brief silence, one that was more curious than awkward. It felt like—for the first time—Y/n wasn’t a ghost hovering on the edge of the group. She’d slipped into the fold without fully meaning to. She wasn't sure how to feel about these people as of yet, but it was clear that she was going to be around them often so being cordial was the best option.

“You’re an interesting one,” Gojo said, looking Y/n up and down with an unreadable expression. “We are gonna have so much fun together.”

“Is that so?” Y/n replied; despite her dry tone, she had the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on her lips.

Utahime stood and clapped her hands together. “Alright, enough bonding for now. Let’s get ready for dinner prep before people start trying to eat each other.”

Everyone slowly began to rise, stretching and finishing their snacks. As they filtered out of the room, Gojo lingered behind, giving Y/n a glance as he pulled open the door.

“You’re better at this than you think,” he said casually.

“I’m not trying,” Y/n replied, blinking owlishly at the man.

Gojo grinned, showing off that award-winning smile again. “Exactly.”

The mess hall had transformed. What once looked like a basic communal dining area was now buzzing with preparation and purpose. Lights dimmed just slightly, casting a warm hue across the wood-paneled walls. The long dining tables had been cleaned, lined with simple but elegant tablecloths, and set with actual cutlery—none of the flimsy plastic Y/n was expecting. She stood near the entrance, watching the chaos unfold like an outsider at a stage production. Everyone had slipped seamlessly into their roles, as if this dance had been rehearsed a thousand times.

Utahime was in full organizer mode, her brow furrowed in concentration as she hung subtle winter-themed garlands near the windows and placed small battery-operated candles at the center of each table. Her movements were quick, efficient, and entirely focused. Geto was at the far end of the hall, bent over the sound system tucked into a wooden corner shelf. Soft instrumental music floated from the speakers, nothing overpowering, just ambiance. He adjusted the volume, then turned to angle the small spotlight in a way that wouldn’t blind anyone but would still keep the area well-lit. He nodded to himself, clearly satisfied.

Near the kitchen entrance, Shoko stood over a series of prepared plates, moving with practiced ease. She wore an apron—probably stolen from a cartoon character’s wardrobe—that said “Too Tired to Function,” and yet she looked perfectly at ease as she added garnishes to the steaming dishes, inspecting each one before sliding it down to the next station. Gojo, unsurprisingly, had the least structured role, and yet somehow the most chaotic. He flitted between the stove and the prep counter, grabbing a small container of chili flakes to add a final kick to one of the trays of roasted vegetables. His sleeves were rolled up, and there was flour on the side of his cheek like some weird war paint. He whistled while he worked, completely in his own world.

Then there was Nanami. Clipboard in hand, glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, he looked like the most intimidating camp counselor anyone had ever seen—but damn if things weren’t running smoothly under his watch. He kept a close eye on the clock and called out time checks every so often, reminding people of deadlines with all the grace of a seasoned drill sergeant.

Y/n swallowed hard. How the hell did they do this every day? It wasn’t just the physical labor—it was the energy, the care, the constant alertness to everyone else’s needs. She felt like her chest was tightening just watching it. It was too much. No one had ever expected her to take care of anyone else. Hell, half the time she forgot to eat herself. And now here she was, in a room full of people that made this look easy. She didn’t realize how long she’d been standing frozen near the door until she heard someone call her name.

“Y/n!” Shoko’s voice rang out, sharp but not unkind. The older girl glanced up from the stack of plates she was organizing and gave a slight nod toward the drink pitchers on the side cart. “Can you help pour drinks and set them out on the tables outside?”

Y/n blinked. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”

She moved toward the cart, grabbing a few empty glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. Her hands weren’t exactly steady, but she focused on not spilling anything. That was manageable, right? Just pour drinks. Carry them outside. Don’t trip. Don’t overthink it. As she stepped outside, the cool air hit her skin, a small comfort to balance out the buzzing anxiety in her chest. She walked between the tables, setting down the drinks carefully, letting the music and the warmth inside trail behind her like a distant hum. The scent of warm food and crisp winter air blended together as everyone finally took their seats at the long outdoor table, the sky now cloaked in hues of navy and deep violet. String lights overhead blinked softly like distant stars, casting a golden glow over everyone’s faces. Laughter was easy, and for a brief moment, the stress of preparation melted away into the steam rising from their plates.

Y/n sat toward the end of the table, a plate of food in front of her she hadn’t quite touched yet. Her eyes drifted from person to person, watching the way they filled the space around her—Utahime smiling politely between bites, Suguru teasing Gojo for putting too much heat on the vegetables, Shoko sipping from a mug that probably had more than hot chocolate in it, and Nanami chewing quietly but listening to every word. It was… weird. The ease of it all.

“Man, I can’t wait for the kids to get here,” Gojo said with a bright grin, his voice rising above the low murmur of conversation. “That’s when things really start. Chaos, excitement, and endless requests for extra dessert—what’s not to love?”

“They really are the heart of the camp,” Utahime added, folding her napkin neatly into her lap. “Some of them look forward to this all year.”

“Even the ones who pretend they hate it,” Shoko chimed in, arching a brow in Y/n’s direction.

Y/n blinked, caught off guard. She gave a noncommittal shrug and picked at a piece of bread on her plate.

Suguru leaned back in his chair. “You’ll see. First-timers are always a little overwhelmed, but when the kids get here… things shift.”

“I’m not really a kid person,” Y/n muttered under her breath, but no one seemed to hear her. Or maybe they just chose not to.

Nanami finally set down his fork, brushing his fingers with a napkin before clearing his throat in that quiet, no-nonsense way of his.

“Speaking of which,” he said, glancing at Y/n. “You’ll need to be tested before the week ends.”

Y/n’s gaze snapped toward him, her brows furrowing. “Tested?”

“Ice skating,” he said plainly. “You’re set to be one of the instructors this year. It’s one of the more popular activities, and we can’t have someone teaching if they don’t know the basics. Safety and skill go hand-in-hand.”

Y/n nearly choked on her water. “You want me to teach a bunch of kids how to ice skate?”

Nanami’s expression didn’t change. “It’s part of your counselor assignment.”

“Do you even know if I can skate?”

“That’s why you’re being tested.”

Gojo leaned in from across the table, grinning like a troublemaker with a front-row seat to the drama. “C’mon, it'll be fun. Worst case scenario, you fall on your ass, and we all laugh before taking to our best nurse, Shoko.”

"Nurse in training." Shoko correct, “But he's right. The best-case scenario though, is you impress us all and become the camp’s unexpected prodigy.”

Y/n stared down at her plate, lips pressing into a tight line. Why did it feel like everyone here was always ten steps ahead of her? Like they knew exactly where she was supposed to fit in, even when she didn’t? She didn’t answer—not right away, at least. But something about the way they were talking… they weren’t mocking her. Not really. They were including her, in the same breath they teased and pushed. Like she was already expected to rise to the occasion. God, her dad really had to be some kind of saint if this was the kind of world he belonged to.

Y/n finally picked up her fork and stabbed a carrot. “Fine. But if I break something, I’m haunting all of you.”

Gojo raised his cup like a toast. “Deal.”

After dinner, the warm, comforting chatter in the mess hall slowly gave way to the clatter of dishes being cleared and chairs scraping against the wooden floors. Everyone moved with purpose, each counselor seamlessly falling into their roles—Gojo cracking jokes while rinsing plates, Utahime stacking chairs with practiced grace, Nanami double-checking everyone’s assigned tasks, and Shoko wiping down tables in calm, efficient motions. Even Suguru, quiet as ever, was collecting the leftover decorations with a lazy rhythm.

Y/n did her part without complaint, but her hands were clumsy. Her thoughts spun in circles, spiraling fast. You’ll be tested… to see if you're fit to teach the kids how to skate. Nanami had said it so casually during dinner, but the words hadn’t stopped replaying in her head since. Skating. Teaching skating. Her stomach was twisted in a series of tight, painful knots—more like cramps now. She hadn’t skated in years. Not seriously, anyway. Not since... well, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they expected her to be responsible for actual children. Children who would look to her for guidance and trust her to keep them safe on the ice.

God. She could barely take care of herself.

Once the mess hall was back in order, Nanami dismissed them for personal wind-down time. “Two hours. Be where you need to be.”

Y/n wasted no time slipping out. The cold air hit her like a slap the moment she stepped outside, but she welcomed it. The quiet of the night was a relief compared to the buzz in her head. By the time she reached her private cabin—one of the perks of being a counselor—she was moving on autopilot. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper of her jacket, and her eyes drifted toward the bed where her old skates hung loosely from the post. Mocking her. Daring her. She stared at them for what felt like an eternity before moving. Fifteen minutes later, she was slipping out the back of the cabin dressed in clothes she definitely hadn’t packed with skating in mind: form-fitting black flare leggings, a pastel pink tank top she hadn’t worn in months, and her zip-up hoodie drawn tightly.

The path to the rink was lit by soft, overhead bulbs strung between the trees like fairy lights, but her focus was razor sharp. When she finally found the main door to the rink, it was locked. That didn’t stop her. Locks were more like suggestions to someone with her history. She crouched down, worked quickly, and with a satisfying click, the door creaked open. She stepped inside, pulling it shut quietly behind her. The rink stretched out in front of her, vast and untouched under the dim lights. The stillness made her heart race. Her breath puffed out in soft clouds as she stepped toward the edge and slipped off her hoodie, folding it neatly by the boards. Now exposed to the cold, she felt everything sharper—each sound, each memory that the ice awakened beneath her skin.

She laced up her skates with shaking hands, trying to ignore the swell of bittersweet feeling pressing against her ribcage. The last time she skated… it had felt like freedom. Now it felt like pressure. Like expectation. With a slow inhale, she stood. The first step onto the ice nearly sent her sprawling. She caught herself against the boards with a curse and a wince. The cold was biting through her clothes and into her bones now, but she didn’t stop. She pushed forward, unsteady, her legs unsure, and her balance off. She fell. Hard. The second time, it hurt less. The third time, she didn’t fall; she began to remember.

It wasn’t graceful. Her movements were stiff, her knees too locked, her posture too guarded—but there was something there. Muscle memory kicking in. Every pass across the rink got a little smoother. Every fall hurt a little less. She kept going. Again and again.

By the time she glided toward the center of the ice without stumbling, her breath was heaving and her body was shaking—but not from the cold. It was something else. Something raw and strange. She closed her eyes. The ice was silent beneath her. Her father had skated here. Maybe even stood right here.

If you make it through all the activities today, I’ll give you an item that belonged to Harukemi and tell you the story surrounding it. Her fingers curled at her sides. There were things she needed to know. Y/n opened her eyes and took a deep, measured breath. She wasn’t ready for kids. She wasn’t ready to be seen, not really. But maybe she could try. If she kept falling, she’d just have to keep getting up. One skate pushed forward, then the other.

Gojo hadn’t meant to follow her. Honestly, he was just heading back from dropping off a crate of leftover pantry goods when he saw movement by the rink’s side building. The soft sound of the front door creaking open caught his attention. It wasn’t supposed to be open. Not this late. Not when everything was shut down. Curiosity piqued, he slipped into the shadows. He found himself leaning against the outer wall of the rink, tucked just far enough in the darkness to go unnoticed. Through the high glass windows, he saw her. Y/n.

At first, she was just a bundled shape by the boards, sitting still, head low, lacing up skates. He almost turned away—figured maybe she needed the ice to think, and honestly, everyone at this camp had their thing. But then she stood. And fell. Gojo winced a little, covering his mouth as a quiet laugh slipped out. It wasn’t mocking—there was something oddly endearing about it. The girl who stared everyone down with that deadpan glare was out here looking like a newborn deer on ice. She pushed herself back up, brushed frost from her leggings, and tried again. And again.

Each fall brought another smirk tugging at Gojo’s lips, an itch in his fingers to step out and help her up, make a dumb joke, pull her in close and show her how it’s done. But something about the way she gritted her teeth, how she refused to give up, made him hold back. She didn’t need saving. So he stayed there, in the dark. Then something happened. Without warning—like flipping a switch—her body began to remember. Her skates stopped scraping clumsily against the ice. Her posture straightened, her movements shifted. The unsure fumbling turned to gliding, then to spinning, then to soaring. Her arms flowed out at her sides, chest lifted, eyes half-closed like she was listening to music no one else could hear.

Gojo squinted; he had to be seeing incorrectly.

He reached up and pulled his prescription glasses from his head and slipped them onto his face. The world sharpened instantly, and his breath caught in his throat. Wow. That was all he could think. Y/n—this messy, sharp-tongued, dry-humored girl who barely spoke in full sentences—was glowing. Not just metaphorically. It was like something deep inside her had been ignited. Her usual dull aura, that heavy fog she dragged behind her like a second skin, was gone. In its place was something radiant. Beautiful. Light that didn’t just shine—it danced. It reached out and touched everything around her, rippling across the ice like sunbeams caught in snow.

She skated like she belonged to the air itself.

Her hair was freed from the makeshift hair tie she had and bounced with every move she made, arms cutting clean lines through the frosted night, her tank top clinging to her in soft pastel hues that contrasted the raw power of her movement. There was elegance there, but also pain. Precision and chaos, perfectly blended. Every turn of her skate, every breath she took—it was art. And Gojo couldn’t look away. His fingers curled slightly against the wooden paneling he leaned on. His heart didn’t race—he wouldn’t even call it that—but something in his chest shifted. Twitched. Pulled.

He didn’t understand it, not yet. But something about her—this girl who barely spoke, who looked at the world like it had already disappointed her beyond repair—was beginning to unravel a knot inside of him he didn’t know existed. She looked free and he wanted that freedom desperately. Her movements were strategically calculated like his were. She moved on her own accord and still managed to look graceful. He needed to feel that free at least once in his life; especially before his parents do anymore damage.

❄ Author's Note: I know this is long... probably the longest thing I have ever written. It started off as a drabble, but I got carried away. I plan to post part two sometime this week, but I really really am proud of it. I have always been a sucker for cheesy high school romcoms and decided that Gojo didn't belong in Shonen but a Shoujo so I am making it happen my damn-self. I plan for this to be finished in eight parts and have five major plot points to meet, and then random little scenarios that I have thought were cute and needed to see. This is a Gojo-centered fic, so no other love interests will be an option, but more characters will be mentioned, and Y/n will interact with everyone individually. I can answer any questions in the comments! Thank you to all who read the entire thing! You guys mean the world to me

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emonaculate · 1 month ago

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YES GAWD YES GAWD YES GAW-

Who Is In Control? (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Black!F!Villain!Reader x Hunter!Gojo Satoru

Chapter Warnings: MILD SPOILERS (Nothing too crazy except naming Jinwoo's shadows & talking about his mom if you haven't read the story/watched the show yet!)

Writer’s Note: Nothing smutty in this chapter lol. Just setting up for the rest of this random ass fic. Enjoy! -Jazz

CHAPTERS: PREFACE. ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE. SIX.

*************

ONE: A FRIENDLY COMPETITION.

When Jinwoo awakens in the dead of night, when the entire city is sound asleep and not even an owl is hooting, he knows exactly why.

The screen, transparent and suspended in midair, appears in front of him as he sits up in his bed. He is not tired even when he only slept for thirty minutes after an extensive nighttime training session. He can still feel the burn in his muscles from the dumbbell lifts, the pushups, and curl-ups. And they are about to burn more.

Words pop up on the screen, bright and neon, almost stinging his eyes as he stares at it in his dark bedroom:

New S-Rank Gate Open…Transition To Red Gate in 3…

2…

1…

The screen suddenly turns red, dousing Jinwoo’s room in the color so he is bathed in it. “A Red Gate, huh?” he murmurs to himself, thoughtfully tapping his chin. No doubt something has gone wrong, and he is going to find out just what it is.

After getting the location of the gate, Jinwoo plants his big feet on his hardwood floor and zooms over to his drawers. He doesn’t put on much–just his usual blue hoodie, jeans, and sneakers to fit the cool early-summer air. He takes his phone, wallet, and keys before he is out the door, leaving his sister and mother to slumber and not worry at all about their brother and son out fighting fantastical, dangerous creatures for money.

The gate is not as close as Jinwoo initially thought. He is breaking a sweat by the time he arrives at the park across town. But he would rather it be here than anywhere near his family or his neighborhood. He needs to keep them safe.

Besides, he can tell this one will bring quite the treasures for him. As he jogged to his destination, his body buzzed with every step. His blood boiled, his veins hummed, and his head swam with the energy and power he could feel in the air from the gate.

Now, standing here and staring at it, he can definitely see that this is a danger zone. Hence the police tape and heavily-armed guards standing with the crowd of civilians that have begun to gather. They all want to catch a glimpse at the Red Gate pulsing with wild electricity, a red glow emanating from its portal-like opening. It pulls anything except humans into its wake–tree branches, rocks, dirt, nearly a dog if its owner didn’t wrap it up in his arms–and swallows it whole.

‘Whatever is in that gate must be a real bitch,’ Jinwoo hypothesizes.

Despite the throng of scared and astonished people, Jinwoo is hard to miss. Not only is he the face of the Hunters’ Guild, much to his dismay, but he is also about six-foot something, lean, and strikingly hot…not that he realizes it. He must think that the people ogling him are only doing so because they’ve seen his face on TV and YouTube.

A federal guard closest to him tries his best to ease the crowd, his hat nearly flying off his head due to the rush of wind from the gate. “Everyone stand back, please!” he orders. “It appears the S-Rank Gate has morphed into a Red Gate! We must wait until the Hunters’ Guild arrives to take care of this!”

Jinwoo rolls his eyes. If they wait for them, the gate will grow bigger and more hazardous. Suddenly, the screen appears in front of his face, signaling that he has found the gate. A Start button appears, ready to be pressed and plunge him into a new world filled with adventure, danger, and, hopefully, answers to his burning questions. “Found you,” he coos before he presses the Start button on the screen. “Let’s go.”

As the screen begins to count down from ten, Jinwoo vanishes from the naked eye in a blink and suddenly, to the shock of the crowd, appears in front of the yellow tape keeping the crowd out.

The guard turns, grabbing Jinwoo’s shoulder. “Wait, wait, sir!” he shouts. “Where are you going? I just said to…” His angered words die down when he catches a look at Jinwoo’s deadpan expression. Instantly, his eyes fill with recognition and his hand trembles. “H-Hunter Sung,” he stammers. “I’m so…I-I didn’t–”

“It’s fine,” Jinwoo drawls out in his smooth, panty-dropping voice. “You’re just doin’ your job. Please allow me to take care of this for you and your team.” He gives the guard a reassuring smile and pats his hand before walking towards the gate, ignoring the shouts from the guards.

“Where is he going?!” one shouts. “He’s as good as dead in there!”

“Idiot, don’t you know who that is?!” another criticizes. “That’s–!”

Jinwoo doesn’t hear the rest because once the screen hits zero, he is immediately transported out of the park and into an entirely different world, universe, and realm. When he opens his eyes, he rapidly blinks to refocus his vision and examines his new surroundings that are currently in disarray.

It appears to be a kingdom. Medieval. Definitely somewhere in the Regency Era with its destroyed, village-like houses, cobblestone sidewalks, and the villainous castle off in the horizon that looks straight out of a Disney movie.

The gargoyles surrounding the windows growl and hiss, moving their stone heads from side to side, and ominous clouds storm in, swirling around the highest power of the castle pointed to a tip. Jagged rocks surround the outside of the castle, giving Jinwoo the impression that either the owner wants to keep themselves in or keep outsiders out.

The village is completely in flames and abandoned, meaning that its villagers have either been vacated or they are in hiding. The flames feel hot on Jinwoo’s face and he has to cover his mouth to avoid breathing in the smoke billowing in the air. ‘Not bad,’ he sarcastically thinks. ‘Nice atmosphere. Very inviting.’

