sillysowa

[sillysowa]

GODDDD THIS IS PEAK OMLLLL I WANNA KISS THIS WRITER

The Backwoods Saint

remmick x reader one shot.

Summary: You are a southern belle—adored, envied, and pursued. After a failed attempt to enter your family’s grand estate, an Irishman begins to pay you frequent visits, night after night. It's only a matter of time until you cave into his taunts.

wc: 6.1k

Smut warning: (18+) MDNI dom!remmick x female!reader. southern gothic, somewhat loss of virginity, fingering, slow-burn, he is a huge bully, second person pov, humiliation, manipulation, corruption, dirty talk, blood, biting, coercion, mentions of violence, mentions of death, some brief religious connotations, mentions of knives

a/n: just for clarification purposes, i love the idea of a big bad remmick corrupting someone expected to become a respectable girl in high society. she however does not live on a plantation though, forgot to mention that in the fic itself. her dad’s in the banking business and her family is wealthy, is all. happy reading!!

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

August, 1932. Mississippi Delta

You hadn’t slept.

Not for days.

Was it the sweltering heat or the incessant thrum of cicadas that had been keeping you up?

You couldn't quite place your finger on which was worse. How your lush sheets of what was meant to be the finest quality of cotton stuck to your tepid skin, or how it was never completely quiet. Be it the buzzing ensemble coming from outside, or the creak of the varnished porch of your family's manor.

No. No, it wasn't any of those things.

It was him.

The quilts spilled from your body as you sat up, sluggishly wiping the beads of sweat that dribbled on your hairline, your thoughts racing.

There, in the midst of your moon-stricken bed chamber, you disdained yourself for letting him live within you so freely.

No matter how much you tossed and turned, he clung to your thoughts like the whirring cicadas in the shrubs outside — constant, grating, always there. Yet, instead of the relentless hum, it was a low, honeyed drawl that kissed your ears, the wicked smile of sin.

He was the warmth in your belly this late at night, and the buckle of your thighs.

Remmick. Remmick.

It was humiliating how intense the thought of him felt to you. How real your fingers could make it be, brushing over your body, pretending they weren’t your own.

And how disgusting it felt.

To fantasize over a man you know almost nothing about.

To fantasize over a dead man.

Remmick had been the subject of your nightmares since he first visited three weeks ago.

The parlourmaids weren't allowed to just let anyone in your family's estate without the approval of your father, or in his absence, your elder brother.

When they'd had gone to your aunt Carol's birthday party, you had remained bed-ridden with the grippe.

Joanne the maid had looked after you. When a strange man came knocking in the early hours of the evening, she hurried to you, rambling fiercely.

"Said he's a doctor and that your father called for him to come treat your fever." Jo had told you, shaking her head, "I ain't hear anythin' 'bout no doctor comin' to visit this late at night. Said to him: get off my porch before I sic the bulls on ya'. You shoulda' seen him. Handsome he was, and gosh did he give me the spooks."

You remember the intrigue, how it pulled you out of bed and to the cushioned seat under your bedroom window, your sickened face searching for him on the dimly lit pathway leading up to the manor.

You had watched him — lean in stature, clad in the rough clothes of the labouring-class, tresses of dark hair. Though it was the slow stride of his walk that unnerved you, as if he owned the soils beneath him, from the surface clear down to Hell itself.

You knew at once he'd been lying about who he was — no doctor carried himself like that. Like a man used to taking what wasn't freely given.

And before he was lost in the fields, he had turned back, as if he knew you had been watching. You remember the way your heart tumbled when he caught you.

And oh, how he revelled in it.

His triumph came in the form of a slow, devilish grin; the glint of what appeared to be a set of fangs in the moonlight, and the flash of red in his eye, so bright you saw it from the second floor.

He stared at you from the glade, drank in your face as it twisted into a look of sheer horror. The grin, as if to say, look what you damn almost got inta’.

Since then, you saw him every so often.