He begins to look around, squinting through the floating embers and the darkness that the blackened clouds, crackling with lightning, cause. “Now, where is this Boss?” he murmurs to himself. He doesn’t feel anything right now that signals that a Boss is near and the game screen hasn’t appeared to…

He suddenly pauses and strains his neck to look, really look, yards away in the distance. “Da hell?” he cusses to himself. “No fuckin’ way.” He notices the long legs. The tallness and broad shoulders. The lean muscle. The confident stance. But what gets him immediately is the snow-white hair and the blindfold wrapped around his eyes that have been said to make a monster tremble.

Jinwoo is ready to crash the fuck out when he recognizes his unfortunate colleague and year-long opponent. “This asshole!’ he thinks, rageful and beyond pissed off. Immediately, he activates his teleportation and zips across the village to meet the white-haired man where he stands. He turns around as if sensing Jinwoo already and his shocked expression morphs into a cocky smile. “Well, shit,” he chuckles, putting a hand on his hip. “If it isn’t my favorite S-ranking hunter. To what do I owe the pleasure, Sung?”

Jinwoo grits his teeth as his name escapes Gojo Satoru’s cocky ass ass.

Everyone knows Gojo, including Jinwoo. As a fellow S-Rank Hunter who popped onto the scene after being an E-Rank and resurrecting after a bloody rave accident where he was literally sliced in half, Gojo moved from Japan to South Korea and once the Korean Hunters Association caught wind of his story, they took a shine to him immediately. Especially since, like Jinwoo, he continues to level up and gain more astronomical powers with every gate he beats.

Since his S-Rank, Gojo has beaten over fifteen gates. He shows it in the smattering of healed scars on his skin, the callouses in his hands, and the confidence in his gait. He is someone that has been compared to Jinwoo many times for showing the same cockiness during battle and the same aggression when faced with a Boss. Jinwoo can’t stand that. No one is like him.

This is why he and Gojo have engaged in a rivalry for months now. ‘Friendly’ battles during training that change into fights that the other Hunters have to break up. Unspoken agreements on who can beat a Boss first. Side-eyes and heated glances shot to each other at press conferences and at meetings that build enough tension for a chainsaw.

Jinwoo can’t stand the man, but he also cannot deny that Gojo is one powerful Hunter. But that doesn’t mean he can come here to his gate and snatch it away. “What the fuck are you doin’ here?” he spits.

Gojo puts his hands up like he’s claiming a wild animal, animated and asshole-ish as ever. “Whooooa, you’d better watch yourself, Sung. I don’t take too well to aggression. You kiss your mother with that mouth? How is she, by the way?” A sly smile crosses his lips. “Actually, how’s–”

“Don’t even say her name,” Jinwoo growls. It’s bad enough that his sister has a crush on Gojo, damn near melting when he came to her school to meet the students after a gate broke out in the hallway. Gojo keeps his hands up in defense. “My bad.”

Jinwoo impatiently huffs, pinching his sinuses. “Gojo, I thought we had an agreement to not ambush each other’s Red Gate raves.”

Now the white-haired hottie’s smile fades, replaced with an incredulous frown. “Hold up, I never agreed to shit,” Gojo argues. “I’m not followin’ you or nothin’, as paranoid as you are. I was asked to come here by the Hunters Guild since I live closer to the Gate’s location.”

Jinwoo scrunches his brows at the mention of the Hunters Association. “Wait…you’re with the Guild now?” This Guild in particular has been asking Jinwoo for his agreement to join for some time now, but each time, he turns them down. He isn’t just in this anymore for the money or to protect others. He needs answers and a Guild isn’t going to understand that.

“Oh, hell no!” Gojo guffaws, waving a passive hand as fire continues to flame behind him. “Don’t get me wrong: I’m cool with most of the members, but I have no interest in splittin’ my pay after risking my life for humanity with a bunch of subpar S-Ranks.”

He pulls down his blindfold an inch, giving Jinwoo a wink of his blue eye. “They’re not like us,” he whispers, an almost sinister smirk on his face. “Plus, I’m a greedy motherfucker.”

Jinwoo doesn’t reply. He is too busy resisting the urge to punch the man in his face. Gojo cocks his head to the side, placing his hands on his slim hips. “Y’know, I think you’re just scared that I’m gonna get to the Boss before you and your Walking Dead army do.”

Now, Jinwoo does speak, but it is not to Gojo. It is rather to his invisible friends that do not reveal themselves until the five-lettered, two-syllable word is uttered in a powerful commanding tone: “Arise.”

The way Gojo’s smile wavers makes Jinwoo bloom with pride and joy as his shadowy red knight appears beside him. “I’d be very careful about the way you talk to me, Gojo,” Jinwoo warns. “You might piss somebody off.” Ingris steps forward, looming over Gojo with his sword at his hip. “And he doesn’t take too well to someone disrespecting his master,” Jinwoo adds. Ingris keeps his hand on his sword, never moving and never keeping his shadowy eyes off of Gojo. The S-Rank sighs, pressing a hand to his heart. “That’s my bad, alright? Your army of the undead is kinda cool.”

Jinwoo smirks and lays a hand on Ingris’ shoulder. “Chill out, Ingris.” The red knight immediately lowers his sword and bows, obedient and subservient. Gojo looks a bit perturbed, but not enough to show too much fear. Even the biggest, baddest hunter would be afraid of a shitload of dead Bosses staring dead at you. “Look, I’m not here to steal your gate from you, but you ain’t the only one who wants to level up time after time…and find out why.”

The smile that Gojo wears now is knowing and sharp. Something darker is hidden beneath it and puts Jinwoo on edge. “What do you mean?”

Gojo chuckles, shaking his head. “C’mooon, Sung, you seem like a smart guy. You wouldn’t have made it this far if you weren’t.” He claps a hand on Jinwoo’s shoulder and the dark-haired S-Rank pushes it off. Gojo barely acknowledges the brush-off. “You can’t tell me I’m not the only one who knows that it ain’t a coincidence that we’re the only two S-ranking hunters in Japan with abilities like the ones we have.”

Abilities like we have. Powers that transcend the usual ones of an S-Ranked Hunter. Jinwoo knows exactly what Gojo means and he hates that he does. “We came back for a reason,” Gojo continues, “and I know you don’t just come to these gates day after day for a power-up.” The smirk on his face grows, appearing like he can see right through Jinwoo’s lowkey personality and cool facade.

Jinwoo’s palms begin to sweat, his body entering into fight or flight as if Gojo is danger. And he is. He is too close to Jinwoo’s truth. “You don’t know anything about what I do,” he hisses. He walks up to Gojo, nearly closing the gap between them. “And if you keep talkin’, I’ll know my shadows would be delighted to have two somethings to battle in this gate.”

Gojo’s smile grows hard and he cocks his head to the side. He doesn’t step back or flinch as Jinwoo grows closer, nearly brushing his nose against Gojo’s. “Is that a threat?” Jinwoo’s eyes flash an electric blue and he can feel his shadows’ energy shift at the reaction of his power. “That’s a promise.”

Still no flinching. Still no sign of hesitation or fear. Gojo is as cool as ice, but so is Jinwoo. He fears nothing. Finally, after a tense stand-off that even Ingris grows wary of, Gojo throws in the towel and is the first to take a step back. “Fine, be defiant,” he huffs, overdramatically craning his neck. “But since I’m here and can’t get out till the Gate opens again, why don’t we have another friendly competition?”

The grin that stretches across his lips is mischievous and wicked. The same grin he gives Jinwoo in the gym or the training room for a fight. The dark-haired hunter sighs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Fine, I’ll bite: what’s your proposition?”

Gojo is happy to explain. “Whoever is the first to kill the Boss good and dead wins some good sake and the grand prize of a power-up.” Jinwoo thinks about it for a moment. He knows he can have that advantage with his powers. Besides, some good and free sake doesn’t sound too bad.

“Deal.” The two hunters jut their hands out and firmly shake on it.

“Now arise,” Jinwoo commands. Gojo furrows his brows at him, perplexed. “Excuse me?” he asks.

Jinwoo points behind Gojo’s back and the white-haired hunter turns, cussing at the sight of the S-Ranked hunter’s shadowy soldiers appearing out of thin air in clouds of smoke. Ice bears, orcs, ants, and every other Boss that Jinwoo has killed so far and resurrected appears behind him, standing behind their master like soldiers. Beru, the talking ant, and Tusk, the King of Orcs, are among them. Ingris goes to stand with them, obedient and only serving the one and only Sung Jinwoo.

Gojo glares at his colleague, off put by the shadows. “What, you tryna make me a soldier too?” Jinwoo wraps a cape around his shoulders, smirking. “Perhaps in the future,” he sniggers. But just as quickly as his smile came, it fades as he regards his shadows. “Scout the perimeter and take out any threat in your sight. Leave the Boss to me.”

Immediately, his soldiers take off, each one scrambling in different directions, some in the air and some on ground. Jinwoo stands with pride as he watches them, knowing that he has this in the bag. “Hey, that’s cheating!” Gojo argues. “You can’t use your army to do your killing for you!”

Jinwoo glares at the white-haired hottie, tapping his ear. “Clearly, you’re hard of hearing. Aren’t you supposed to be good at everything? I said for them to leave the Boss to me. You should be thankful that I’m minimizing the obstacles for you.” A smirk pulls at his lips. “Or are you just scared that you’ll lose?”

In the blink of an eye, a portal appears behind Gojo, one that he no doubt made. He gives Jinwoo a confident, cocky grin, flashing his pearly whites. “Nah, I’d win. Every single time.” And after greeting Jinwoo farewell, he disappears.

“Cocky motherfucker,” Jinwoo mutters before he bends his knees in preparation for a jump. With a grunt, he jumps, suddenly airborne, and lands on top of a crumbling building. Then he’s shooting off from the top of the roof for another, going higher and higher each time, heading towards his target.

Heading straight for you.

#emmie recs

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emonaculate · 1 month ago

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black reader discourse…

I am quite frankly, very tired of seeing posts complaining about ‘hood’ Y/Ns and all of you coming out of the woodwork to proclaim that you don’t act this way and it’s disgusting to act this way and you hate fics where the reader wears wigs or acrylics or says the N-word and how all of these are just an inaccurate representation of our community. this is just very coon like behavior and is giving pick me.

yall know very well that fics including black women didn’t even exist until very recently. i’m grateful for every fic written whether it’s bad or good. either way they are contributing to the growth of a very niche community and helping establishing our presence here on this app. i’ve been on this app for like 12 years and I remember in the very early days when fics first started including black mc’s. no matter how the black mc was represented there would still be people in the mentions/comments like ‘eww gross you n***** why did you write this?’ or ‘this fic is so good but why is she black?’. we were quite literally fighting for our right to exist on this app.

hood culture is, like it or not, a big part of the black community and it’s not all negative. it’s a cultural movement that spawned from us being barred from white spaces and seen as the ‘inferior’ race no matter how we presented ourselves. hood girls deserve to see themselves in fiction just like everyone else. they deserve love without the implication that they need to imitate others/change themselves to seem more ‘civilized’. they aren’t bad people just because you don’t share the same style, vocab, interests and hobbies as they do.

whenever you bring this up you are giving non black people a free pass to insert themselves and say ‘yes omg so ghetto’. there are enough people against us. i would never help facilitate a conversation which further criticizes our community. especially when it’s related to very real people whose experiences you are trying to devalue.

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emonaculate · 1 month ago

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Been waiting on a Jinwoo fix since season 1 😩😩😩

A Hunters' Interest ~ Ch.01

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Fem!Reader,

CW: Daddy Kink, Praise Kink, Size Kink, Oral, Unprotected Sex, Edging, Aggressive Sex, Overstimulation,

Note: please block me if my work is not your cup-o-tea. I do not own any of the character art

WC : 6.5K

AHI Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad | Playlist

My very first fanfic!💙 As an introduction, I'm very happy with it! (though I've made a ton of edits since, and will do more if necessary!) EnJOY!

Synopsis: Hunter Sung Jinwoo sees someone he likes. His pursuit of her hits a bit of a wall until she forces him to take things a little further.

Author's Note: I've been toying with the idea of extending this story for a while. Its also gotten far more attention than all my other fics on AO3🥰. And since more people are reading it here, I insist that it be improved. So many people are loving Jinwoo now, so I decided to make good on my promise to myself to continue. I appreciate everyone who liked this little fic from the beginning, but I'm gonna do my best going forward to make it as great as I can get it!

..... Minors: You have no business here. Love you, but please don't ....

▶AHI Playlist

ɞ‿︵‿︵

Chapter .01

ɞ‿︵‿︵

It's way too damn hot out here. You whined to yourself as you exited your vehicle that had zero time to cool by the air conditioning.

You'd hoped it would relieve you of the sweltering heat you endured on the way to your destination. Your legs and back were quite warm from the seat that had soaked up so much of the sun as the temperature held steady at 95° all day.

You wrapped your laptop firmly in your arm, holding it up by your hand, noticing that it also had gone hot. “Ugh... Can't wait to get inside.” You muttered, the cooked car door singeing your fingers as you closed it.

Somehow you never managed to be one of those perfectly organized people who didn’t to struggle when getting out of the car... or doing anything for that matter. Your inherent clumsiness sometimes felt like a bit of a burden, but it was what it was.

You fumble to open the cafe door as your books nearly slide out of your arms, welcomed by the pleasantly cool greeting of air conditioning. “Haah” you breathed, almost too loudly as you entered the safe haven.

You stood at the door, scanning the place for a window seat, hoping for one that wasn't being pierced through with beating sunlight.

At first glance, you noticed there weren’t many people present which was great. It meant you didn’t have to wait long for your iced Caramel Frappuccino and water.

You spot a small table in the corner, which would grant you some semblance of privacy as you worked, though it wouldn’t be as quiet as you'd hoped since news reels were so important these days.

This business kept its mounted flat screen on at all times.

You stagger over as you consider the size of the cool beverage you’re looking forward to, as you hear the news reporting the opening of yet another gate.

You drop all your stuff on the table, glancing at the screen long enough to hear that your route home had been obstructed. Apparently it was a “D”, and could be cleared relatively sooner than others, but would still cause delays for you, regardless.

“Looks like I may as well order dinner”... you audibly say to yourself as you frown at the screen and take a seat.

One of your favorite baristas comes over to take your order for you, and offers to bring your drink, but a larger size.

“Thank you.” You mutter softly as she set it down gently at your table. You take a sip, and its delicious; cold, frothy and sweet, so flavorful that you closed your eyes as you allowed it to soothe your seemingly overheated insides, satisfaction spreading across your face as you relished the experience.

As your eyes slowly open, they meet the gaze of a man sitting at a table directly across from yours on the other side of the room. Your head tilts slightly to the right as your lids fall into a squint and you notice he's watching you intently.

He was tall. Very tall. You could tell even from where you were sitting. 6'4” maybe? You scanned your area, wondering if perhaps his eyes were meant to capture the attention of someone else.

He smirks, fixated, watching you shift nervously in your seat as your eyebrows furrowed yet you flash a small smile. He had jet black hair, tanned skin, and an absolutely beautiful face.

You practically gasp, reflexively looking back down to your laptop you had only just opened.

Does he know me? You wondered, unable to make yourself as comfortable as you were before realizing you were his entertainment.

After what seemed a full minute, you hesitantly glance back up, presuming surely he may have been distracted by someone or something else by now...

Nope... not so much. You realize, averting your gaze back to your laptop.

His large dark eyes remained locked your direction as he now sat with both elbows on the table, one hand positioned at the corner of his mouth, his slender index finger pressing a dent into his lip.

You avert your eyes, immediately regretting looking back his direction as you feel blood rushing to your cheeks.

Tch, I hope he didn’t notice that, You thought as you reach for your pen, fumbling ice water all over the table. “Agh!! shit!” you muttered, scrambling to rescue your laptop from the disaster area. You get up from the table, holding it in one arm as you hear footsteps approaching.

“Could I offer some help?” a kind voice offers as you work to get your shit together.

You immediately suspect who it is as you glance up, noticing he's no longer at his table. Your eyes travel upward, seemingly forever before they reached his face, which turned out to be even more beautiful up close.

“Uh…” you huff, shaking your head as you flash him an nervous smile. “Thanks.”

“Of course”. He says, having already managed to grab towels. He wipes up most of the icy water, scooping the cubes into his large hands as you keep your laptop safe. “Is everything ok?” he questioned with a blindingly beautiful smile. “Looks like you saved it,” nodding toward your computer.

“Oh...” you reply as you look down at it, catching it just before it slipped from your hand. “y-yeah… thank God. Heh… sorry for the trouble”.

“No trouble.” He interrupts, shaking his head, his beautiful, dark, gently hooded eyes piercing straight through you as a mix of amusement and intrigue gloss over them, and a smile curls into the corners of his mouth. “None at all. It's my pleasure”.

So handsome.

You could feel your face flush and practically paint itself red as you look away with a soft huff, trying hard to keep your smile small.

His grin remained plastered on his face for a moment, before he was abruptly distracted by something outside, then his attention shifts quickly to the report on TV:

“Breaking news: the most current D gate has just been reported to have gone RED. I repeat, the D gate, obstructing Broadway and Ash streets has just been reported to have gone RED. We are asking that all citizens avoid these streets at all costs until it has been confirmed cleared. RED gates pose an even greater risk, so we're requesting that any B+ Hunters in the area, not currently working active gates, please report to your guilds for further instructions…”

The man's smile morped into a glower as he stared intently at the flat screen. As the barista clears the last remnants of water from the table, you notice a faint gleam of colored light shining down on the table suddenly as you sit.

You look around for the source, startled to realize it's coming directly from his eyes. His iris glowed a bright blue hue with a dark outline.

You gawked at him, stunned as he quickly grabbed a pen from your table, scratched a number and name down, then glanced back up at you: “Call me in about 3 hours?”

You huffed, “Y-yeah...” as he disappears through the café doors.

❉・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵‿︵

It took merely 2 hours to clear the gate. A RED gate. Thats how long it typically took to round up hunters, recruit and process them on assignment and get them to the site. Plus, didnt they say they needed hunters above B rank? But the job is done, so... you figured there was really no reason to concern yourself with the details.

Law enforcement along with some hunters had also cleared the streets, and you were finally on your way home. At this point it was around eight thirty pm and the sun had retreated completely. It had been terribly draining, and all you could think about was how wonderful your bath would feel.

You made it to your place, and as you unloaded all of your things at the kitchen counter on your way in, you grabbed the paper from your bag that was left by the man. “Sung Jinwoo #777-XXX-XXXX.”

“Hmmm…” you hummed, thinking of that beautiful smile that was etched into your memory. He was just so stunning. Yet very familiar. You wondered where you had seen him before. Of course he was a hunter, but you hadn’t pinpointed from where.

The sound of his low voice vibrating in your ear was difficult to shake. So you figured you’d take your phone with you to the bath and call him from there. The sound of his voice would only make your wind down ritual even more relaxing. It’s not like he'd know.

As the hot water and frothy bubbles filled the tub, you removed your clothes and stepped in. You grabbed your phone and took a deep breath, relaxing your nerves before dialing the number.

“I’m glad you called” he answered.

His voice was even deeper and more sensual over the phone. Looks like you were right. “U-um… do you know who –?”

“Yup. Venti Caramel Frappuccino, ice water, and a saved laptop?

You chuckled, “Yeeaahh…”

“I had to leave so… I didn’t get the opportunity to catch your name… sorry about that by the way.”

“Oh… it’s cool … Jinwoo right?” you started as you introduced yourself. “Nice to officially meet you.”

“S’nice to meet you, too.”

You couldn’t help but smile as the sound of his voice seemed to vibrate throughout the room, shaking your very core. You leaned your head back on the edge of the tub and closed your eyes. ‘Please dont stop talking’... is what you wanted to say.

“You busy? ... If so, we can talk later.” he asked.

“Hmm... no... um... I'm just relaxing. Today was quite the day for me”. You replied as you attempted to keep your little splashes quiet.

“Oh yeah? You wanna tell me about it?” He sounded sweet. Genuinely concerned. A warm smile presses into your cheek as you note his sincerity.

“Maybe some other time. I'm just glad to be home in my element.”

“I get that. What do you do to relax?”

“You know, just ... have a drink, Netflix and chill...”

“Hmmm” He’s silent for a beat before he asks, “That room sounds hollow... Are you in the bath?”

“You flinch as your eyes widened, “How do you know that?” you say with a nervous giggle.

“Heh, my sensory input is kinda high. It's a thing.”

“Really?” You reply, as you suddenly recalled that he’s a hunter. And likely one of high rank if he had anything to do with that gate closing. “That reminds me... Did you work the red gate today?”

“Yeah, I did...”

“And you're okay?” You ask with a tinge of concern in your voice. “Everyone's ok?”

“Uh... yeah. No casualties.” That was the first time you'd heard anything but complete confidence in his voice.

“Thats good to hear...” you replied, pausing to process the info. “I'm curious about you, Jinwoo. you seem to be quite the interesting guy.”

He chuckles ... “I certainly hope so, I hope to keep your attention.”

“And why is that, may I ask?”

“I find you very beautiful.” He says with a huff, and smile that you could actually hear. “A little clumsy, but beautiful.”

“Thank you.” You replied shyly, returning the smile.

❉・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵‿︵

Jinwoo came by twice a week, faithfully. You could almost set your watch to him. And you were always happy to see him. You’d been dating for seven months now and absolutely loved his company.

He’s so beautiful. And … not your average beautiful. Almost ridiculously so. Overwhelming like the sugar in the candy you ate as a child.

However, at this point he seems ... too good? Or... just not as affectionate as you'd like. You'd get close to him, kissing, making out, or whatever, and he'd pull away when things heat up. Every time.

You started to wonder if you should question his level of attraction to you. He’s on his way over in a few minutes though, so… you figured now is as good a time as any to bring it up, right?

Usually, when he planned your dates, you'd go to public places like parks, museums, restaurants, even the gym and a couple sporting events. But you were sure to request something a little more intimate this time.

This time, you won’t leave the house.

You had the home field advantage. Complete privacy, and full autonomy, hopefully, to communicate exactly the way you choose.

Let tonight be the night, please...

He'd be there soon. He's always on time. And you'll be ready.

After slamming another shot, you lit your handmade candles, noticing how differently the shadows in the house seemed to move. Or... maybe it was just the alcohol.

Your heart skipped a beat as you heard the doorbell ring.

Ok... you got this...

You gave yourself a moment, took a deep breath and opened the door. Behind it was his tall, slender figure in a black designer tee and dark blue denim. His beautifully chiseled muscles peeked out from his sleeves and v-neck and the bottom of his tee tapered in a touch, draped perfectly from his chest to his waist.

Your eyes travel up to his face, where his jet-black hair brushed against his eyebrows hovering above his dark eyes, the cut framing it perfectly.

As he looked at you, scanning your silhouette, you notice the blue light peeking from behind his eyes, his jaw slightly clenched as he took a deep breath before uttering a deep and mildly raspy “Hey”. His fist clenched around the strap of the bag with the food he planned to cook.

You’re nearly rendered speechless, but gasp at the sight of him, and manage to utter, “Come on in sweetheart” with a blushing smile.

How can he look so damn good in jeans and a tee shirt?

He saunters in, smirking, his eyes fixated on your exposed legs stretching out from your little black dress as he enters. He finally turns and scans the room, taking in the vibe. “It feels and smells amazing in here”.

“Thank you” you say, with a warm smile, your head tilted to the side playfully.

Jinwoo, seemingly unable to break his gaze from you, forces another deep breath, then turns and heads for the kitchen. You notice the abrupt shift in energy, but decided it'd be addressed soon enough.

Everything was delicious. He prepared Bibimbap and Gimbap, at your request, complete with some top-shelf soju. Once your taste buds were sufficiently satiated, and you praised him for his stellar culinary skills, you made your way over to the living room to relax on the couch with a glass.

You notice and, as expected, he sits a little farther away from you than desired. You bite your lip at the thought rolling around in your head that, obviously, you're going to have to make some kind of move to get what you want.

All you could think about was being closer to him.

The comfort of this atmosphere, his immense presence... He was so wonderful inside and out. You wanted to feel more of him. In every way possible.

You get up to top off your glass and reposition yourself strategically closer to him as you sit back down, curling your legs and feet up on the couch.

“Are you gonna have another one?” you ask, as you observe his obvious level of discomfort.

“Well, I can taste it but… I burn off the alcohol pretty quickly.”

“Really?” you were hoping the liquor would relax him a bit more.

“Yeah. Like… immediately.” He scoffs in disappointment.

“Damn.” you giggle… “Well, that’s no fun.”

“Yeah” He looks at you and chuckles, blushing slightly. “You look beautiful.” He says, changing the subject as he scans your body again, resting his head on the back of the couch.

“Thank you.” your voice faintly above a whisper as your gaze travels up to his, hoping he’ll read your nonverbal communication correctly.

He does, grabbing your glass to place it on the table, then leaning in for a kiss. On impact, his soft lips touching yours sends what felt like a surge of electricity through your body. His hand laid gently on the side of your neck, sending shivers up your spine.

You guide his mouth open with yours, making it easier for you to purse your lips around his bottom lip as you kiss it softly. The intensity builds, your temperature rising as you lift your hands to wrap them around his neck, running your fingers from his nape along his collarbone. Your tongue begins to make its way into his mou-

He breaks the kiss. “Um…” he leans back, squeezing his eyes together, then looking away “… I’m uh... I'm sure you need your rest, so… I’ll let you get some” he mutters nervously and gets up from the couch.

“What? No!…” you jump up from your spot on the couch, obviously frustrated, and eager to stop him… you actually had to work to keep your tone and your demeanor calm. “You're leaving? Why?”

“I just…” he shakes his head “I don’t want to rush things…” he looks around for his bag.

You stand there, confused and a little shocked. “Jinwoo…” you hurry over to stand directly in front of him. “What’s up? I don’t want you to go. Stay with me tonight.”

He tilts his head to the side, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, his forehead wrinkling in frustration “I really want to… but…” shaking his head.

“But what? ... what is it?” you look up at him from the top of your 5”4' stature with a genuine look of concern on your face. “Talk to me.” You pause for a moment and swallow hard before muttering “I mean... are you...” You looked around as if for some route to not be disappointed if that was the case. “not … truly attracted to me… or?”

“God, no!”

Your eyes widen as shock washes over your face.

“I mean – that’s not it. You’re gorgeous. I just…” he pauses and rolls his eyes before taking another deep breath. “I… don’t wanna … hurt you.” he winces at his own comment.

“What?” You stand there gawking at him, still confused. “You won’t hurt me Jinwoo… I’m a big girl I can take it... whatever it is...”

Jinwoo raises his eyebrows and tilts his head as he squints… “well… that’s...” he looks down at you as you search for clarity in his eyes. “I gotta take it slow. I can be a little much for some people to deal with.”

“Some ... people?” you smirk, “Well... I think I should be allowed to decide what I wanna deal with, right?” your concerned gaze locked on to his dark eyes.

He draws even closer to you, slowly. “I like you. a LOT. I want to keep seeing you for as long as possible. I don’t want anything getting in the way of that.”

You squint in confusion, trying to understand what his concern is about. “Jinwoo, spit it out.” you quip, annoyed.

His hands glide around to the small of your back, fingers curving to grip your waist. You gasp as he presses you firmly against him. Already, he was as stiff as a board, and ... huge.

Your eyes widen as you look up at his face to see a smirk forming across his pretty lips. His gaze now glowed blue behind his hooded eyes. He was obviously excited. And now you were, too.

“Are you sure about this? We can wait.” His stiff bulge and lusty gaze betraying his words.

You smirk … “I want what's mine”.

He picks you up in one motion off the ground and carries you 20 feet past the couch to your bed, tossing you down on the mattress.

He smiles that beautiful smile, his gaze now accompanied by a grin. “As you wish”. He crawls up to your position on your king bed, straddling your figure, hovering for a kiss as you lean against the headboard.

This kiss felt much more relaxed, more intense. More... passionate. His tongue finds yours and dances gracefully across it as he tastes you. “Mmhh” he groans, relieved to have finally reached this point.

Your desire to be close to him and the excitement of finally being here, began to completely consume you as he held the hem of your dress, slowly sliding his large hands upward, tracing your voluptuous curves as he pulled it off and over your head. He tosses it to the floor as his eyes scan your body.

“Just beautiful.” He murmurs as his eyes slowly flick up toward yours. “Did you wear this for me?” He whispers, his bottom lip disappearing into his mouth as he tugged at the strap of your pretty black lace panties, and his gaze grew hungrier by the second.

You became more excited and curious about what he’s capable of as you watch him practically drooling at the sight of you.

He leans in and buries his head between your breasts, inhaling, savoring the scent of you. He flicks out his tongue, licking and sucking as if he'd ultimately consume you.

His fingers curl tightly around the lining of your bra as he pulls it over your right breast, revealing your hardened nipple. His lips purse around your soft flesh as his tongue orbits around it flicking it back and forth just before it disappears into his mouth.

He finds the edge of your panties again, and slides his thumb under the hem, pushing them to the side, granting himself access.

“Hmph…You're so wet.” He moans, the pads of his fingers finally gliding freely across your slick, the sensation stimulating, piercing you from your sex straight to your head. You thought you'd lose your mind as you'd waited so long to feel him touch you this way.

Jinwoo worked one more slow, circular motion before he slipped his two middle fingers halfway inside you with ease. He pumped them in and out of your entrance slowly as his thumb massaged your clit.

You pressed your hips forward, against his hand, begging for more friction. Your temperature rose even higher, your overwhelming desire taking over your body as if it had a mind of its own.

As your reactions and moans drew his attention, he lifted his face from your chest, eyes now glowing bright blue. His long fingers moved faster now pressing in even deeper as he watched you grasp the headboard behind you, your expression pained as you squirmed under his touch.

His brow furrowed as he took you in, “So pretty...” he groaned, as he continued lubricating his digits with your slick, growing more anxious by the second as he dipped his face to bury it back into your chest.

His eyes screwed shut, his bulging cock pressing against his jeans, begging for release from its confines as his hot breath wafted over your sensitive skin...

His deep voice sent a fierce vibration through you… “Cum for me baby.” he quietly requested as his fingers moved deeper, slowly and deliberately against your walls, the pad of his slickened thumb gliding unhurriedly over your clit.

His voice... His touch... His words... you were almost embarrassed at how overwhelmed you'd become as you clenched even harder, your moans echoing throughout your apartment. You pressed your thighs together, trapping his hand between them.

Heat surged in your core as you arched your back against him. You reach down, gripping his wrist as it nestled between your legs and you felt the muscles in his arm flex as he pressed his fingers inside you to the knuckle ... your hips rocked uncontrollably back and forth, riding his hand.

"Aaa~ahh!!" You moaned as your body quivered for what felt like a full minute and your orgasm ripped through you, Jin's eyes burning with need as he watched.

You catch your breath, your hand still clasping Jinwoo's wrist as you trembled, turning toward his face as your breaths hitched and you floated in the afterglow.

He raises his cum soaked hand to his mouth, his tongue flicking out between his fingers. “Good girl.” he grins, peering through his lusty, fiery eyes as one corner of his lips curled upwards.

Your eyes widen as your heart thumped, breaths deep and slow as you gazed at him. You'd never seen him like this but knew it was exactly what you wanted. He had a dark confidence in him that you’d never seen until now, one that bordered on intimidating.

A shudder rushes through your body as your gaze remained locked on his sly grin, the yearning inside you to hear him speak those words again, so intense, it gave you pause.

He shifts his large body, positioning himself between your legs, never breaking his gaze. “You're so sensitive... I like that.” he says as he grips each of your calves in each hand, pulling you toward him, causing you to lay flat on your back.

He chuckles teasingly as he pulls of his tee, exposing his chiseled torso. He lowers his body to the bed as his eyes send their blue hue throughout the dimly lit room, appearing both mildly terrifying and tremendously sexy, the juxtaposition making your head spin.

He wraps his muscular arms around each of your legs as they draped his shoulders, securing them into place as his hand rested on your lower abs, perfectly positioned to allow his thumb access to your clit.

He slowly massages your sensitive bud as he flashes a sultry gaze, sticking his tongue out, then licking your hot sex, slowly, from hole to hood over your soaked lace panties.

The fabric was inadequate at best, providing zero refuge as his tongue rolled softly, yet relentlessly around, teasing your most sensitive area. You couldn't contain the effect of the stimulation, your body jerking as you pressed your head into the pillows, gripping the sheets anywhere you could as the most sensual moans escape your lips.

Jinwoo grunts deeply, sucking at your sopping wet core as the mixture of his saliva and your arousal continued to leak on to the bed. His strong arm held your legs captive in their position, granting him full reign to do exactly as he pleased.

His left hand curls around the hem of your soaked panties as he grips them, sliding them to the side as he presses his mouth to your now exposed clit. His hot, wet tongue slid up and down your fleshy folds, softly yet aggressively kissing your sensitive nub as he reached the top at each pass. He flattened his tongue against your sex sliding it down as he opened his mouth, then plunged it deep into your hole as his sultry voice groaned against you.

Jinwoo's movements became more aggressive as his tongue fucks in and out of your core repeatedly. He gazed up darkly from between your legs, getting high on the view of you as you writhed in ecstasy. He reaches up, gripping your breasts as you peaked, pinching your sensitive nipples ...

“Ngh! - Jinwoo please!”... you wailed out as you trembled and convulsed, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as yet another release takes you, your body arching into his mouth.

With a finishing wet kiss to your throbbing bud, Jinwoo gazed at you and your flushed cheeks, licking his lips, so very pleased with himself.

“Wow. look at you...” he purrs, “You're shaking, luv.” smirking as he wiped the corner of his mouth with is thumb. “I wanna see more...” he coaxes, kissing your quivering inner thighs, your chest heaving as your body trembled deeply from your orgasm and the sound of his beautiful voice.

He leans into you, kissing your chest again as he looks into your eyes, then plants soft kisses to your lips, the taste of your arousal lingering on his tongue. “Commere”. He asks, as the cloudy haze threatens to never clear from your mind.

Jinwoo lifts himself from your body, and yours follows like a magnet, sitting up on your knees at his command, your eyes looking up at him as a servant awaiting further instruction.

He grabbed your neck gently, his fingers almost wrapping completely around it as he tilted your head upward kissing you again, passionately, his tongue dipping into your warm mouth then finishing by sucking your bottom lip with a soft smack.

His voice then floated past your ears like velvet. “Take off my jeans”.

You obediently reached up to do as you were told. Your hands curling and tugging at his leather belt. They seemed to have a mind of their own as they glided slowly down to his bulge, squeezing it gently as it was shrouded by his jeans. He was rock hard.

You noticed that familiar blue become brighter, glowing on your hands as you toyed with his hard length.

Hearts pulsed into your pupils as you wrapped your hands around his waist pulling him closer, kissing his solid abs, sliding your tongue around in intervals as looks down at you lovingly and his long fingers glide through your hair.

You pulled down his jeans and reached past his boxers, pulling his big, hot, throbbing member free as you gripped it in your hands and your eyes grew wide. You slowly lifted your gazed up toward him as you swallowed thickly. He wasn’t kidding. He was quite large, and extremely intimidating. But you were more than happy to accept the challenge.

The expression on his face grew more pained as you lean in and your wet tongue slowly flicks out, licking him from base to tip. Guttural moans escaped his lips as his arousal intensified.

You curled your lips around the head, sliding him into your mouth as far as possible, coaxing more precum to cover your tongue as it massaged his veiny length and your head pressed down onto him.

Squeezing your lips around the shaft, sucking on the way up, you were overwhelmed with both his taste, and the desire to please him, humming against his length, the vibration sending shivers up his spine.

He threw his head back as his eyes screwed shut... “ha~ah so good... that’s it, baby” his moans hypnotic as he became putty in your hands. You wanted him to cum hard. His fingers slid around your scalp as he massaged your head, then gripped your hair firmly as his body trembled under your touch and his hips bucked forward.

You bobbed your head in smooth, steady motions as he rolled his hips, sinking himself deeper into your throat. His hands now fisted into your hair as he thrusted carefully, his needy urge rising up inside him, becoming more prevalent in his movements.

Your hands moved quickly now up and down his throbbing shaft as you stroked and squeezed, your lips wrapped firmly around the head, your cheeks caving inward as you sucked, begging for his release.

His dick pressed against your throat as you made eye contact, gagging slightly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He shuddered at the sight of you, as you open your mouth wide, his cock twitching on your tongue just before the head disappeared back into your mouth.

Jinwoo’s brow furrowed as he huffed, his chest rising and falling from deep breaths as you tease him. He was close, his hips thrusting forward as you helped him slowly fuck your face with his enormous cock. “Aaaghh shit! .... baby I'm gonna cum!”

You feel him tug your head away, but you pressed in further, sucking harder, saliva coating your mouth, your hands, and his cock, as you completely ignored his warning. Your face buried in his groin made your smile invisible as you hummed against his veiny member, waiting for the reward for all your hard work. “mhmm!”

Jinwoo grunted, “...ha~aah... I'm coming!” You stayed locked in place, as his large body trembled. He threw his head back, his grip tightening even more on your head as he released hot, milky, thick ropes of cum deep into your mouth.

The warm sensation coated you on its way down, mirrored by the wetness now dripping down your legs. You lift your head up slowly as the last that hadn't made its way past your throat trickled from your lips, and down his still very hard member.

The look on this face was priceless. His mouth gaped open as he panted, pupils dilated, his face painted red with a beautiful mixture of obsession and unadulterated lust.

Jinwoo grabbed your head gently, leaning in to press his lips into yours. "Such a good girl.” he spoke into your mouth as he kissed and sucked at your swollen pink lips.

He pulled your head to lean you back onto the bed as he leaned forward, crawling toward you as a beast to prey as you slid back toward the headboard.

He moved to remove your bra and panties, sliding his large hands up from your belly to squeeze each of your breasts, covering them almost completely. He rolled your nipples on the pads of his thumbs, leaning in to suck each of them before sliding his hands down to grip your waist.

Jinwoo held your waist in one hand as he wet his thumb on his tongue with the other, then rubbed it slowly up and down your sloppy slit. He then carefully slid both of his thumbs inside, eliciting a moan from your voice as he pulled your folds back slightly, leaning in to get a good peek at your wet hole as he licked his lips.

“Fucking beautiful”, he hissed, excited to get inside as you leaked on to the bed. “You're drenched. Did you like sucking me, luv?” he coos as he leers at you with that sly grin you love.

Soft whimpers and moans continue to escape your lips and fill the room as he toys with your pussy. He slides his thumbs up and down your opening, circling your sensitive clit as he watches your body jerk and tremble. “Please Jinwoo” ... you whined, “don’t tease me.”

He hovers his face over yours, basking in your reactions as you writhed, aching for more. “I so love to hear you beg.” he grunts, his hand reaching down to grip his thick, throbbing cock as he slipped the head up and down your folds as your body trembled.

His other hand moves to run his fingers through your hair, as he simultaneously pressed his soft lips to yours, shoving his tongue into your mouth as he pressed his cock inside, causing your entire body to clench.

You cried out as you break the kiss to gasp for air. “Mma-aah!” as your thighs weakened around him.

He whispers into your ear, grinning. “You can get it anytime.”

Your breaths hitch as they get caught in your throat behind what should’ve easily been a scream as your core grips him like a vice.

“Aaah you're so perfect and so tight” he averts his gaze down at your quivering limbs, then back up to your pretty, pained face with a hiss... “Halfway in babe.”

Your mouth gapes open releasing pants, “ha~aah... ha~aah...” his body weight and warmth surrounding you as you relish the pleasure of him slowly climbing your tight, gummy walls.