In the late hours, you'd cast a look through your bedroom window and there he was - sometimes, leaning against an oak tree, a banjo cradled in his hands, strumming a tune. Waiting. For what, you couldn't have known.

You knew he had gotten under your skin when you would deliberately peer out of your window on other nights, and he wasn't there.

He was toying with you.

So, on the nights he was there, you had begun to oblige.

It was always safe. You met him at the back door of the manor, the one the parlourmaids used, but you never stepped out, oh no. You were smart. You stayed inside, careful not to cross the threshold, not even by an inch, and Remmick stood on the other side, posted on the creaking porch that surrounded the manor.

Your meetings were always brief. He was never forceful or aggressive, but he was mean. He'd taunt you, throwing out words meant to rattle you, believing they'd somehow compel you to let him in — things suggestive enough to get your stomach all tight. He'd never met a girl so stubborn that each time you refused, he'd simply retreat, and leave with the same knowing smirk that said he'd be back to try again.

Recently, you avoided the window. You didn't know how much longer you could deny him.

But you were so lonely.

Tonight, you relinquished all that discipline you had built over the past few nights. A defeated groan escaped you as you rolled out of the canopy bed, your bare feet kissing the cool, polished floorboards. It sent a chill up your legs.

With two fingers, you pulled aside the lace curtains draping over the window and swallowed the hump in your throat.

You silently hoped he wouldn't be there - you wanted, oh so badly, to turn around and get back into bed where the night would continue to torment your sleep.

Yet there, cast under the deep shadow of one of the many oak trees lining the manor, stood the Devil, wearing the silhouette of man.

And you found yourself at the backdoor again.

When Remmick heard the door unlatch and creak open, he didn't shift from his place against the tree trunk. The upper half of his body remained in the shadows, unscathed by the moonlight. Deft fingers continued working the strings of that banjo, so tenderly. A melody unknown to your ears drifted all the way to the porch like a lover's call, and the night felt whole.

He paid no mind to you at all, standing in the doorway, a bare body adorn in a cotton dress that draped to your knees. As if it were you that was the uninvited, and not the other way around.

When Remmick plucked the last note, and the night fell silent again, you saw something flicker in the shadows. Twin red orbs shone in the darkness, unblinking, like some primal beast was out there, not a human being — something otherworldly.

And that's how you knew his eyes had finally settled on you.

A chill wriggled down your spine. The pressure to speak pressed hard against your chest. "That was beautiful," you managed, your voice thin, laced with a tremor of unease you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed, alright.

Remmick stared at you for a good moment, as if thinking of something savvy to say. All that came from the darkness was a low, unsettling chuckle.

Smoothly, he pushed himself off the tree trunk, letting the banjo fall from his hands, dangling in front of his body on a makeshift strap. Even from the doorway, you heard the crunch of leaves under his shoe as he emerged from the shadow of the oak tree.

The moonlight bent down to greet him. You never thought the Devil would reveal himself to you in a blue dress-shirt and a pair of suspenders hitched over shoulders, yet there he was, in the flesh.

You noticed sleeves rolled up lazily to his elbows, forearms shining in sweat and dust.

Stopping before the small set of stairs, one arm gripping the wooden handrail, Remmick looked up at you, a smile playing his lip.

"Why you always doin’ this to y’self, darlin’?" was all he said in his thick, candied drawl. As southern as it could get.

Naturally, your jaw tensed. "Doin' what?"

He ascended the porch steps slowly, eyes unmoving. Even in the soft glow of the moon, his eyes shone at you in red hues.

"Comin' out here." The wood squeaked under his feet. Stopping before you, his eyes fell down to your body, "Wearin' that."

There was something about the way he looked at you that made your breath deepen. Maybe it was the hunger in his eyes, or the slow, deliberate steps he made towards you, reminiscent of the way a hunter stalks its kill — gentle, slow, like he had all the time in the world.

And he did.

"I don't—“ you tried to answer, but Remmick didn’t let you finish.

"That…lace?" he murmured, tilting his head as his eyes lingered on your nightdress. His fingers drifted absentmindedly across his chest while his gaze traced the delicate embroidery at the hem of your bust. Heat rose to your cheeks beneath the sudden weight of his attention.

Then, with a soft, almost pitying click of his tongue, he frowned. "Oh, sweetheart..." he sighed.

As if he felt sorry for you.

You pressed your lips into a thin line and turned away from Remmick. Beauty had never been a question — you wore it like a birthright.

The parlour had long echoed with the voices of suitors, drawn in by your well-maintained looks, your practiced laughter, the way you upheld a demure gaze. You were a Southern belle through and through, bred for admiration and a life of glamour.

Your parents, ever practical beneath their genteel airs, had already secured your future with a steel tycoon who owned an empire of mines trailing northward to Michigan. You had everything.

So why did you feel insecure now?

The shift in your demeanour made the lines around Remmick's lips twist a little. He was good at breaking people down as much as he was at building them back up again.

He leaned back a little, hands resting lazily on the banjo in front of him as he watched your reaction.

"What do you want from me?" you breathed. Suddenly, the thought of shutting the door in his face and heading back to bed wasn't such a terrible idea.

Remmick stirred and let out an exaggerated scoff, "What do I want from ya'? I was jus' enjoyin' the fresh air, playin' a lil' somethin'..."

"Every night?"

"Now," his smile faded, feigning concern, as if what you said was deeply wrong. "I wouldn't go n' say every night... maybe every second night. Don't get ahead of yourself, darlin'. "

You felt a cool breeze rustle through the coils of your hair. The humidity of Mississippi was long gone, and dare you say you felt... cold?

When you didn't answer, Remmick took the banjo back in his hands and pulled it back over his head, then let it rest against the white-pillared balustrade. He turned back to you, his arms now hanging freely at his sides. He waited for you to say something.

But he only looked at you with that usual smug expression — the one where his eyebrows arched just so, creasing his forehead in that familiar way.

Remmick shook his head in mock disbelief, "You been lonely, lambkin? Is that it?" He teased, "Mommy and daddy don't wanna let y' out the playpen? That why you come out here like some lass in rut, blushin' and poutin', when you're nothin' but chicken?"

"I ain't chicken," You shot back.

"That a fact?”

"I know what your weaknesses are, so I'm playin' my cards right.” Your arms folded against your chest, “I'm the one in control here. Me. I'm bein’ smart."

“Well, standin' at the door like that makes me think you ain't so smart after all."

"And why's that?"

The corners of his lips quirked into a sly grin. He shifted his gaze down to your feet, and then swept slowly around the doorframe.

"Why's that, sweetheart? Well, for starters, you been bouncin' on your feet so much you ain't even realise you outside with me."

Your gaze snapped around.

He was right.

Somehow, without realising, you had edged past the threshold. It was more than enough for Remmick to just... grab your wrist and pull you out completely.

In a heartbeat, you stepped back into the doorway, stumbling so far back you hit the kitchen counter. The floor beneath you swayed, a sudden churning sensation in your stomach.

You watched Remmick peer inside the kitchen, head momentarily dipping back as he cackled at your skittishness. Even in the blue-ish overcast of the night, you could see his lip twitching up as he laughed, the tips of his fangs winking at you.

The look on your face did bits for him.

He wagged his forefinger at you. "Oh, I coulda' had you. Coulda' had you real good."

You let go of the counter in an attempt to compose yourself, your breathing irregular. You scolded yourself for being so thoughtless.

"You wanna know somethin', sugar?" He continued, "I was feelin' honourable today. Ain't nice to be layin' hold of girls like that, 'specially classy ladies, like you. An' believe me when I say — it took a whole damn lot not to.'"

Hands balling into fists, you slowly made your way back to the doorway once you had regained yourself.

Remmick seemed to beam at your reappearance, as if he found your defiance amusing.