He simpers softly in your ear, teasing... “Awww babe... you gonna cum again?” and with a deep grunt, presses in deeper. “Nnghhh”...

You clench around him fiercely as you release, squirting all over his cock. “Haa-ah! Fuck, Jinwoo!!” you wail as your slick cunt quivers around his sensitive length.

His deep, soft laugh resonates in your ear “Thats my good girl... shit you feel so damn good. Almost there, baby...” he says, pressing deeper into your cervix.

“Damn you, Jinwoo...” You mutter in between breaths, chuckling as your eyes flutter shut, yet another orgasm rising up from your core. Your mouth hangs open as you try to suppress it, focusing on relaxing to receive more of him.

“You ok baby?” Jinwoo coos, his head buried in the crook of your neck, his arm wrapped around your head, the other around your waist, cradling you in a secure embrace as he planted soft kisses on your cheek. “~Haah.... we can stop if you wan –”

“No! ... don’t stop! You interrupted, "d–don’t you fucking dare” you whimper into the air through shallow breaths, “keep going... haaah! I love it, baby”.

Jinwoo looks at you with a leacherous grin, amazed at how well you're taking him. His heart thumped heavily in his chest as his face goes beet red. He closes his eyes and smiles with deep satisfaction as he pulls, then thrusted to the hilt into your sopping wet cunt.

He pulses, throbbing inside... “Mmm~ ah my fucking god...” he moans, unable to move, for fear he'd cum immediately. He groans deeply, waiting for the electricity that seems to be coursing through the both of you to subside before he continued... He pulls out slowly, then back in. ~out... ~in... picking up the pace... a little faster, hitting your spot with every thrust.

“Aaahhhh fuck!” he moans as he drills into you, filling you up more than completely.

You've practically gone silent, unable to speak or think, your arms wrapped under his, gripping and clawing at his broad shoulders as he repeatedly buries his cock into your core. He felt so fucking good.

You'd never had a man fill you to this capacity. He was marking you. Branding you, making you his alone. Intoxicated, you relaxed your muscles even more, widening your legs in response...

Jinwoo continually thrusted his thick dick shamelessly into your core. “Aaah you’re doing so fucking well...” punctuating each hit to your cervix with wet kisses on your cheek and forehead as he praised you. “Mmmh~my sweet girl ~ I'm gonna cum soon, baby”.... he moaned as he grew even harder.

“Ngh~!” you moaned, shuddering underneath him.

He was fucking you much faster now, the slapping sounds of your sensitive flesh being pounded, your clit taking taps on impact, Your whimpers grew louder as he lifted his bodyweight from you.

You were both drenched in sweat. He hovered over you now, still throbbing inside, as his hands gripped your arms, making their way up to your neck, resting on your collarbone as they kept your body steady and your head from the headboard as he started again, plunging into your core, again, and again, and again.

He maintained a firm grip on you as his mouth hung open, “So fffucking tight!” ... he breathed, his hips thrusting steadily as he slid his hands down to your breasts, groping and squeezing as they bounced. He moved one hand to your sex, sliding his thumb over your sensitive clit as his other thumb circled your nipple in tandem with his thrusts. He then glided both hands down toward your belly as his fingers curled around your waist, gripping firmly.

He was majestic as he towered over you, giving you pleasure you'd never experienced. “Nnngh... Jinwoo...” you whimpered, the sight of him and the feeling of his hands all over you causing your core to clench even tighter, as tears pooled in your eyes.

He pulled you into him hard with each thrust. His eyes darkened as he pounded himself into you his huge cock sloshing lewdly in your slick, dragging against your gummy walls. “Almost there" he practically growled. "Mmffuuuuck!” Jinwoo peaked as he stretched you, traveling deeper than ever, bullying your womb.

“Fucking yes, Jinwoo!” you whimpered, completely blissed out... lying there letting him... just letting him have it. His dick traveled the entire length of your entrance, hitting your sweet spot with absolute precision.

As far as you were concerned, he could do whatever. He was satiating you, quenching you… you were completely his. His baby, his doll, his opening to do whatever the fuck he wanted to.

You reached up to clutch his forearms, trembling, caressing and feeling his veiny muscles as he strained while gripping you in all the different places. Tears dripped from your eyes as he pounded the life out of you. You were so wet, that the only thing you felt was absolute pleasure as his beautiful and enormous shaft slid deliciously in and out of your sopping heat again and again.

Jinwoo had finally reached his limit ... “I'm coming baby” he huffed, “... cum with daddy luv…”

Daddy?

“~Haaah FUCK!” you wailed as your core clenched for dear life around him. Your entire body spasmed, twitching as you edged. Your eyes rolled back as your head pressed against your plush pillows. Your breath completely emptied from your lungs as it passed your throat and you screamed his name.

You both released together, you, squirting all over his abs and dick, his hands locked on to your waist as spurts of hot cum spilled into your womb.

Jinwoo leaned over you, moaning, breathing heavily, sliding his fingers up through your sweat drenched hair and across your face as he showered you with kisses. He watched you admirably, lying there on your back huffing, as he relaxed his muscles. He reluctantly detached from you, both of you flinching from the sensitivity, just before he plopped down next to you.

You turned toward him, breathless, your hair falling over your face, your smile stretching as you gazed into his satisfied eyes. “That was fucking amazing. Don't ever keep that shit from me again.” You giggled.

He gazed back... chuckling as he basked in the afterglow. His breathing slowed as his broad shoulders turned toward you, his hand reaching over to cup your cheek as he leaned in to plant a kiss on your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

“I love you.” He said, punctuating it with his beautiful smile.

In this moment, yet again, his eyes turned from one color to the next, the blue light glowing softly as he whispered through the dark room with enthralling seduction, “... this ... is gonna be fun”.

Thank you for reading! 🥰✧ : -˚̣⋅ .ɞ‿︵‿︵

AHI Masterlist | Chapter .02 Coming soon!! ~

Notes: As always, I welcome any and all critiques, suggestions, and comments regarding my work, since I truly feel all of those may make me a much better writer! I sincerely appreciate you taking the time to read my little stories, and if you'd like to be tagged in releases, don't hesitate to comment below! 😊💖

Character Art by Redice Studio Created for Chugong's Solo Leveling

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emonaculate · 2 months ago

Text

FERB I KNOW WHAT WERE GONNA DO TODAY

No Rest For The Wicked | mafia!sukuna x maid!reader

summary: in which a certain mafia leader executes your employers entire clan, yet instead of killing you along with all the other house staff members, he decides to spare your life and makes you his own little maid. how fucked up would it be if he ended up falling in love with you too?

genre: MDNI, mafia au, modern sukuna, afab reader, angst, hostage/forced labor type situation, sukuna does have his silly moments and can be surprisingly gentle, bittersweet ending, he's a slight masochist w/ a big phat 10 incher, reader is a reader and he buys her lots of books

warnings: graphic depictions of violence, mentions of blood, guns and alcohol, smut, piv sex, fingerfucking, cunninglingus, romantic turned rough sex. 10.4kwc!

Life is undoubtedly cruel.

One day you’re in grad school, struggling to make ends meet, working as a maid for a family that doesn’t even believe women should be able to read–

The next, you are essentially the property of quite possibly the most sadistic and also the most annoying man you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. Awful doesn’t even begin to describe a man like Sukuna. He’s someone that’ll rip your fingernails out one by one while begging you to scream and cry even louder for him.

In hindsight, you should’ve known the Zenin’s dabbled in illegal activities of some sort, no one got that rich by just working hard. You have to leave some of your morality behind somewhere along the way to get to that point, whether it’s from exploiting others or just straight up dodging taxes. How else would they have pissed off a mafia lord enough to get their entire bloodline wiped out? You wouldn’t be surprised if he came for their distant relatives as well, he might as well be the fucking grim reaper.

Guilt washes over you each time you wake up in the shoebox of a room Sukuna put you in. Maybe if you hadn’t abandoned your own morals for a check, you wouldn’t have gotten caught up in the crossfire the day he decided to raid your previous employers compound. He happily wiped out everyone that was there, except for you– for a reason you have yet to know. You aren’t even sure if you want to find out anymore. You just want to go home, but you’re starting to doubt that’ll ever happen.

You tried to put up a fight, you really did, but it was all just a waste of time and energy.

You offered to sign an NDA, to which you got laughed at by Sukuna and all of his men. NDA’s protected secrets like affairs, not criminal activity. Not that you’d know, you weren’t a fucking law student.

Then you tried crying– saying you were just trying to get by and that you had no reason to go off and snitch on him. You just wanted to live a peaceful life, you didn’t bother anyone. You quickly sucked it up after realizing he enjoyed watching others cry. He even encouraged you to keep going, all while there was an evil twinkle in his eye, the biggest smile on his face showing off his perfectly straight and glittering white teeth.

And how could you ever forget the hunger strike? That didn’t last long either. Sukuna found out you were refusing to eat, going as far as throwing away all the meals you were served in the same minute you got them. He woke you up that night by barging into your room with multiple boxes of take-out.

This is where the annoying portion of his shitty personality comes in– he sat across from you and began to slowly eat, not holding out on expressing how good the food was after each bite. The room was excruciatingly quiet too, you heard each crunch and he eventually heard your stomach growl.

He got you to eat in the end, just not any of the take-out he used to persuade you with.

“Sorry sweetheart, bad girls don’t get rewarded,” is what came out of his mouth when he handed you a plate of dry chicken and rice. You wouldn’t be surprised if he cooked it himself too.

You are going to die here.

It's harsh reality that eventually settled in for you. You do your best to accept it, knowing you’ll perish in the home of someone who playfully taunted you once with food. It’s almost laughable, it would be if you didn’t have to circle back to the fact that he’ll probably be the one to watch you take your last breath.

Each time you clean blood up off the floor, you hope it’s the final straw that makes your brain finally realize just how traumatizing it is. You hope it goes into overdrive, just so that the next time you have to stand before a presumably innocent person’s blood, you are numb and dissociated enough to clean up his mess without a thought.

But nothing ever changes, it’s always just as filthy and disgusting as the time before, holding back on a gag or several when you first get started with mopping his white marble floors. His home was too beautiful for all the bloodshed that happens in it, the only reason why it’s not riddled with angry spirits is because he has a shaman come in frequently to spiritually cleanse the place.

You spend most of your nights trying to figure out why he keeps you here, he has plenty of unpaid maids already. He has more of a reason to keep them instead of you, he’s saved them from their lives one way or another and they are more than happen to serve him. Not that you didn’t need to be saved, you absolutely did, you were drowning in debt from student loans.

But still, you’d take your old life any day over being a literal modern-day slave, at least you would’ve been able to still go to the liquor store and grab a bottle of vodka to wash your worries and pain away.

But now you are painfully sober, mainly by choice. You’ve declined Sukuna the couple of times he’s offered you a drink, you didn’t trust him enough to believe that he wouldn’t slip something in there. Except there’s something that tells you he was the type of person to use a psychedelic over something else, just so he could watch you have a bad trip and laugh about it the whole time.

Some days you’re convinced that he just wants someone to tease and make fun of while he’s home, kind of like an extra source of entertainment for when he gets bored of scrolling through tiktok.

Like a pet.

He ignores most of the workers, but you? He makes it his life’s mission to get under your skin, he taunts you for sport.

He’ll come up behind you, childishly flicking your ear, poking the side of your waist, lightly pulling your hair. Then there’s his favorite, dropping a random object on the floor or counter when you think you’re alone in a room, just so he could startle you. He laughs at your pain and frustration everytime he does it, yet you can’t say anything because he’ll probably torture you.

“Mr. Sukuna is requesting your presence.” One of the many staff members knocks on your door and says.

More like demanding, but you had no choice either way. So you drag your feet down the long, cold hallway and into his office filled with many books that you doubt he’s ever touched, let alone read. To no one’s surprise, he’s been patiently waiting. As always, he's leaning back in his chair with his feet kicked up on the table, absolutely no care in the world.

“Took your sweet time getting here, didn’t ya’?” He says with a smug look on his face.

“Of course not.” You respond dryly. “May I ask why you requested my presence?”

“No you may not.” His tone is even drier. “Have a seat.” He says, gesturing at the leather chair in front of him.

You continue to look at him reluctantly, all while he continues to encourage you to take a seat. His words blend together in your brain, translating to one big ‘pspspspsps’ because that’s how he makes you feel at this point, a fucking pet.

What could he possibly want this time?

He says nothing at first and just continues to stare you down. It’s not uncomfortable anymore, you got used to it after a month of staying here. You’ve been here for 7 months now, what used to be a painful silence accompanied by your racing heart and barely contained fidgeting has turned into a waiting game– sometimes he’ll speak after 3 minutes, other times longer. One time he didn’t say anything at all and just had you sit in front of him for a whole hour– once the timer was up, he excused you.

You really thought about saying something to him about it that day, but decided to hold your tongue. It’s not like you had anything else to do, your life revolved around him and his orders.

“Did you miss me while I was gone?” He smirks as he asks. He already knows the answer to that, but wants to watch you struggle as you lie straight to his face.

You try your best to hold back a scowl, apparently he likes it when women look at him with disdain and you do not want to give him that pleasure. “I don’t think a week is long enough to miss anyone, Sir.”

“Yes it is.” He refutes, sitting upright in his chair. “My girlfriends usually start to miss me after 2 days.”

Your eyes almost roll into the back of your head when he says that, he treats those poor women like shit and they just eat up. “Must I remind you that I’m literally one of your victims, not one of your girlfriends.”

There she is, he thinks to himself. He likes it when you get all sassy with him, especially when he’s trying to be nice to you. “You are neither.” He corrects you, then plops a wrapped gift on to his cherry wood desk. “I would’ve never gotten you these if you were.” He adds, sliding the mystery gift toward you.

“What is it?” You ask, not as excited or pleased as he’d like you to be over his kind gesture.

“Maybe if you opened it, you’d find out.” He says condescendingly. “Go on– don’t let my efforts of trying to be a better boss go to waste.”

“More like my abductor.” You mutter to yourself, making the man chuckle because he knows it’s true. You slide the gift closer to yourself and pull the ribbons string, quickly undoing the shitty bow that he most likely tied together himself.

Under the wrapping paper is a collection of books, you don’t know if you should be happy or even more disgusted by him. There’s a part of you that feels excited, you’ve missed reading. You’ve never asked to read any of the books he has, because fuck him, and you didn’t have a phone that you could go online and read free books from.

But on the other hand, “Did you get me a collection of Dostoevsky books just so I could be in even more despair?” You’re quick to accuse him.

“What? No.” He grimaces, you can’t tell if he’s lying or not.

“Then why did you get me these?”

“You were a student before I took you in, no?” He clasps his hands behind his head. “Just thought you’d like ‘em.” He simply says.

You turn your attention back to the books, there’s 5 of them and it’ll probably take around a month to read through all of them– not bad. But you still don’t trust him. “What do you want?”

“Well, right now I want you to stop asking all these stupid questions.” He answers sourly, clearly a little offended that you weren’t showing more joy over his gift. Who knew the man could be this sensitive, you watched him cut someone's fingers off last month for fucks sake. “Do you want them or not? ‘Cause I can toss them in the fireplace right n–”

“No need.” You chirp out, grabbing the collection and plopping it on your lap. “You already got them, might as well read them.” You casually say, biting back on thanking him because that was the last thing you wanted to say.

“Great.” He begins to look at you expectantly.

“Mhm.” You respond through shut lips. “Well– I should uhm… probably get back to work.”

He nods and agrees, “You probably should.” You move to get up, but are quickly stopped when he continues to speak. “Buuut if you say thank you, I’ll let you take the day off.” He offers.

You almost want to laugh at him for that, “Seriously?”

“Yup.” He pops the ‘p’. “C’mon, I know you want the day off, just say it.”

“..Thanks.” You mutter under your breath.

“What? Sorry, didn’t hear that.”

“Thank you.” You say a little louder and it puts a smirk on his face.

He leans forward, planting his elbows on the desk. “Knew you could do it, guess I just had to talk you through it a little bit.”

It sends a slight shiver down your spine, he’s never been that suggestive with you, ever. Before you even get the chance to process it, he goes back to his cold, distant demeanor that he presents to the world and excuses you from his presence.

—

Your wish of wanting him to leave you alone more was surprisingly granted. Work is still as difficult as always, but ever since he gifted you those books, he’s moderately toned down the daily torment towards you. No longer poking you or tugging at your hair.

But the sly, unsolicited comments still persist. You’re used to them though, they’re more like background noise to you at this point.

Your duties for today were dusting and polishing the wine glasses that literally nobody uses. You decide to go with your first task– there was something about ruffling the feather duster that was oddly satisfying to you. Or maybe you were just going stir-crazy in this place, who knows.

“Oh- sorry.” You mutter after realizing you had just intruded in on one of Sukuna's meetings. He usually has them in his office, not the entertainment room.

“It’s fine.” He dryly mutters, not bothering to spare a glance towards you. “You can continue.”

You nod in response before making your way to the corner shelf. The only good thing about him was that he generally didn’t berate his workers in front of others unless it was called for, which was great since his actions usually set the precedent for how his guests treated them.

Aside from the frequent blood spillage, the mansion was honestly pretty clean, so you didn’t have to put that much work into tasks like dusting. You doubt there was any dust on the shelf or the items on it to begin with, so you worked quickly but quietly– drowning out the voices that filled the room until they morphed into muffled sounds in your focused state. It was almost kind of nice, until one of the men in the room directed his attention toward you.

“I think you missed a spot sweetheart.” He says. You’ve witnessed enough of these meetings to know that he’s not one of the big guys in charge– most likely a newbie, a little henchman.

Even if he was a new face, you still weren’t used to any of them directly speaking to you, so you stopped and looked up at Sukuna. It wasn’t an act of defiance this time, you were more so just looking at him for direction.

"Keep cleaning." Sukuna murmurs, still not bothering looking your way. He decides to ignore the whole thing, hoping that was just a one and done comment. He trusts Akiro will deal with his little recruit later, just not now when they’re trying to handle some business.

But sometimes things don’t go the way you want them to, even he isn’t prone to situations like this.

“Nope– still haven’t quite gotten it, maybe you should bend over a little bit more, I’m sure that’ll help.” He smirks and comments again, because that’s how untrained dogs are, they continue their bad behavior until you correct them.

You don’t even look at Sukuna this time and continue to clean despite how shaky your hands start to become. Anger begins to slowly boil up in your chest. It was like being back with the Zenin’s all over again— the harassment, the small degrading comments.

Sukuna notices that– he also notices how the little fucker won’t stop eyeing you up and down, eye-fucking you, thinking about you in ways that he shouldn’t. Doesn’t matter if you’re not with Sukuna romantically, you’re still his– you belong to him.

As fucked up as it may sound, only he’s allowed to do that to you. And even then, he doesn’t.

Since Akiro refuses to train his new dog, he figures it’s his job to do so, which is why he takes it upon himself to grab the nearest vase and breaks it over the kids head. Before anyone could blink, there were shards scattered all across the floor. Around everyone's feet and just inches away from where you were standing.

Everyone of course flinches, because he did that shit without a warning, not even changing the bored expression on his face once. It’s that one quality that’s made him so successful in his line of work– his unpredictability. There’s no point in guessing what he’d do, you just pray he’s not feeling extra self-indulgent that day. He’s a glutton for violence and enjoys what he does– worse than his father who just wanted to get the job done.

No one in the room makes a sound– especially not you. You stand still in place, watching the blood begin to trickle down the guy's forehead as he laid over the shards, groaning over the pain that began to kick in. His head stung more and more with each second that passed, he needed a vicodin or something the moment he got home.

That’s if he even makes it home.

Sukuna cuts the tension by directing his attention back to Akiro, who can’t help but bow his head down, out of fear of being next. “Why did you bring him here?”