"But, one of these nights, you gon' make the same mistake... gon' teeter a bit too forwards... and I won't be as honourable."

The threat rolled off his tongue so casually.

Yet, you couldn't shake the thought: he didn't do anything to you.

You shook your head in frustration, "There's plenty of girls in the city. And yet, you always come by here."

He sucked his teeth.

"Loose legs and loose blood," he said disdainfully, "You're right. It's a goldmine up there. But I ain't forcin' you to come down here and keep me company, little lamb. Aincha' tired of playin' at sainthood?"

"I ain't playin' at nothin'..."

"Then let me inside."

Your lips parted — only one word, and it'd be done.

But your silence hung loud. You were still afraid.

And in the lift of his brow, you could tell he knew it too.

Slow as a funeral march, Remmick dragged himself forward, until he was as close as he could muster. He leaned in, and raised one hand to rest against the door frame, his fingers curling around the wood.

You caught a whiff of his scent — mahogany, smoke, and something else you couldn't quite place.

Death.

Something shifted in his face. The usual smugness he wore like a second skin peeled away, leaving him looking almost… needy. There was a hunger in his eyes, deep and devouring.

His gaze fell to your chest.

Waves of heat swept over you as he undressed you in his mind, but not in the way you'd think.

It was not your breasts that appeased him, nor your hips or behind, like they had with other men.

Instead, he watched the dainty collarbones that writhed under your skin, bones fit for lips as sullied as his, and the way your lovely neck contorted with your breathing. That long, slender neck, gleaming with sheets of summer warmth, thrumming with life all over.

The little valley in your chest, carved for confession, trailing down in soft descent until it vanished beneath the hush of your night dress.

And the lace? Well, there was a reason it was one of the first things he noticed about you tonight. There was something so delightful about the the white meshwork against your skin, like a secret begging to be revealed.

His fingers itched with the thought of tearing it apart.

Because you were everything he wasn't — soft, untouched, and alive.

And God help him. He craved to feel the pulse of something alive again.

"You're...drooling." you gawked.

His eyes settled back onto yours. A thread of saliva clung to the corner of his lip, slipping down his chin.

He smiled.

Remmick leaned in a little more, just a little, the wood of the doorframe groaning under his weight, until his voice was low enough for your ear to catch.

“I know you ain’t been sleepin’ right.” He admitted.

You stilled. How could he know something like that? Momma had told you the other day you were growin’ bags under your eyes and that your soon-to-be-fiancé wouldn’t like his woman sleepin’ ‘till noon.

But it didn’t matter. Remmick’s voice sung into your ear like he were your lover:

“And… I know, deep in my heart… oh, that cunt stays wet thinkin’ about me.”

The slight buckle of your knees did not go unnoticed. Lips, parting with the ghost of an exhale as your heart sank to the stomach.

Another twitch in the corner of his lip, "Don't it, baby?"

He pulled back slightly, just so you could catch a glimpse of his teeth bared beneath a sharp grin. Watching your face carefully, following your eyes as they shifted away uneasily.

Remmick continued, his voice merely a rasp, "Them rich fellas'... they don't know what t' do with you..." he murmured lowly.

You felt beads of sweat roll down your temple. The cicadas were screaming, and your stomach was betraying you.

"...don't know how t' touch you."

Your heart slammed against your ribcage.

Those lines in his forehead were creasing as he looked at you, at all of you.

"But I do, darlin'."

You knew you had lost when his words settled into your core like poison. Tantalising and greedy and evil.

You looked up into the face of the Devil as a breathless 'oh' escaped him, as if the surrendering look on your face pleased him more than fucking you ever would.

Then, Remmick tilted his head, momentarily peering past you, as if he were looking inside the kitchen.

"Your folks asleep?" He asked softly.

You had forgotten all about your family. Upstairs, asleep, oblivious to the fact that their only daughter was downstairs caving into a stranger's sweet seduction.

Even through your flustered state, you managed a nod.

The lines around Remmick's lips seemed to deepen.

"Then best you come out then."

Thoughts came to you in muddy clusters and any form of reasoning went out the window. You were a mess. There, without him even laying a finger on you, he had managed to crack you just a little. It was only a matter of time until his hands would wedge in and split you apart completely.

Your sigh was a shaky one, filled with defeat. You looked into the red-tinged eyes of the man who had been haunting you these past few weeks and, willingly, you handed your life over to him.

Remmick pulled away from the doorway and allowed you enough room to step outside, your bare feet making contact with the wooden floorboards of the porch.

A breeze rattled your dress, your hair, and any ounce of self-restraint you had left. Through it all, you came to terms with one thing:

Loneliness doesn't keep you safe.

It hands you the blade.

"C'mere," Remmick beckoned you, "Come closer."

Anchored by his voice, you shifted further to him, until you were more than an arm's length from the door which was left ajar. He hummed in approval.

His hand reached out to stroke your face with the back of his fingers - his touch was cold as winter's breath, even in the Mississippi heat.

But he was oddly tender. Loving. Brushing your clean, porcelain cheek with dirtied fingers.

Then, in a heartbeat, Remmick grabbed you by your shoulder and spun you around with otherworldly force, pulling your back flush into his chest. His hands clamped down onto your hips — unyielding, possessive — as if he meant to brand that moment into your flesh.

You let out a small cry as he held you with an iron-grip.

You felt his breath on the side of your face, his other hand crawling up to your neck. He spoke into your ear.

"That little sound?" He crooned, "Ain't even close to what I want outta' you."

The hand that crept up your neck cupped you by the jaw and turned your face to the side, just enough to face him.

He peered down at you through lowered lashes, lips almost brushing against yours. You tried to move your face but his grip on your jaw tightened.

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

Rough.

Greedy.

Starved.

Remmick kissed like blasphemy. Meant to burn, meant to ruin. Teeth gnashing against each other, you felt his fang graze against your lip, drawing blood, and once he got a taste of that, he was feral. Growling and clawing at your hair as he held you, like you were water about to seep through his fingers.

You let out a moan, muffled by his mouth.

He sucked on your lip, drew it back between his teeth and let it go.

Pulling away, he looked at his handiwork with half-lidded eyes, seeing nothing but a panting, flustered mess before him. Your lip was red and bloody, and the pain began to slowly settle.

Sweat-slicked locks of dark hair stuck to Remmick's forehead, his lips wet with your blood.

He, too, was out of breath. Admiring you, at how you've fallen from grace, scruff and bruised, and wanting more.

You tried to lean in, tried to catch his lips again, but that coarse hand was still clamped on your jaw. He yanked you back, restraining you, holding you like a dog on a short leash.

He made an 'o' shape with his mouth, his brows knitting in mock sympathy.

"What was that you said? Somethin' about bein' in control?" He reminded you, those fingers pressing into your skin, as if to keep you anchored and compliant. "Playin' your cards right, wasn't it? Ahh..."

You gaped at him, the familiar rush of humiliation at your cheeks.

“I...I didn't...”

The words were lost, and you looked a fool. He waited for you, amused you couldn't even string together a sentence.

“All that bark, sugar, but you come undone mighty easy..."

Then, he scooped you up in his arms, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist, your chin buried in his shoulder, the scent of sweat and smoke ever so strong as he headed towards the white pillared railing surrounding the porch.

As he did so, Remmick felt your heartbeat against his chest, humming in anticipation. God, your life was singing for him.

Lowering you down on the top of the wooden railing, the hem of your nightdress hiked up your legs as Remmick positioned himself beneath them. His fingers fumbled with the sleeves of his dress shirt, rolling them up his forearms further.

A hand dropped down between your legs, trailing up your inner thigh, ever so slowly.

You felt yourself lean back a little, shaking in need.

He watched you intently as he reached for the the soft fabric of your panties, upper body leaning in to steal the breath straight from your lips. And once he felt you....