“Just moved up in the ranks, Sir. We made the mistake of promoting him.” Akiro’s quick to take responsibility for the decision. Taking accountability like that will more likely increase his chances of getting out of here unscathed.

Sukuna lets out a low laugh, an insulting one. “Recruiting him was the real mistake. My men would still be standing if I busted a vase over their heads.” He then turns to the half-conscious man on the ground. He stands over his body and without bothering to kneel down, says “Apologize to her.”

He forces himself to get up, which takes a good amount of effort, and bows before Sukuna instead. He expresses his deepest apologies for acting out of line, and everything else you’d expect someone to say towards a man with a murder count that was unmatched. The words have no meaning to Sukuna, but his lips do quirk up for a split second, he loves it when people bow down to him. But it wasn’t about him this time, it was about you.

“No.” Sukuna finally says after letting the guy ramble for what seems like forever. “Apologize to her.”

He then reluctantly turns to you, with his eyes glued to the ground, and mutters an apology that was half of the one he gave to Sukuna. He didn’t like that and kicks the kid in the stomach. “I didn’t hear you. Again.”

“I-I’m sorry.” The boy heaves. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have done that.”

You don’t acknowledge it and continue to clean. He didn’t mean it, you wouldn’t even be surprised if he wished you were dead right now since he couldn’t get away with being a fucking pervent towards you.

“Now get out.” Sukuna harshly orders. He watches the man get up from the ground and stumble out of the room with his head down, with the rest of the men following suit. You wait a bit for them to leave before making your exit as well, wanting to avoid them when you finally do so.

“I didn’t say you could leave.” Sukuna mutters, pouring himself a glass of scotch.

“Right.” You say in response, slightly shaken up from the scene you had just witnessed, it never gets easier. You watch as he slowly fills his glass, unable to tell what he was thinking right now.

“You okay?” He finally asks, putting the crystal decanter back down onto the mini bar.

“Uhh– yeah.” You usually have something smart to say in response, but you’re kind of at a loss for words right now over why he did that. “Not that big of a deal. His words I mean. Not that disrespecting you is okay, but I’m not– sorry, I’m fine.”

For once he patiently listens to you as you struggle to come up with a response, more so because he’s pretty sure you’re scared of offending him right. He surprisingly doesn’t want you to feel that way right now.

“Alright.” He shrugs, taking a sip from his glass. He’s honestly starting to feel bad right now, it’s bothering him. He’s quick to cut off the thoughts brewing in his head and gestures at the shards sprinkled all over the floor, “Clean this up and go take the rest of the day off.” He orders, but his tone’s softer, less demanding than the last one he just gave to the group of men.

You nod, “Alright. Yeah– I can do that.”

Without another word or taking another look at you, he walks out, leaving you to clean up his mess once again.

You slept earlier than usual tonight.

If you had to be honest with yourself, aside from reading the books that Sukuna had randomly gotten you, sleep was the one thing you looked forward to the most. It was quiet, away from everyone else.

You try to get the most out of your sleep, it’s how Sukuna’s able to get away with sneaking into your room tonight without getting caught. He just wanted to see how you were doing, but you fell asleep before he got the chance to.

So now he's here, sitting at the edge of the shitty bed he’s been forcing you to sleep on for months. Gaze fixed on your form, listening to the sounds of your shallow breathing. He’s never really gotten the chance to see you like this, for the most part you have a distressed look on your face whenever he’s around, it makes him wonder if this was how everyone else saw you.

He also wonders why he’s even sitting next to you now, watching you. He wasn’t going to sugarcoat it, it was creepy, he felt like a fucking weirdo. But he pushes that thought aside– not like he was going to do anything to you anyways. You’re safer with him more than you’d ever know, maybe that’s why he ended up feeling bad over the way you were scared of saying the wrong thing to him earlier.

But he couldn’t lie, the longer he sat there and stared at you, the more he wondered what it would be like if he just… reached out? Ran the back of his knuckle down your cheek or something?

No, that’s weird as fuck, don’t do that.

He keeps his hands to himself as he continues to get lost in his thoughts, letting them take a darker turn. He could end this– end you, if he wanted. But he doesn’t feel like it, nor does he feel like setting you free so you can go back to living a normal, relatively safe life. How shitty of him. Even as you sleep, you still don’t look at peace. Maybe his mistake all along was not killing you that night.

But just as quickly as the foreign feelings came, they vanish, making him wonder what the fuck he was even doing with his life right now. He could be getting drunk, or better yet, getting laid right now. But he’s here, watching a girl that loathes him sleep.

Sukuna exhales slowly and quietly gets up from the creaky bed, the last thing he needs right now is you waking up and freaking out– you already hate him enough as is.

He successfully does so and leaves your room, gently closing the door as well.

Which easily became another regret after realizing he’s never closed a door so carefully in his life.

—

Things between you two went back to “normal” after that. Normal as in, annoying you at every chance he gets and calling out for you whenever he needs something cleaned. Eventually he summons you back into the abyss of sorrow and despair– his office.

As always, he’s waiting for you, ready to mentally torment you for however long he pleases.

“How can I help you?” You sigh and ask.

He just gestures towards the seat in front of him in response. Once you finally sit down, he takes a second before speaking, using that time to get a good look at you.

When it comes to him, getting a good look at you means just that. He’ll look you dead in the eye and try to gauge how much you’re hating your life at the moment. Sometimes his gaze will drift to your lips or your hair, but that’s about it. Even then, you don’t feel like it’s in a predatory way.

“Did you finish your work in the sunroom?” He asks.

“I did.”

“Good.”

“Mhm.” Is all you have to offer, your mind’s more on what he wants because you know he didn’t summon you just to ask that.

He leans back in his chair. “Have you gone through that collection of books I got you yet?”

“I did. Finished the 5th a couple days ago.”

“Good to know.” He leans to the side to pick up another box and sets them down on the desk. “I heard Murakami books were a good read.”

You look at the collection, this time it’s a set of four rather than five. “Who’d you hear that from?”

“Google.” He mutters.

“I see.” You want to laugh, but receiving a second set of books makes you feel just as unsettled as it did the first time around.

You slowly reach for them, but in his typical asshole fashion, he nudges them back.

“Say, ‘Thank you, Lord Sukuna.’” He laughs as he poorly mimics your voice, he sounds like an idiot and you hate that you can’t make fun of him for it right now.

You just stare at him in return because you’d rather not call him that and he starts to become visibly annoyed. If you weren’t so scared of him deep down, you’d think watching his demeanor shift is hilarious. It’s a silent tantrum. His lips thin, his pupils shrink, a vein or two pop out because of the way he holds his breath.

“Tell me, do you like having a tongue?” He eventually asks, since you won’t say anything.

“Can’t put it to full use anymore, but yeah I guess.”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ thought so– wait what did you just say to me?!” He’s stunned and honestly, so are you. You honestly don’t know why you said that, it’s probably just from the months of pent up frustration. You obviously didn't have the best life, but you could’ve fucked more people– the past 8 months have made you realize that.

Now you don’t have that choice because you’re stuck here, with a “boss” that pisses you off every waking moment and “coworkers” that follow him like he’s some sort of prophet.

“I said I like having a tongue, please don’t cut it out.” You respond, hoping he just leaves it at that.

“I never said I was gonna cut it out.” He quickly says, still looking at you like you’re the crazy one.

“Then why did you bring up my tongue?”

“Are you actually talking back to me right now?” He scoffs before pointing at that door, “Outta my sight. You don’t deserve my attention right now.”

You stare at him a little longer and notice he’s holding back that annoying smile of his. Who knew talking like that would actually get the man to leave you alone.

“Don’t forget your books too, you little nerd.” He barks out right before you walk out of the room.

You want the books, so you turn around to grab them. His head’s cocked to the side while he watches you walk back in amusement.

You're not sure why he even excused you in the first place. He’s not done toying with you, that much is known when he nearly slams his hand down onto the stack of books and moves them a little closer to him. Sukuna looks quite pleased with himself when you don’t bother hiding your emotions this time and look at him with pure disgust.

“What’s that little look for?” He purrs, voice dropping an octave.

“You’d hold anything hostage.” You answer truthfully, watching his finger lightly tap on the cover. His nails are painted black today, he usually does that whenever the blood stains are too stubborn to be scrubbed out.

“I know.” He’s not afraid to admit, he sounds neither proud nor ashamed to say it. “Doesn’t mean you can’t read in the backyard or sunroom, probably better than your room.”

“I would but I’d rather not spend my leisure time in an area where someone’s probably died.”

He chuckles, “I’m surprised you went this whole time thinking nobody has ever died in your room before.”

“Didn’t have to tell me that.” You murmur.

“My bad.” He finally slides the books over to you. “Sunroom’s safe though.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” That piece of information does nothing to help your new fear of your room being fucking haunted. “They didn’t die in my bed, right?”

“The mattress was replaced right after.”

“So they kind of did?”

“No more questions.” He hates when people ask too many questions, it’s annoying and he’d like to keep this interaction as light-hearted as it is.

“Fine.” You finally take the books and he doesn’t stop you this time. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” He’s not really sure what to say, never been much of a ‘you’re welcome’ guy. At least he didn’t bother making you repeat yourself, even though you said it as quietly as last time.

—-

“Shoulda suggested this place to you sooner since you use it so much.” He walks in with his usual glass of whiskey, interrupting your reading time. You really should’ve gone to bed hours ago, the clock on the wall says 3:14 AM. “Or are you scared of being in your room now?”

You avoid the question because it’s true and you’d rather not have him make fun of you for it right now. You’ve been here every night until you can barely keep your eyes open since he suggested it.

“Have you been spying on me or something?”

“Or something.” He smirks and takes a sip. You’re not sure if ‘friendlier’ is the best word to describe him when he’s having a drink, but there’s for sure a change. “Kinda hard to miss when I gotta walk by after getting home.”

“Never noticed.” You fold the corner of the page you were on and set the book down.

“That’s ‘cause I'm as light as a feather.” The dry humor starts and you struggle to keep a straight face from how ridiculous that statement sounds coming from him.

You bring your knees up to hold and to lean your head against, before humoring him just a little. “I’m sure you are.”

“That’s all? You’re allowed to laugh y’know.”

“Ha-ha” You say in a monotone voice.

Instead it’s him that bursts out laughing, maybe harder than he should from his little drink. You actually end up laughing a little from that though, it’s contagious when it’s not an evil or manic one.

“There she is.” He husks out. There’s a moment of silence after you two finally settle down, with reality inevitably settling in for the both of you.

Aside from making jokes and picking on you, there’s nothing to talk about. What’s there to be said to someone who’s life was ruined by him? The world thinks you're dead, it went on without you.

You know that, he knows that too.

But he’d still like to try to talk to you, even if it is the alcohol speaking. Though he doubts it, he feels this way when he’s dead sober. It’s kinda why he pushes your buttons to the point where you begin to consider if telling him off is worth losing your life over.

“Sputnik Sweetheart.” He reads the title of the book out loud. “Weird name. What’s it about?”

“It’s about this guy who’s in love with a girl, but she doesn’t love him back because she’s a lesbian and is in love with an older woman. But the older woman doesn’t love her back either.”

“So what is it, like a reverse love triangle?”

“No— maybe. I don’t even know if that’s a thing.” You end up laughing with him, more so because he sounded like a fucking frat boy asking that. He probably would’ve been one too in another life, a less violent one.

He nods at the pen next to the book, ignoring the fact that he’s never supplied you with one before. “You taking notes or something?”

“Here and there, only on the parts I like.”

“Let me see.” His eyes drift back to you, looking extremely defensive. “Oh c’mon, you act like I’m gonna go off and tell someone.”

“Fine.” You nudge the book towards him.

He figures you fold the top of the page to mark where you left off and the bottom folds are the pages where you’ve written them. He picks a random page and reads to himself what’s been underlined.

“If they invent a car that runs on stupid jokes, you could go far.” The note for that one is simply “sukuna”.

He ignores that one and goes to a different page.

“After all this, I won't start to hate you.” The note? “Easy for you to say.”

He almost laughs at that.

“Sometimes I feel so- I don’t know - lonely. The kind of helpless feeling when everything you’re used to has been ripped away.” No note.

That’s.. sobering.

He looks to you after reading that part to find you’re no longer paying attention to him. The moon’s shining bright tonight, it allows you to look at the perfectly manicured backyard through the glass wall. What were you thinking about? Were you even thinking about anything at all? Just looking at you right now makes you seem like the type of person that allows their mind to take a break. He wonders what that’s like.

“Are you done?” You ask after eventually realizing that he’s staring.

“Yeah.” He slides the book back to you. If you didn’t know any better, he looks a little remorseful right now. You mostly underlined things on the sadder side, so maybe that’s why.

“Nice to know that you bleed like the rest of us.” You say in almost a whisper, but he catches it.

He takes another sip from his glass, acting like he didn’t hear that. Sukuna will always have his own issues, but the last person that should be humanizing him right now is you.

He yawns and looks at the clock, realizing he definitely needed to go to sleep. You really should too since you have shelves to dust tomorrow, but he wasn’t going to kill the mood by saying that. Staying up to read hasn’t messed with your schedule so far.. not that he knows of.

“M’gonna call it night.” His voice is raspier than usual, he sounds like he needs the sleep from whatever kind of a day he’s had.

“G’night.”

—

A month’s gone by and Sukuna catching you reading in the dead of night has become a part of your routine. Sometimes he has a glass of liquor with him, sometimes he doesn’t, but he’s surprisingly respectful each time.

Over that course of time you’ve grown a little more comfortable with him. Not to the point where you’d consider him a friend, but enough to where you can bring yourself to have a conversation with him without having the searing urge to leave.

He doesn’t care to read, saying he gets a headache after a while, but he seems to like it whenever you summarize chapters for him. You tried suggesting audiobooks, but that sounded so much worse than actual reading to him.

What he enjoys the most is reading through your notes, that may or may not have gotten more dramatic just to fuck with him.

It’s the only way you could get back at him, even if he does find a majority of them laughable.

Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart. “no shit”

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. “i can promise you that this was not optional.”

He ends up closing the book after that, you sound like you’re arguing with the author at this point.

“This is the last one, huh?”

“Yeah.” You take a sip from the glass of scotch you two have been sharing. “I finished it a couple days ago, I’ve just been rereading it.”

“Coulda gotten you more by now if you said something.” He says, taking the glass out of your hand, brushing his fingers over yours.

You’re starting to think it's not a coincidence anymore. Not when it’s been enough times to know his hands are as rough as they look. Always the one wanting to do the dirty work, his skin’s gotten tough over time because of it.

“I’m saying something now.” You rest your head on the palm of your hand as you watch him finish the very last of the drink. It’s better that he finished it, even with the small sips you took, you still felt it more than you should’ve from how long you’ve gone without drinking.

Almost a whole year.

9 months to be exact since you’ve been cut off from the world. You try not to think about it too much anymore, especially with how friendly you’ve become with your captor. Who knew the guy that pointed a gun to your head and forced you to get in a van would eventually become the same person you would look forward to having nightly talks with. His eyes have begun to soften whenever he looks at you, even during the day when you both play your roles. The tone of voice he uses when he’s asking something of you makes the request sound more like an apology, it’s sincere, hesitant almost.

“Got any requests?” He asks, setting the glass down.

“I’m sure I do, just can’t remember any right now. Do you think you’ll let me come back with a list tomorrow when you’re grumpy and sober again?” You ask, watching a little smile form on his lips. Sometimes you wonder what those feel like, can’t be rougher than his hands.

“You think I’m grumpy when I’m sober?”

You shrug, “I’m sure Ino thinks so with the way you had him shaking from just shooting him a glare.”

“Fuck Ino.” He clicks his tongue and knocks his knee against yours. “M’not grumpy with you– what are you rubbing your knee for? That did not hurt.”

“Maybe not for you.” You continue to complain, rubbing the spot he hit even though he was right, it didn’t hurt. You just wanted to mess with him. “My bad, you’re not grumpy, you’re just mean.”

“Damn, even after I offered to get you books of your choice?” He plays along.

“Mhm.” You try to ignore the way he leans forward and places a hand on your knee– rubbing a little circle with his thumb, looking at you as if he were listening to you pour your heart out. “You’ll probably just ask google which books are better too.”

He chuckles, “you wound me sweetheart.”

“Clearly not enough if you’re rubbing on my leg like this.”

“Nothing wrong with trying to make it feel better.” He brushes you off and keeps going, inching his hand up a little higher. He leans in closer, you can smell the liquor on him, he can probably smell it on you too. “I’d say I’m pretty nice– right now at least. Want me to stop?”

“I’d probably hate you even more if you stopped being nice to me.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were actually starting to kinda like me.”

“I think you’re just delusional, Sukuna.” You giggle and he rests his forehead against yours. He’s too far into this to try to back track now, so he lets himself be a little more delusional by pressing his lips against yours.

They’re soft. Too soft for someone who spews the harshest words. He’s gentle too, even when he’s grabbing the back of your neck to pull you in closer, deepening it. Swiping his tongue across your bottom lip until you let him in. If warmth had a taste, this would be it. You let out a little hum when he swirls his tongue around yours and it makes his blood start to rush, his loose sweats suddenly start to feel tight.

What a sweet sound. He’s sure everything else is sweet too.

He feels you start to pull back and he lets you, loosening his grip on the back of your neck, but not letting go. There's a thin string of saliva connecting you two.

For someone so evil, Sukuna looks almost angelic right now— warm pink brushed over his cheeks, lips slightly swollen, eyes searching for more than what you’ve given him so far.

“Did you like that?” He asks.

The way he looks at you almost puts you in a trance. At a loss for words, you slowly nod.

“Want more?”

“For tonight, yeah.” You whisper, letting him pick you up and take you to the master bedroom on a select few can enter.

There’s clothes scattered throughout the floor from you two taking your time getting them off of each other. There’s kisses in between each piece that comes off– all over his neck, all over your chest, trailing down to your exposed breasts. Your nipples harden from the cool air in the room, the way he swirls his tongue around them gives you relief, until he pulls away and the saliva he left begins to cools down with the room.

He fully lays you down and shows some impatience when he gets to your pants, removing them along with your panties in one go.

“So fuckin’ wet.” He says in awe, slowly running the backs of his fingers up your slit. You squirm a little when they glide over your clit. He looks up and watches the way your eyes glaze over from just that. “Sensitive aren’t you?”

It doesn’t help that he adds some pressure with his thumb and slowly rubs in a small circle.

“A little.” You mumble, holding back a little moan.

“I can tell,” he chuckles and throws your legs over his broad shoulders. “Gonna make you cum so fuckin’ much.”

He’s not so gentle anymore when he suddenly grabs onto your hips and begins to lap at you like he was starved. He didn’t give you a chance to work up to it, you find yourself immediately gasping from the way he just attacks you in all the right places. You can feel him groaning from how good you taste when he sucks on your clit, letting out a lewd pop! when he pulls away.

He lifts your hips up and grinds you against his mouth while he goes to fucking work with you, like he was trying to make you cum as fast as he could. And at this point, it was going to be the fastest you ever have. The orgasm that's quickly brewing inside of you makes you grab onto the sheets with both hands because it’s all you really can do, he wasn’t letting go of you anytime soon. You tasted too good and the sounds you were making just made his cock throb even harder.

“Ohmygod– fuck– w-wait.” You gasp out. This can’t be fucking happen, you don’t how this even possible.

And Sukuna doesn’t wait, he fucking speeds up.

He even slides two of his thick fingers into your cunt and starts curling them in, finding your weak spots immediately and still lapping your clit. It was obscene, you’ve never been this wet before and the clicking sounds he was able to make from pumping his fingers in and out of you was the proof.

“Gonna cum for me?” He asks after feeling you squeeze around his fingers even more than you already were.

You nod, but it’s not enough for him.

“What’s that mean?” He laughs from how he’s able to render you speechless. “C’mon baby let me hear it.”

He goes even faster and it’s impossible to hold back anymore. You try to pull away but he just holds you down, not allowing you to run away from what he’s giving you.

“Fuck, fuck, f-fuuck!” It’s all that comes out, you sound like a broken record, just how he likes it. You’re squealing, damnear crying from how overwhelming it is. He coos at you and tells you to just let go, but you’re honestly scared to at this point. Nobody has ever made you feel this good before.

He sticks his head up from in between your legs, still finger fucking you with precision. There’s a grin on his face from how much you're struggling to take it and let it happen. He has an idea and places a hand on your lower stomach. You already know what he’s trying to do and close your legs without a thought, but it’s already too late. He’s pressing down, his fingers that are deep inside of you press up. Your ears start to ring as the orgasm completely rips through you, you couldn’t even hear the noises that came out of you when you began to completely gush around his fingers.

Your brain even blocked out whatever the fuck he was saying to you. You just know he’s laughing at you, probably taunting you for how much a mess you made even though it was his fault.

You finally come to when he’s pushing your knees up to your chest, getting ready to split you open with the huge cock you figured he had. Your eyes widen at the length and girth, it’s no wonder why he looked down on most men.

“So big,” you almost sound like you’re complaining, barely hearing the cocky ‘I know’ coming out of Sukuna. “Go slow.”

“I will, baby.” He purrs, running his tip through your wet folds. You’re even more sensitive now and nearly flinch the first couple times he slaps it against your puffy clit. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” You feebly respond, looking down at where your body’s connect and watching him slowly push into you. He doesn’t hold back on making noise, he even starts talking you through it.

It seems like it’s more so to himself at this point from how tight of squeeze you have around him. His fingers did no justice in terms of working you open, he begins slowly rocking back and forth– bottoming out in one go was not it tonight.

“Relax a little.” He advises as he repositions your legs, spreading them out a little more so he can bend down and cage you in with his arms.

“I’m trying.” It doesn’t hurt, you just feel full. You have know idea how he’s going to fit it all inside of you.

He makes it happen, all from sweetly whispering filthy things in your ears while rolling his hips. He fully drags his cock out of you before pushing it back in, fucking you slowly while telling you how good your pussy feels and how he couldn’t wait to have you crying over him again. Some of the things were borderline threats, yet your walls still fluttered around him.

“Better not run from it too.” He whispers in the shell of your ear as he begins to snap his hips against you. The tip of his cock begins hitting your fucking cervix and you’re already seeing stars. The sounds of squelching and slapping begin to pick up, he makes you look him in the eye and you already know he was fully ready to ruin you.

Before you know it, he has your legs thrown over his shoulders as he fucks the shit out of you.

His nails sink into your hips while pulling you in, making you meet each and every single one of his powerful thrusts. He pounds every single inch into you without a care in the world, not even bothering to hide his own moans, convinced there’s nothing better than this.

Having you under him, crying and begging for more as he aggressively works an orgasm out of you. He effortlessly hits every spot that drives you crazy and you’re a mess because of it, the pressure starts to build up again and you’re clawing at his back from it all. He groans at the scratches, encouraging you to keep going like the masochist he is.

“I’m gonna– nghh– c-cum.” You whine, clawing even more– he swears you’re gonna draw blood and he hopes you do.

He's slamming into you harder, chasing after something that could only be found deep inside of you. “Fuckin’ do it– cum all over my cock. Bet nobody else has ever fucked you this good, huh?”

“No. J-just you.” you practically gasp out, bracing yourself for the second orgasm of the night. “Oh my fu– ohmygod— so close, m’so fucking close.”

He eventually presses his palm down onto your lower stomach again, you don’t even try to fight it again. He slows down but still gives you the deepest strokes— rolling his hips into you, hitting the spots that make you weak. It doesn’t take long before your toes curl and vision goes white again– falling apart on his cock and crying out his name in choked moans.

Your positions eventually switch and you end up being bounced on his cock, Sukuna has the time of his life because of it. One hand’s slamming you up and down all 10 inches while the other rubs at your clit. He’s made you cum so much that he just slips right in. At some point he slips right out, you both just laugh and he shoves it right back in until the laughter turns into moans of pure pleasure once again.

He makes you feel everything and nothing at the same time. Reality starts to slip away, but then you get pulled right back after he hits your sweet spot in a way that you love. It’s fucking amazing, the way he’s figured out your body, the way pushes it to its fullest extent.

You hardly remember falling asleep, you just remember him finishing on your back and telling you he’d take care of it.

It’s not until the morning when you realize just how bad of an idea that was.

You wake up slightly confused, but comfortable since his sheets are better than the ones he provided you. Then you hear light sounds of tapping, they eventually pull you out of your slumber, looking to the side and seeing the view of messy pink hair.

Your heart drops at the same time he looks up from the phone and turns to you. He was already expecting to see the look of regret on your face, he wasn’t even sure what to say about it.

He enjoyed last night, he’s also enjoyed all the other nights he’s spent with you where you two just spoke.

He enjoys being around you.

It’s why he doesn’t talk about it, pulls you into his chest, and starts talking about something else. You follow his lead like he hoped you would, you didn’t wanna talk about it either.

You two turn into something.

Neither of you put a label on it, not when you already had the label as his captive— his property. You don’t even want to ask what would happen if you two didn’t work out. He’s glad you never do, the answer’s obvious.

But even with that unspoken rule of not talking about the past or future, you two are happy. You no longer have to clean up the messes he makes. Instead, you spend your days lounging around the mansion. He’s allowed you to turn the sunroom into a recreation room, where you spend your time painting, reading, or sometimes even just napping. You no longer have to wear a uniform anymore either. He had you order whatever clothes you wanted online. You opted for simple, comfortable ones since you weren’t planning on stepping out of the house anytime soon.

You never ask why he stands behind you or next to you whenever you do, you already know it’s to keep you from going on facebook or something to ask for help. You thought about telling him that he could trust you once, but that wouldn’t have made a difference.

Sukuna is kind to you.

It doesn’t matter how bad of a day he’s had, it never stops him from greeting you with a soft kiss and smile. He holds your face in his hands when you tell him all about your day, the same hands that have been used to abuse others just hours prior. But he’d never abuse you, you can see it in the way he looks at you. Your days are boring, but he still cares, he still wants to hear you summarize the chapters you’ve read in a book that day.

You two have grown so close yet still know nothing of each other.

You don’t tell him about your family, friends or your time spent in school. There was no point, it’s not like you were going back to any of it.

He doesn’t tell you about his friends, family or his life outside the mansion doors either. He wanted you to love him. You know enough about what he does– you’ve seen it, you’ve experienced it, it’s all you need to know.

He’s lucky enough that you’re willing to turn a blind eye, live in your own little world.

Yet there's that thought that gnaws away at him, you weren't willing to turn a blind eye. You were forced to.

You’re abruptly woken up one night and had your mouth covered before you could scream. It was fast, thinking about the way you were tied up, blindfolded, and thrown into the back of a van almost doesn’t seem real.

You finally stop fighting back an hour into the drive. After 2 more, the van finally stops and a strong arm pulls you out. Despite having a blindfold on, you can tell the suns just started to rise. There’s a light breeze and birds are chirping in the background.

You’re going to die here.

Why else would they bring you to an open space? Soon, you’ll hear a little click and feel a gun pressed on to the back of your head.

Thoughts like that begin to swirl all around you. You do your best to stay calm, an ending like this was inevitable- but it’s impossible. You think about the life you’ve had, your friends and family that’ll eventually hear the news after nearly two years of having no closure.

Lastly, you think about Sukuna, who’s most likely long gone. That’s the only way people were able to break in and grab you. You hope that it was quick, you know him though. There’s people out there that pray for his demise, and that it’d be anything he’s ever done look like a walk in the park.

The man who has a hold on your arm finally lets go and speaks.

“I’m sure you won’t, but I have to say it anyway.”

“Sukuna?”

He doesn’t respond to that and begins listing demands. “Don’t look for me, don’t talk about me or about your time working for me—“

“What are y—“

“And do not even think about turning me in, I’ll find you so fuckin’ fast and snap that neck of yours.”

The knot in the pit of your stomach tightens, this is the same exact tone he used with you when you first met.

“Why would I do that? Why did you even bring me here?” You begin to frantically ask.

“You’re going home.” He responds coldly.

To abruptly end things on such a sour note is expected when it comes to people like him, but it doesn’t make it any less painful knowing that fact.

He told you he loved you for the first time last night.

You told him you loved him too.

“You’re seriously gonna send me off like this? Throw me out like I’m a piece of trash?” Your voice begins to tremble, it makes him snap.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! Like actually, what the fuck is wrong with you?! You spent months wanting— wishing— to go back to your life and the moment I give you that opportunity, you're not taking it?!”

“It's not that I- you ripped me out of my sleep and brought me here!” You power through the lump in your throat. “You didn’t even tell me about any of this!”

“Because I knew you’d try to fucking stay! I knew you would, look at you! Crying, whining.”

“I don’t—“ you inhale sharply, your hearts pounding and nothing’s helping. “You haven’t even bothered taking the blindfold off. You won’t even let me look you in the eyes, Kuna.”

“Don’t call me that.” He warns you. “Don’t ever think you got close enough to be able to come up with some stupid nickname. You sound so fucking dumb right now.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever I want.”

You yell back in frustration. “Don’t fucking call me that!”

“Then don’t fucking act like it!” He yells even louder.

“So what? You’re just gonna throw me out into the middle of nowhere?”

He laughs, “glad you’re finally starting to put that brain of yours to use.”

“You’re gonna leave me and spend the whole drive wondering which direction I went off in.”

“Yeah, I'm sure that’ll happen.” He says rudely.

“I don’t even have a phone. Even if you somehow find it in your heart to turn around, I wouldn’t be where you left me. You’ll start to look for me and after about 10 minutes the panic will start to kick in.”

He scoffs, you continue.

“You’ll give up after a while, maybe even convince yourself that what you did was the right thing to do. I bet you’ll start to doubt that too when you struggle to fall asleep, because it’s the first night I won’t be under your roof, under your watch. You won’t even know if I’m safe. You won’t know anything about me the moment you get in that fucking van and drive off.”

He suddenly grabs the blindfold, pulls it down, and yanks in towards him— you obviously hit a nerve with the way he’s looking at you.

“I should’ve killed you that night.” He mutters, eyes blazing with pure anger.

“You already did.” You spit back. “I had a chance to go back out there and be normal again, but you woke up this morning deciding that you were going to twist the knife and fucking gut me.”

“WHAT ELSE WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?!” He yells again, getting dangerously close to your face.

“I don’t KNOW.” You try to take a step back but you don’t get far. “It’s too late now, just let go of me. Gonna be a longer day for me than it will be for you.” You say coldly. “Untie me.”

He grudgingly lets go of the blindfold and pulls out a knife, choosing to cut the rope instead. You begin to relax after your hands are fully unbound— they were tight enough to begin with, but something about arguing with him made it feel like you were losing circulation.

He’s still standing right behind you, probably with his head down, waiting for you to walk off so he knows you wouldn’t turn around and try to attack him.

You won’t.

Saying anything at this point would’ve been a waste of energy, he’s clearly made up his mind. But you can’t help it.

“I know you heard me when I said it, but I take it back. You don’t bleed like the rest of us, your blood’s cold, that's not something to be proud about. To think that you have the ability to truly act like you cared about me just makes me feel sorry for you, Sukuna.”

You can only hope that people like him stay far away from you. It’ll probably be your main goal in life after this too. Even if that meant judging people a little too soon, but you're sure it's better to be a little lonely.

“I’m sorry.” His voice finally cracks. You turn around and his eyes are red, there’s tears streaming down his cheeks, he can barely look at you. “Every time I look at you, I see what could’ve been. I can’t fuckin’ do it anymore, I can’t. I wish I met you somewhere else, at school or at some coffee shop before I start my 9-5, and that’s not possible for me. I’ll never get to have that.”

He ends up having to cover his face after that, saying it out loud is more painful than all the times he’s thought about it. His path in life was already determined for him by his father before he was even born. He never had a chance.

He feels your arms suddenly wrap around him, it encourages him to keep going.

“If things were different, I know I still would've found you. Even if I saw you walking on the other side of traffic, I would’ve ran across the street just to ask for your name. Just not in this life.” He holds you tightly as he says it, droplets start to fall on your shoulder. “I swear I love you, but I can’t keep you around like this.”

“I know.” You say with a heavy heart, the tears begin to flow back. “I’m gonna miss you.”

His life has always been undoubtedly cruel, having to spend the rest of it missing you too is further proof.

“Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.” ― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

a/n: why did I do that I got a lump in my throat now lol phew. anyways, there will be no pt 2 but i'm down to answer some q's about lore

#emmie rec

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emonaculate · 2 months ago

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i love being a little freak on tumblr nobody can stop me

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emonaculate · 3 months ago

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I love you nerdy black reader I love you ghetto black reader I love you country girl black reader I love you city girl black reader I love you virgin black reader I love you ho black reader I love you weed smoking black reader I love you straight edge black reader I love you black reader and you’re perfect regardless 🫶🏾

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emonaculate · 3 months ago

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Shout out to my Quirky black girls Tall black girls Short black girls Fair skinned black girls Light skinned black girls Dark skinned black girls Fun sized black girls Ivy League black girls Community college black girls Hippie black girls Trans black girls Queer black girls Nerd black girls Alternative black girls Black girls with disabilities Blck girls with mental health issues Indie black girls Afrocentric black girls Curly haired black girls Short haired black girls Long haired black girls Straight haired black girls Black girls with piercings Black girls with colored hair Black girls who love to read Black girls who play instruments Black girls who are scholars Black girls who like ballet Black girls who like to twerk Black girls who like rap Black girls who like art Black girls who like classical music

To all black girls who refuse to be subjected to prejudices and forced into a mold. I love you.

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emonaculate · 3 months ago

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Bout to make the inner Yeagerist in me ACT all the way up

Love Always, Your Best 🥀 (Toxic Ex!Eren x Black!Fem!Reader 18+ V-Day One Shot)

“Five years later, and I’m still your best, baby. Let me remind you why.

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Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Black!Fem!Reader

Synopsis: In which the person you loath most in this world and the best lover you’ve ever had, your very toxic ex-boyfriend Eren, suddenly shows up out of the blue one random night at the same restaurant you happen to be at with your new man on Valentine’s Day. He is newly single and on his bullshit. Unfortunately for you, that means he’ll stop at nothing to remind you of how his bedroom skills make up for his lack of relationship skills….hopefully.

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS DNI); Possessive, Obsessive & Toxic!Ex-BF!Eren; Sexual Tension; Alcohol & Marijuana Use; Drunk/High Sex; Dubcon/R*pe; Coercion; Cheating; Dom!Eren x fsub!Reader; Oral (Giving & Receiving); Messy Pussy-Eating; Doggystyle; Mating Press; Eren Got A Big Ol' Dick; Tattoos & Piercings Kink; (a little) Plug!Eren; Dirty Talk; Reader Cums 3x; Daddy Kink; Cum-Drunk!Reader; Eren Dickmatizes You; Dumbification; Cumshot; Aftercare

Writer’s Note: MY FIRST EREN FIC!!! EVERYBODY GET UP & CLAP!!! This is some very nasty, manipulative, lowdown, dirty, toxic sh!t as a warning. Something about Eren being a total dick is kinda hot to me lol. Enjoy!! 😘😘 -Jazz

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‘Oh, no,’ you think. The only thought you’ve had since you laid eyes on him seconds before.

Out of all of the places you would think of running into him, you never thought it would be here on this day of all days.

Your ex. Sitting at the bar. And not just any ex: your very toxic ex whom you broke up with five years ago because of his said ‘toxicity’. He is also the man you used to be head over heels for. Like completely head-in-the-clouds, singing-in-the-mirror in love with this man who happens to be the most obsessive, jealous, and emotionally unavailable man you have ever met.

And unfortunately for you, also the man who gave you the best dick you have ever had in your life.

As soon as you see him sitting at the bar nursing a Gin & Tonic, his veiny hand adorned with rings and ink that he always thought looked so much better wrapped around your neck, it is like being smacked dead in the face. Every one of the features that you adored–his shoulder-length black hair; his angular side profile; the piercings glittering in his ears, pink bottom lip, and right eyebrow–is like being shell-shocked over and over again.

“Oh, my God,” you blurt. You cannot stop yourself from saying it as you sit four tables away from him in the expensive restaurant you both occupy. The decor is adorned with red, pink, and white flowers, fine white tablecloths, and hanging lamps that glow a dim, romantic red for Valentine’s Day. You wore your favorite slim, sexy red dress for the occasion, but right now, you feel anything but sexy.

Your date and long-term boyfriend looks up from his menu, his forest-green eyes etched in concern. “What? What’s wrong?” He, too, wore his Valentine’s Day best–a red sweater paired with an Armani blazer, designer slacks, and red bottom shoes. His hair, black and curly, is slicked back to show off his handsome features fit for a model…or a male nurse. Kaido is well-wanted at his job by almost every woman working in his hospital due to his dashing good looks and body worthy of drooling over, but as far as you’re concerned, he is tied down to you.

“O-Oh, nothing!” you immediately squeak, nervously laughing it off. Quickly, you come up with a lie to avoid explaining to Kaido about your ex whom you never told him about. “Sorry, I just saw a coworker and I can’t believe he’s here. He’s always an asshole to me.” You giggle again, hoping that this will help make things light, easy, and not at all awkward even though your body feels like it’s in fight or flight mode.

But it has the opposite effect. Immediately, Kaido begins looking around for him. “Really? Where is he? Maybe he needs to meet me.” You resist the urge to lurch across the table and cover his eyes. “No, no, Kaido, don’t! He’s an asshole to everyone.”

Kaido tuts, angrily taking a sip of the complimentary champagne you were given prior to sitting down before getting up, causing his chair to skid across the floor. The old couple sitting behind him stares at him in irritation. “Well, nobody treats my girl like that. You both work together, so—“

“Kaido, please stop,” you quietly huff, flushing with embarrassment. “You always do this.” Your boyfriend stares at you, alarmed. “Always do what?”

“Try to prove yourself to me,” you answer, irritation evident in your tone. “You don’t have to go out of your way to do that all the time.” You know it isn’t fair to get upset with him. It isn’t his fault that your ex-boyfriend has left you so shaken.

Kaido, still standing, scowls at you, offended. “So you’re mad because I want to defend you and be a good boyfriend to you?”

“No, that’s not…” Your words die in your throat, your heart pounding furiously in your chest. Now you feel horrible though there aren’t lies in your statement. Since you’ve been dating for over two years, Kaido has always gone out of his way to prove to you and himself that he is a great partner, somehow upping the last thing every single time.

Expensive gifts that you feel obligated to take. Romantic dates that you feel guilty for him taking you on. Constant phone calls and text messages that you often find yourself getting tired of receiving. You feel horrible for all of it because Kaido is such a sweet man. You couldn’t ask for anything more…could you?

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, moving your hand across the table to grab his. “I don’t wanna fight. I just don’t want to ruin tonight with bullshit like….him.” Your eyes flit across the room at Eren who licks the contents of his drink off of his upper lip, his tongue ring glinting in the dim, red light. The venom in your tone is evident.

Kaido’s eyes soften and he interlaces your fingers. “I’m sorry too. I just love you, Y/N, y’know?” He gives you a smile that is so adoring that it pains you. “I really do.”

You feel that familiar lump at the mention of the L-word fill your throat, making it hard to even smile. “I—“

“And here are your drinks!” The waitress has returned with your drinks, acting as an angel who has come to save you in your hour of need. “A Moscow Mule and a glass of our finest wine.” She lowers your Moscato down in front of you, crisp and ready to be consumed. “Are you ready to order?” she asks, taking her notepad out.

“Yes!” you immediately chirp, digging into your menu for appetizers and a main course. It is the perfect distraction from having to lie to Kaido and say “I love you”.

Though you and Kaido have been together for two years, first meeting when you came in for nausea pills after a stomach flu, you haven’t said the L-word to him yet. He said it last year after he took you to your city’s annual Christmas lights festival and confessed under the most beautiful blue and white lights you’ve seen in your life. It was magical. It was romantic. It was the absolute wrong time.

“You don’t have to say it back yet,” he said, noticing your saddened and guilty expression. “Just tell me when you’re ready.” But you haven’t been ready for over two years now. And you’re not sure if you ever will. You care so deeply for Kaido, but you don’t think you’re in love with him. You can’t see him in your life forever the way you should.

Not like a certain someone. After you order your food, Kaido is busy putting in his order when you take a sip of your Moscato. You already had a glass of champagne, so maybe more alcohol isn’t a good idea because your eyes begin trailing. And they trail right over to Eren.

He looks so different yet the same. It is an odd mixture, but regardless, he still gives you the same butterflies that feel so new to you. You don’t think you even got butterflies when you first started dating Kaido. They are the same stupid, annoying, fluttery tingles that you got when you met Eren for the first time.

And then he turns and looks at you. Those intoxicating, enchanting, sinful teal eyes lock onto yours from across the restaurant. And instantly, you are taken back to five years ago when it was just him and you, and nothing else.

You were young and naive as one is during their first year of college. You were overworked and underpaid at your little part-time job to pay for school, so your friend introduced you to her plug. She walked you to Eren’s dorm where he answered his door in nothing but gray sweats with Paramore blasting in the background. He had less tattoos then, but was still everything your parents didn’t like: cool, aloof, didn’t give a single fuck, and sold weed to put himself through college and fund his tattoo business.

“Hey, Eren!” your friend greeted. “This is my friend, Y/N. She’s looking to buy a dime bag.” Her plug took one lazy look at you, his eyes rolling up your body, and you felt supremely exposed in your thin cardigan and hip-hugging jeans. As if noticing he got you, he smiled his award-winning Eren smile. “Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he said, his voice silky. “Lemme get you two a drink.”

After that day, he was in your phone as your personal weed plug. The more you started visiting his dorm and the more he showed up at yours delivering personal baggies of weed, the more you got to know each other. It didn’t take long for the attraction to bloom and soon, you were falling hard for the boy.

He was your first love. The one you wanted to be with forever. You felt so safe in his arms, snuggled up in his dorm during free periods, catching the smoke rings he would make with his mouth between your lips. He gave you your first tattoo–a tiny heart between your breasts. “So I’m there forever,” he whispered, kissing you gently as he laid numbing cream on the fresh tattoo.

Eren was always has good of a dick plug as he was a weed plug and tattoo artist. He gave you the best sex you’ve ever had in your life. There were plenty times you skipped classes to get put into his mattress instead, filling his walls with the sound of your moans and the headboard knocking against the wall. When you broke up, your nights were filled with endless fantasies of his long, fat dick in your mouth and filling up your aching pussy, making you delirious enough to want to call him.

But Eren was also very toxic, jealous, and possessive. All to the point where it drove you crazy. He hated when you wore revealing clothes. He shot shady glances at men that even looked your way. He couldn’t stand any of your male friends and made it clear that you were his by leaving love bites on your neck. He would show up to your job or while you were out with friends, completely unannounced and uninvited.

You often got into fights over this which ended up hot, mindblowing sex that often fizzled out all of your anger…until one night a month before you graduated uni. After dating on and off for four years throughout school, you and Eren came to a standstill as graduation approached and you snagged your dream position in a city two hours away from home.

That was the night you broke up with Eren after a dick appointment. You didn’t tell him the news until after you got your nut. In retrospect, that probably wasn’t a good idea because of course, Eren was pissed. “You didn’t think to tell me this before the sex?” he scoffed, sitting on the edge of your bed in his boxers.

“I didn’t know how, Eren,” you argued, sitting naked under your sheets. “As soon as you got here, you had your dick out!” That’s when the argument started, heated and loud, and that’s when you realized that you had to end your chapter with him right there.

That made Eren even angrier. “You’re actin’ like I can’t come over there to visit you,” he snapped as you hastily got dressed. “Or I can just move there! Do you not want me there?” He gave you that hurt look that often got you feeling guilty, but you couldn’t do it anymore.

“Don’t do that, Eren, please,” you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I just don’t want for you to have to give up your life here just for something that may not work.”

Realizing your mistake, your stomach lurched. But it was too late: Eren was wounded. “Why wouldn’t it?” he asked, his voice small and distant. You hurt him. You stood there, feeling like you were holding the gun and he was the target. “Because….because….”

Because you’re toxic. Possessive. Jealous. Dangerous for me because of that dick.

“Because I want a fresh start,” you lied. “And I can’t do that if I’m tied to you.”

Your boyfriend’s eyes widened, the anger radiating off of him in waves. “Tied to me?” he parroted, scoffing with a dry laugh. “So what? I’m like some kind of dead weight you need to get rid of?” You looked away, unable to see the hurt in his eyes. “Fine then,” he deadpaned, “but you know you won’t forget me. And I won’t forget you either, Y/N.”

And you never did. When he left that night, he took all of the joy and love with him. Even though he called and texted you for days after, you never answered, instead drowning yourself in finals and arrangements to move. After some time, the contact stopped and you went your separate ways. You never heard from or saw Eren again…until now. Now that you’ve moved back home and met a new man, here he is again.

“Let’s exchange gifts!” Kaido suddenly exclaims. You blink, pulled out of your memories, and look down to see a white box in front of you. Quickly, you fish his gift out of your bag and pass it to him with the brightest smile you can muster. “You can open yours first.”

Kaido grins and opens the tiny red gift bag, fishing the digital Amazon watch out of it. “It’s not quite an Apple Watch, but it’s close! You can download apps on it and it checks your blood pressure.” You wanted to buy the most pricey gift you could afford, hoping to accommodate for all of the expensive gifts he has given you.

Kaido cocks his head to the side like you’re a cute little puppy. “You’re too cute,” he tuts. “Now open mine!” You take a sip of wine before doing so and your smile drops at the sight of the 24k gold chain sitting inside the box. “Kaido,” you gasp. “Is it–”

“Real?” he chuckles, smiling proudly at you. “Yes, baby, it is. Let me put it on you.” He moves from his seat and comes behind you, gingerly taking the chain from the box to fasten it around your neck. As he does, Eren turns in his stool and watches, sipping on his Gin & Tonic. His face is unreadable and that angers you. Why is he even looking? Why is he even here?

And why the hell do you care?

Kaido’s hands brush your neck as he finishes and presses a kiss to your cheek. “Gorgeous,” he whispers. “Just like I knew it’d be. Now, everyone knows that you’re mine.” Eren sips his drink again and the corner of his lips lift in a crooked smile. The same smirk that melted you.

Suddenly, you are overwhelmed. The restaurant has become too hot and too small. You feel like a giant Alice in a too-small room after eating the wrong cookie. Once Kaido sits down, you stand up like your ass is on fire. “U-Um…I’m gonna go pee real quick,” you say. “This wine is goin’ right through me.” You give Kaido a quick reassuring kiss on the lips before you make a beeline to the bathroom…but you don’t go in.

Instead, you find the nearest exit and go out for some much-needed fresh air. The air is bitter cold, tinged with winter, but you let it cool your clammy skin in your red cocktail dress. Standing on the restaurant’s patio, you breathe in and out slowly, calming yourself. In and out…in and out…in–

“Cold out here,” a familiar voice comments. “Where’s your coat?” The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Of course, Eren follows you the very moment you’re alone. Of course, you’re the only two out here.

You shouldn’t turn around, but you do. Like some kind of dark angel, he stands in the silvery glow of the moonlight, the light washing over his porcelain skin, black sweater, and jeans.

His name is inked on your tongue just like the tattoo he gave you, still implanted between your cleave: “Eren.” You don’t say it happily or with venom. You just say it.

But it’s enough to get Eren to smile. “Hey, you,” he greets you. “It’s been a long time.” You hate that he speaks to you as if you’re old friends. You’re not. “Why are you out here?” you scoff. Eren’s handsome face turns cold. “So that’s how you’re gonna talk to me after five years and actin’ like you ain’t know me in there?”

Here we fucking go. “You shouldn’t have followed me out here,” you say, your tone firm.

He shrugs, placing one inked hand in his pocket. “Just wanted to see if you were okay. You looked…startled, ‘specially when dude gave you that pretty chain.” He digs a Marbolo box out of his pocket. He still smokes after all of this time. When he lights that damn thing and his pink lips form an O around a smoke ring, you realize that you still find it attractive after all of this time as well.

The air is silent yet tense between you with unsaid words. “So you’re back in the city,” he states, his eyes gleaming at you. “When’d you come back? I thought you left for that big girl job.”

“I did, but it didn’t work out, so I came home last year.” You notice that his jaw is tight. “Are you mad I didn’t tell you?” you accusingly ask, squinting at him.

Eren scoffs as if the idea is preposterous. “Why would I be? We haven’t talked in, like, five years. Things changed…clearly.” He takes another drag of his smoke, blowing a steady stream out into the cold air.

“What does that mean?” you ask, unable to stop yourself from becoming agitated. What the hell is he getting at here? He passively shrugs like it should be obvious. “I just meant you’ve got a new man. He seems nice.” You sense bitterness, but you don’t comment on it. You don’t feel like turning this into something heated.

“So what of you?” you question, leaning against the wooden bar of the patio. “You still at the tattoo shop? Are you seein’ anyone new now?”

Eren smirks at you, quirking his pierced brow. “Well, aren’t you interested?” he chuckles. Still a teasing shit. You turn to leave, but he stops you with a hand on your elbow. “Hey, hey, I’m just kidding! I own the shop now and no, nobody new. I was seein’ someone for about two years, but it didn’t work out.”

You stare at him closely, trying to decode if he’s telling the truth or not…but then again, Eren was never a liar. A toxic asshole, yes, but never a liar. “So what happened?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest to hide yourself (and your hard nipples from the frigid air). “Did you do something? Did she?”

Eren shakes his head like you got it wrong and flicks his cig down on the ground. “Nah, it was a joint decision.” Knowing you need more meat than that, he sighs and snubs his cigarette out under his foot. “She thought I wasn’t the relationship type,” he explains with a dry smile on his face.

‘You weren’t,’ you think. ‘You still aren’t. That was why we broke up.’ You wonder briefly if he was as toxic with the mystery ex as he was with you. You wonder if he was as possessive and damn near yandere with her as he was with you the entirety of your relationship.

Eren gives you a strange look, his teal eyes turning into slits as he squints at you. You lean back a bit, alarmed and confused by his sudden interest in your face. “I’m detecting somethin’,” he points out. “You wanna talk about this?” He doesn’t elaborate on what he means by ‘this’, but he doesn’t have to. The last thing you want to talk about is anything about your or his new relationships. “Not really,” you huff. “Sorry, but I need to go.”

You know the more you are out here with him, the worse this situation will get. But as you go to pass him to enter the restaurant again, Eren gently grabs your hand. You whip around, trying to tug yourself away. “What are you doing?” you demand. “Eren, don’t.”

But he doesn’t let go and his firm yet burning expression tells you that he isn’t letting anything go. “You don’t really love that guy,” he says, accusingly so. “I can tell. The minute he put that necklace on you, you looked like you wanted to hide under the table and never come back out.”

You glare daggers at him, angered. “How dare you?” you hiss, ripping your hand from his. “You don’t know me anymore, Eren, and you clearly didn’t know me back then! I was looking for real, genuine love, but you clearly couldn’t give me that ‘cause of your shit. You’ve got issues.”

Eren’s eyes flash with something that you can’t decipher, but you know it ain’t nice. “And you don’t?” he scoffs. “You’re sittin’ there pretendin’ to play ‘love-struck girlfriend’ with a dude you ain’t even in love with. I could see it a mile away.” He moves closer to you until he is practically looming over you, making your heart jump. “You forget I know you, Y/N: I know your body too well.”

He gently traces a finger down your arm, sending goose pimples all over you. “Get off,” you whisper-hiss. You shove him by his chest and he lets you, stepping away to allow you space. “I’m not doing this with you. Ever.” Quickly, you yank open the door and head back into the restaurant, adrenaline pumping through your veins. You know he is still staring at you as you retreat, but you don’t dare look back.

Even when you sit back down with Kaido, your body won’t relax and you still feel on edge. You barely even notice that your food is here. Kaido looks up from his sea bass, worried. “Hey, that was a long trip,” he comments. “You alright?” You grip your wine and take a much-needed sip to calm your nerves. “Y-Yeah,” you stammer. “I just–”

And then suddenly, your ex is there again. You see his tatted hand by your shoulder, holding the arm of your chair, and you nearly jump out of your skin. His arrival is like a damn jumpscare in a horror movie, smile and all. “Don’t mean to interrupt the V-Day date here,” he chuckles, standing among you and Kaido. “Just wanted to say it’s nice to see you again, Y/N, and I’m glad you’re happy.”

His smile is supposed to be kind and warm, but his eyes tell you everything you need to know: he still isn’t over you and he intends to make himself known to your new man. You sit as rigid as a board, unable to breathe properly. Kaido confusedly looks between you and Eren. “Who’s this, babe?” he asks, all innocent and cluseless. But you can’t say it. You can’t even breathe. “I’m Eren,” your ex replies, holding a hand out to Kaido. “An old friend of hers.” The two men firmly shake. “We go waaay back, don’t we, Y/N?”

Eren turns to you, his smile turning into a crooked, teasing smirk that makes you want to toss your Moscato in his face. “Uh…yeah,” you squeak. “It was nice to see you again.” You offer him a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He slowly moves towards you and bends down, making your blood pressure shoot through the roof.

“You too,” he whispers and his lips ghost your cheek in a slight kiss. His hand rests somewhere at his side, undetectable. Though you try to fight it, his lips and the closeness of his body brings your entire body to life and you suddenly feel things that Kaido–your Kaido–has never made you feel before.

Eren then straightens and gives a respectful nod to Kaido. “Enjoy your dinner.” And like a thief in the night, he is gone, walking towards the bar to grab his leather jacket and leaving the restaurant. You watch him, your eyes drawn to him like a moth to a flame, as your body burns…and your pussy aches. “Well, he had some cool ink,” Kaido laughs. “Those gages were gruesome though.”

He goes back to eating his dinner like everything is normal while his girlfriend is sitting across from him, aroused for another man. Roughly swallowing more wine, you take your napkin from the table and unfold it to lay in your lap. As you do, a folded piece of paper tumbles out of your napkin and into your lap.

You already know how it got there. With shaky hands, you unfold it and read the note written there for you, including a phone number:

If you decide you want a real romantic night, call me. I know you deleted my number. – Love Always, Your Best

You nearly throw up the rest of your dinner as you stare at Eren’s handwriting. You barely can swallow your food despite the tiny pieces you cut it up in. Luckily, dinner ends abruptly because Kaido gets irritated by the drunk businessmen sitting at the bar behind him and pays the tab.

By the this time, you’ve drunk more than you chewed, so the wine and champagne are making you feel bubbly, light, and sexy. You hang onto Kaido’s shoulder as he walks you outside, your trench wrapped tightly around you. “Thank you for dinner tonight,” you purr. “I have dessert back at my place…and ice cream.”

Kaido turns to you, his eyes alight from your secret meaning. You smile and lean in for a kiss to coax him back to your apartment, but his ringtone stops you. Irritated, Kaido swears and pulls it out of his pocket, becoming more agitated at the message there. “Shit,” he huffs. “M’sorry, babe, but that’s the office. They want me to come in for a last-minute triage.”

You blink at him, confused. “But I thought you were free tonight. You took off for the day, right?” That is what he told you at the beginning of the week when he made the reservations. Kaido gives you a sheepish look and you realize he “bended” the truth. “Only for a few hours,” he sighs. “I didn’t think they’d need me.”

You can already feel disappointment twisting in your gut. “But it’s Valentine’s Day,” you argue. “Why are you going to work on a day meant for us?”

Kaido sighs, already sounding irritated with you. “Babe, I’m sorry, but don’t get so worked up. You shouldn’t feel too bad…I mean, things are still one-sided between us.”

You detect the switch-up in his tone immediately. “What does that mean?” you scoff. Kaido looks away, refusing to look at you, but that sour expression stays locked on his face. “What?” you push. “Because I haven’t said ‘I love you’ yet?” Kaido doesn’t answer nor does he look at you. Those actions are all the answers you need: he is angry you haven’t uttered those three little words yet.

Suddenly, tonight feels like shit and so do you. “Kaido, I told you before: I care about you so deeply, but it’s too early for me,” you say, exasperated. “I’ll only say it when I’m ready.”

“Then when will that be?” he demands, finally looking at you. The hurt in them is clear. “It’s been a year, Y/N! How long do you need to know that you love someone?” You are stunned into silence and suddenly, you feel like crying. How could he spur this on you now of all nights?

Kaido’s phone rings again and he sighs, running a hand through his curly hair. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

You don’t say anything to him, too afraid of breaking out into sobs or cussing him out. Instead, you stay quiet as he drives you home and it is by far the most uncomfortable moment you’ve ever experienced. You’ve never been so happy to be in your crib alone when Kaido leaves after dropping you off.

You kick off your heels, drape your coat over the couch, and slump on the couch. You feel trashy. Unsexy. Lonely. The alcohol only intensifies your shitty feelings until you want to crawl out of yourself and hide. So what do you do instead of taking your ass to bed? You dig Eren’s note out of your pocket, which you kept instead of throwing away, and get your phone…but you stop from dialing his number.

‘Don’t do it,’ a tiny voice in your head says. The voice of reason. Your thumb hovers above your phone screen as you teeter-totter between right and wrong.

In the end, you ignore the voice of reason, the loneliness and wine speaking for you, and dial his number. You put your phone on speaker, not wanting to fuck up your makeup and wait in anticipation for the ringing to stop. After the fourth one, it does. “Hello?” he asks. His silky voice fills your living space.

“It’s me,” you exhale. You can’t even speak properly. After all of these years, he has this effect on you still? “I know,” he replies and you wonder if he’s been anticipating your call. “How you doin’? You okay?” You pause for a moment, your muddled mind not processing the situation properly.

“You wanna come over?” The words fly out of you before you can stop yourself. Eren pauses for a moment and the silence is so damn loud. “Do you want me to come over, Y/N?” he asks. Once again, the very dangerous word flies out of you: “Yes.”

Eren inhales slightly as if he can’t believe you’re agreeing to this. You can’t believe it either. “Tell me the address,” he demands, his tone heady with need. You tell him and you can hear his car keys jingling. “I’ll be there in ten.” And then the call is done. You sit there, wondering what the hell just happened, and what the hell you just did.

You just invited your very toxic ex over to your place. On Valentine’s Day. The reality about how bad you fucked up hits you like a truck. You need to stop this. You need to call him back right now and–

Ding-dong! Your Ring alerts you to someone at your door and your pulse jumps. Ten minutes passed already? Slowly, you get up from the couch and walk over to the door, your feet softly padding across the hardwood. “Who is it?” you ask.

“Who do you think?” Eren replies, a smile in his voice. “I’m here to rob you.” You briefly contemplate leaving the door shut, but you open it anyway. There he stands in his clothes from tonight, holding a bottle of watermelon margarita mix. “I brought some stuff for the occasion.” He slips a Ziploc bag out of his pocket. Inside it are papers, a lighter, and a small baggie of marijuana.

You stare nervously at the smoke contents and then at him. Noticing your reluctance, Eren frowns. “I’m not gon’ do anythin’, Y/N. I’m not here for none of that…just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He patiently stands there, letting you decide for yourself whether to let him in or not. Finally, against your better judgment, you open your door wider and allow him to step inside, his cologne curling into your nostrils.

For the next thirty minutes, you and Eren drink and get high as kites. He places his shoes by the door and makes himself at home on your couch before rolling a blunt on your coffee table. You watch his expert fingers roll, twist, and pinch as you sip on a glass of the sweet, tequila-infused margarita mix, becoming drunker and drunker with every sip and suddenly wanting Eren to lick you the way he licks the blunt closed.

After that, you pass the blunt back and forth between one another, talking about the past and giggling about stupid shit. The tension in the room ebbs as the air becomes thick with the scent of pungent weed and the sound of Daniel Caesar playing from your Amazon Echo sitting in your kitchen. It is as if things never changed between you two. Things are still the same, but better because you’re both adults now.

Eren sits back into the cushions, puffing on the blunt. “So what happened?” he asks. His teal eyes are slitted and slightly red from the smoke fumes. You know you’re not that much hotter. You feel like you’re falling out of your dress. “He went to work tonight, so I got mad, so we had a public fight.” You shrug, sipping your drink while Eren pulls a disgusted face. “He went to work on Valentine’s Day? I’ve never done that to anyone before.” Smoke billows from between his pierced lips as he passes you the blunt. “How’d you even meet him?”

You roll your eyes, but tell him anyway as you take a puff of the blunt. The smoke and the alcohol have begun to make you feel looser. So loose that you could lose the dress if you wanted to. “That’s so clichè,” he laughs. “Super corny…but you always did like that cutesy shit. It’s one of the reasons why I loved you so much.”

You don’t stumble on the L-word like you would’ve if you were sober. “That was a looong time ago,” you chuckle. You go to pass the blunt to him but nearly spill your glass on yourself. “Whoops, careful, baby,” he says, laying a hand on your back to help you. “You nearly spilled that on your couch.”

You make the mistake of looking at him then and suddenly, you realize just how handsome Eren is: a sharp jawline with an angular-shaped face, soft lips, and intoxicating eyes. He’s so close. His gaze falls to your lips as his Adam’s Apple bobs and it snaps you back into reality.

“No,” you gasp, pushing yourself away from him. “This was a bad idea. You should go.” you nearly stumble as you stand, but you manage to save yourself. “What?” he asks, confused. “But I just got here. I thought we were talkin’.”

“We did talk,” you snap, moving to the door. “Now you need to go before…” You stop talking before you say something that will get you in trouble. Instead, you turn the knob to your door, but Eren’s hand stops you. You gasp and turn around, realizing that he somehow transitioned from the couch to you in a few seconds. “Before what?” he pushes. “Before you do somethin’ you know you wanna do?”

He looms over you, his hand on your wrist, completely in your personal space. “Eren, don’t,” you whisper. “Please leave.” You try to twist yourself away from him, but his other hand holds your waist. “I can’t,” he murmurs. “Not until you admit that I’m what you need. You know you don’t love that guy.” Because you’re so short, he bends his knees slightly to reach you, his lips ghosting your cheek. “He can’t make you feel how I can.”

He presses a kiss there that electrifies you. Those electric kisses travel down to your neck, sensitive and personal. “Eren,” you weakly moan. “Don’t do this.” You press your hands to his chest, wanting to push him away, but your body is too weak. Too tired. “Don’t push me away, baby,” he sighs. “Don’t deny yourself.”

And then his lips, soft and slightly cold from lip piercing, are on yours. His kiss is deep. Passionate. Personal. It makes your heart explode and your mind melt into a puddle—not at all how Kaido’s kisses are. They are just as addictive as they were in the past. And so you kiss him back. Your fingers clench his shoulders as his hands caress your ass, squeezing the globes over the fabric.

“I fucking hate you,” you growl. He smirks against your lips, gently sucking on your bottom lip.

“No, you don’t,” he replies. And you don’t. You can’t. And you hate that. Despite all of his bullshit, you still love his kiss. His touch. His sex.

He pulls you close to him, making you feel the bulge pressing against his jeans. You gasp against his lips, a spark of pleasure exploding in your core. “Tell me what you want,” he demands, his lips coating your throat. His teeth graze there, leaving little lovebites that you’ll surely cuss him out for later. “Fuck me,” you beg. “And then leave.”

He pulls away, his eyes ablaze with lust, and slams his mouth against yours again. “Where the fuck is your bedroom?” he mutters against your lips.

Suddenly, your legs are wrapped around his waist and your arms are intertwined around his shoulders as he carries you to your bedroom, his footsteps quick in stride. Your tongues swirl and your lips caress one another as you kiss, indulging in each other’s taste and the moans you give and receive. Finally, Eren makes it to your bedroom and slams the door shut with the back of his foot before placing you on the edge of your bed.

Everything moves in flashes like some kind of movie with scenes missing: your dress comes off; your bra is unclasped and replaced with Eren’s hands massaging and molding your tits; his shirt comes off, exposing his muscles, pierced, tan nipples, and scatterings of tattoos adoring his porcelain skin. His eyes are ablaze with lust as he kneels before you between your thighs, his big hands massaging them. “Lemme see you,” he murmurs.

Slowly, your knees part, and your pussy is exposed to him. A slow smirk stretches across his lips as he gazes up at you. No panties. You were planning this but Kaido, but you guess your ex works too. “God, I’ve missed this,” he sighs. “Look how wet she is fa’ me.”

He takes two fingers and swirls them over your clit before moving down over your slit, gentle yet effective. You gasp at the soft contact, pleasure exploding all over your body. “Eren, c’mon,” you whine. “Please.” His gaze darkens, damn near feral, as he opens your legs wider, pinning them apart. “Don’t move,” he demands and then he’s diving down between your thighs.

One thing about Eren that you always loved is how he eats pussy. He goes crazy with your shit, alternating between long, slow licks and quick lashes against your clit that make your eyes roll back and your toes curl. His magical, wet mouth and soft lips suckle on the needy button of your clit, soaking your pussy in his saliva that he slurps back up with no problem or disgust. When his tongue finally dips back between your slit, you nearly lose it. “F-Fuck!” you gasp. “Eren, yes! Go deeper!”

Your fingers grasp his long, black locks for dear life, pushing him deeper into your pussy. But he manages to look up to give you a cocky smile. “If you’re louder for me, sure.” Smug motherfucker.

He continues to give you long strokes of his tongue, the cold metal of his piercing melting against the hot, wet, spongy walls of your pussy and somehow making everything more sensitive. “Fuck, please!” you sob. “Please, please fuckin’ give it to me!”

Tears soak your lashes, threatening to fall down your cheeks. This feels too good. It’s almost painful. Eren smiles and proceeds to tongue-fuck you, his nose nuzzling against your clit as he dips his tongue in and out of your hole.

Your moans bounce off of the walls, loud and brazen, unable to be contained. Eren pulls away with a moan as he gazes down at your glittering, sobbing wet pussy. “Such a pretty little pussy,” he groans against your clit. “She’s mine, isn’t she? Only mine?”

Smack! “Oh!” you gasp as his hand comes down onto your clit, smacking it hard. “Fuckin’ tell me what I wanna hear,” he growls. “Tell me that this pussy is mine.” Smack! Smack! You buck from the pleasurable sting, nearly cumming from his calloused palm wetly smacking your cunt.

“I-It’s yours!” you gasp. “It’s yours, Daddy, I swear!”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to your clit. “Good girl,” he coos. “Now cum for me so I can finally fuck that mouth.” He goes right back to tonguing you down with a mission, swiping his nose against your clit as he eats you out so good that you see stars. He moves his jaw with every intention of making you cum. “Do it, mama,” he begs, his words slightly muffled by your sticky cunt. “Cum for me. Give it all to me.”

And you do. You can’t help it. You are controlled by him like a puppet is by her master and with every string he pulls, he makes you gush around his tongue. He greedily moans and laps at all of the cream you give him, gulping it down like a starved man as you moan and call his name to the ceiling, massaging your tits in the throes of your pleasure as you do.

When you finally calm and your back straightens from its arch, Eren pulls away, his lips shining with your juices. “Missed that shit,” he sighs. “Missed you so much.” He bends down to swoop you up in a deep, messy kiss, forcing you to taste yourself. When he pulls away, he is as feral and demanding as he was before. “Sit up, take off my clothes, and open that pretty mouth up fa’ me.”

Despite your brain still trying to reboot from that orgasm and your limbs feeling like spaghetti, you still do as he says. You sit up on the bed and allow him to kneel in front of you, his crotch right in your face. He watches as you peel off his pants and underwear while he toes off his socks, soon leaving himself completely naked. You admire his toned muscles, your hands gliding down his stomach to his V-line and muscular thighs. Oh, how you’ve missed his body.

And how you’ve really missed his cock. He is so hung. So long. So curved, the tip nearly kissing his lower stomach. With a crooked smile, he wraps a hand around his throbbing cock and gently taps it against your chin. Just how you like it. Your jaw falls open and your tongue rolls out, allowing him to tap his head, sticky with pre, against it.

“You remember how I like it, mama?” he asks. “Or do I need to refresh your memory?”

More or less, you do need a memory jogger. But once he’s got that big, long, beautiful cock in your mouth, you are taken back to your dorm years when you used to bob your head for your life giving him top between free periods. His dick stretches out your mouth just the way you remember as he settles on your tongue, his hips slowly rolling against your chin.

“Fuck yes, that’s it,” he moans. “Fuckin’ fuck, I’ve missed this pretty mouth.” He peers down at you with those teal eyes, one hand in your hair while the other cascades down between your open thighs. “Wanna take me deeper, ma? Think my fingers will help you?”

You feel his long fingers prying your pussy lips open and slipping between them to glide along your slit. You moan around Eren’s cock as your pussy pulses and throbs in pleasure, the act somehow making your jaw stretch wider. His fingers then slip into your slippery, velvety-soft pussy while he sinks his cock deep into your throat. “Mmmm!” you moan, the pathetic sound muffled by his cock.

He grins as he begins to fuck your face, ruining your makeup and causing spit to drip down your chin as he fingers you. “That’s it: moan around my cock, baby. I can hear you just fine.” He smirks, curling his fingers upward and making your toes curl as pleasure shocks you to your core. “I can hear somethin’ else too. You’re so fuckin’ wet…”

You concur, your ears perking at the sound of his fingers squelching inside of your sloppy pussy that just keeps drooling and creaming around his long, inked fingers. His cock is just as drenched in your mouth, making wet sounds every time he plunges into your throat, his balls flush against your chin. Every saccharine moan and grunt that leaves his lips pushes you closer to the edge of another orgasm that ripples on the surface.

Eren slips his cock out of your mouth to stroke it furiously in your face, entranced by your moans as he finger-fucks you. “E-Eren!” you warn. “Eren, baby, fuck, I’m gonna cum again!”

Suddenly, the pleasure ceases as he slips his fingers, slick with your juices, out of you. “Uh-uh,” he growls. “Not yet. Not till I’m inside of you.” He brings his fingers up to your mouth and you obediently suck on them, rolling your tongue around his digits. “I’m not finished with you yet, baby, and I know you’re not finished with me.”

He takes you and tosses you back onto the bed, making you bounce against the mattress. Then he is yanking you close by your ankles and hiking your thighs up over his hips, your pretty toes contrasting with his lighter skin tone. “After all, I’ve gotta remind you who fucks you the best. Five years later, and I’m still your best, baby. Let me remind you why. ”

He gives you a shit-eating smile before he takes his cock and–

“Oh, my God!” you gasp, your eyes blown and your mouth agape. As soon as he is inside of you, stretching you, bottoming out in your pussy, you feel like you’re soaring and flying through the heavens. The ecstasy is monumental, opening up your senses in a way where you feel like you were just bit by a radioactive spider. You can taste the sweat on Eren’s tongue; hear every ragged breath he takes as he pumps himself into you; see every vein pulse in his pecs and neck; feel his body throb as you grip his forearms, pectorales, and shoulders.

He stares deep into your eyes as he drills your cunt into the bed, giving you deep, long strokes that make your toes curl and your body writhe in need for more. “And who fucks you the best?” he breathlessly asks. His hand snatches out to grab your throat, massaging it in time with his strokes. “Say it to me nice an’ clear, baby. Tell Daddy who owns you.”

He squeezes your throat a little harder, applying extra pressure to intensify the pleasure you’re swimming in. “You!” you loudly sob. “You do, Daddy! Fuck, just like that, Eren! Please keep fucking me just like that!” You would gladly tell him anything for him to keep fucking you so good. Fat tears soak your lashes sticky with ruined mascara as moans, whimpers, and gasps pass your lips wiped clean of lipgloss.

Eren gives you that very Eren grin–cocky and prideful. Because he knows he’s killing that shit. He releases your throat and applies both hands beside your head to give himself support before thrusting a little faster, his hips rolling in a way that makes his pelvis brush against your clit. “Just like this?” he teases, his hair and chain tickling your face. “Is that good for you, babe?”

You can’t even answer him. The entire English language has been wiped clean from your brain. All because of his cock. His sex. His everything. The way sounds he makes, the heady scent of his cologne, and the lewd sounds of his skin slapping against yours pull you over the edge into the abyss of ecstasy, making your eyes flutter shut and your jaw grow slack. “Cum for me,” he demands. “C’mon, baby, do it again. Gimme that fuckin’ cum.”

He goes faster, harder, drilling your pussy into the bed as if he is trying to win an award doing so. The award is your orgasm which is explosive and intense. “OH!” you shout as you unravel around Eren’s cock. Your moans are loud and desperate as your pussy squeezes around the cock inside of you, your walls clenching and pulsing, giving Eren a hard time trying to hold himself back from a nut.

But not yet. He can’t leave this here. His face flushed and his hair in his face, he pulls his slick cock out of you as you buck and twitch from your orgasm. “Not done,” he growls. “Not done with you yet.”

Suddenly, as quick as a flash, you are on your stomach and Eren is behind you, forcing you onto your hands and knees. Your arms feel like jelly, so all you can do is press your face into the bed as your ass is hiked up for him. He gives it a couple of harsh smacks–Smack! Smack! Smack!–before his cock is slowly sinking back inside of you. “E-Eren, wait!” you squeak. “I’m t-too sensitive!”

His laugh is breathless and enraging. He loves seeing you in agony. “Don’t worry: I won’t go fast.” He presses kisses to your back as he begins to slowly roll his hips into your ass. “Just relax for me, mama. You’re in good hands.”

And then plap-plap-plap go the sounds in the room as he fucks you from behind. Your ass jiggles and claps against his thighs as he gives you deep thrusts that make your pussy melt around him and your clit excitedly jump from the stimulation. “Eren,” you whimper. “Please, please, please!”

Evidently, you’re louder than you thought you were, causing Eren to tut. “You’re so loud, baby…I’ll have to fix that.” He yanks you up and his hand pushes your face to turn to the side, allowing him to give you a deep kiss that steals all of the air out of your lungs just as his cock does. “That’s it,” he coos. “Just enjoy this for me, baby. Lemme give you what you need.”

Then you’re back onto the bed, your face in the mattress and your moans swallowed by the sheets as the man above you fucks you absolutely dumb. You don’t know which way is up and which is down. The world spins around you, dizzying yet intoxicating, the sex you’re receiving turning you inside out.

“So slutty,” Eren chuckles above you, rolling his hips as he sinks his cock deep inside of your wet, heavenly hole. “Just listen to all the sounds you’re makin’ for me. Bet your man couldn’t make you sound like this.” He leans down to press himself fully against you, his pelvis brushing against your ass. “Y’know, I never forgot about you,” he whispers. “I never stopped lovin’ you, Y/N.”

His soft lips begin to caress your neck and shoulders before he picks both himself and you up, giving himself a chance to prop his leg up. The new position leaves you a moaning, sobbing mess, your pussy suddenly having no choice in the matter of cumming again. You grab the sheets so tight that your knuckles turn white as you feel your third orgasm cresting. “Eren,” you moan. “Oh, fuck, m’gonna…gonna…!”

“Yeah?” he teasingly asks. “You wanna cum all over this dick again, huh?” He wrenches your head back with his hand on your chin. “Then tell me that you love me. Tell me you love it when I fuck you.”

“I-I…” Your mind is moving a million miles a second, the pleasure leaving a thick fog in front of your sense of reality. You know you shouldn’t, but the way Eren fucks you is too good to resist telling him anything he doesn’t wish to hear: “I love you,” you whisper, the forbidden words passing your lips. “I love you so much, Daddy! I love it when you fuck me! You do it so good!”

You feel him smile against your cheek, his other hand gripping your ass as you begin to furiously rub at your clit, your fingers slipping and sliding along the rosebud. “Now tell me that you’re gonna leave that asshat for me.”

The fog clears a bit and it is enough for you to process what he just said. “W-What?” you stammer. “Eren–”

He roughly bends you over, cutting you off, and gives your ass a harsh smack that sends your clit into a frenzy. “Say it,” he orders. “Say it and I’ll let you cum. Tell me you’re gonna break up with him as soon as tonight is over.” Harder. Faster. His thrusts grow more intense than ever, making it a point to make you so insane and so desperate that you fall apart at the seams.

“Say it!” he bellows. “Fuckin’ say it!”

Tears soak the sheets and officially ruin your makeup as your self-control leaves you. You know that you are about to commit the ultimate betrayal just to get your nut. “I’ll leave!” you sob. “I’ll leave him for you, Daddy! I love you so, so much!”

The laugh that leaves Eren’s mouth is evil, damn near entering villain territory. “I love you too, baby,” he laughs. “Now cum for me like a good girl.” All it takes is a few more of those luscious, mind-blowing thrusts until you are cumming uncontrollably around his cock once more, screaming into the bed as the pleasure becomes overwhelming.

Eren moves faster, fucking your cum-soaked pussy with vigor to chase his own high, massaging and palming your ass as he does. He then pulls himself out of you and furiously strokes his dick against your butt, the sounds of his hand stroking his wet cock drifting in the air. “Fuck, fuck!” he grunts before he lets out a series of luscious moans as ropes of cum spurt from his cock and onto your asscheeks.

You tiredly whimper as you feel warm spurts of his spunk hit your skin, signaling the end for the both of you. Your body and pussy throb in tandem from the session, your skin soaked in sweat, the air heedy with the scent of sex. Eren raggedly exhales and collapses next to you onto his stomach. His hand slides across your back, running gently down your spine. “That’s my sexy fuckin’ baby,” he coos.

You can’t say anything back. Exhaustion has taken over and suddenly, so has sleep. You don’t make a fuss as Eren pulls you up the bed and helps you under the covers, the cool sheets settling across your damp skin. You feel his body next to yours, the scent of his sweat and cologne filling your nostrils. Your cheek rests against his chest as his hand tangles in your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp. “Sleep now. I’ll be seein’ you soon.”

You don’t answer because sleep has made her arrival and has swept you away to quiet and serene nothingness.

When you awaken the next morning to the winter sun pouring in through your bedroom window, you are alone. The bed is made and your dress is neatly folded at your feet. It is as if nothing happened last night and you slept alone.

But the delicious ache in your body tells you differently. And the note sitting by your lamp along with a glass of orange juice and an Aspirin definitely tells you differently.

With your head clearing from the sleep and the reality of your horrible situation hitting you (along with a hangover), you pick up the note and read Eren’s messy handwriting:

Thanks for last night. Hit me up again soon. xxxx

-Love Always, Your Best

Putting the note down, you grab your house phone from the nightstand and dial Kaido’s number. It is the one thought you have to do first to start your morning. Not stretching. Not getting a glass of water. Not showering or brushing your teeth or contemplating whether or not to kill yourself because you slept with your toxic ex-boyfriend.

Instead, you face reality head-on like a real bitch as Kaido’s voicemail enters your eardrum: “Hi, this is Kaido Ashida! I’m not here right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!”

Beep. Your mouth opens. “Kaido,” you automatically say. “Hi…it’s me. I think we need to talk after last night.”

And then the guilt sets in as you stare down at Eren’s note, your body teeming for another night with him soon. “I don’t think this is gonna work,” you sigh.

THE END.

#go read now #it was amazing #emmie recs

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