"Ah, sweet Jesus..." a low rumble came from his throat, "Soaked to the bone, are ya'?"

He massaged you a little, that delightful cotton hiding what was his.

A thick digit curled over the edge of your panties and peeled it to the side. He ran it firmly across your folds, feeling the sweet nectar brimming your slit, his thoughts spinning with all the ways he wanted to fuck you stupid.

Naturally, your legs nestled deeper into him, a cry hidden in your throat as you forced yourself to be good for him. Remmick's lips parted as he groaned, his warm breath crashing against your face.

Then, without any warning, that same finger pushed itself inside of you, firmly, eliciting a jolt from your body.

You nearly toppled over, your balance slipping on the railing—until Remmick’s free hand shot out, catching you before you could fall, pulling you rough towards him with his middle finger still thrusting inside of your cunt.

"I gotcha', angel." He murmured softly in your ear.

As he worked you, he watched you struggle, your hands flying up to his broad shoulders as you steadied yourself.

In the soft overcast of the night, you watched the gold chain around Remmick's broad neck, glossy with summer sweat. It shifted slightly with each thrust of his arm, and even amidst the carnal surrender, you couldn't help but wonder how something so delicate was tethered to someone so wicked.

Keeping a steady rhythm, Remmick gave a pleased hum as you mewled, his thick finger breaking you in nicely.

Your head lolled back, teeth sinking into your lip still throbbing with the bruising kiss Remmick had left there to fester. His face was inches away from yours, watching you steadily.

He added a second digit, his ring finger, stretching you out even more, and you felt the presence of a cold object plugging in and out of you alongside his digit, something resembling metal.

There was an actual ring on his ring finger.

And it was inside of you.

God, you wanted to scream.

You buried your face in his shoulder, the rough fabric of his dress-shirt against your cheek.

Naturally, it thrilled him. Watching you unravel, after weeks of hanging around your porch, haunting your sleep - a catch o' the season, he'd triumphantly think.

"Ever wonder somethin'?" Remmick began with a mischievous lilt, the grin in his voice unmistakable.

That hand kept working your pussy. You couldn't focus on his words. You couldn't focus on anything, really.

"Ever wonder how I came 'bout this big ol' house that night? You, up in that window… well, you were a vision, weren’t ya’?”

He spoke in your ear, the faint scrape of his stubble grazing your face like a warning. Your thighs began to tremble, the squelching sound of your cunt growing louder by the minute. You'd never heard yourself like that.

“And I ain’t sentimental. I don’t show up without a reason, sweetheart,” He added his forefinger, “Y’see… your daddy likes to run his mouth, talkin’ all ‘bout his beautiful darlin’ daughter, ‘specially at your auntie Carol’s party. What was it he said? Mm, a nice dowry. Yeah. The sumbitches loved that.”

You dug your teeth into your lower lip, stifling a cry. You couldn’t wake your family—not like this, not with you straddling the porch railing, the devil's hands lost between your thighs.

“Know what else? Well, your aunt Carol told me the darndest thing. Said her sweet niece was stuck in her fancy house on Cypress Creek, in bed, sick as a dog. Oh, quit tryna’ hold it in baby, go on and make those pretty sounds—“

He picked up on your heavy breaths, and how you held yourself back from moaning. But that hand just kept going.

“—yeah. Mm, so I had to, uh… had to pay you a visit. See what this southern belle is all about.” Remmick continued, momentarily peering down to catch a glimpse of his fingers coated in your residue. “Jus’ a shame your maid wasn’t so nice.”

Your thighs were wet and shaking. A certain knot coiling inside of you. You felt... you felt it simmering in your belly, and Remmick was slowly undoing it.

“But maybe you was jus’ lucky. Thank… thank God for her, right? Y’see, angel… I was gon' kill you.”

Even amidst the newfound bliss, you lifted your head from his shoulder.

"Wha...?"

"Now don't go givin' me that face," He added, catching your expression, "Y'know damn well—"

Remmick felt your insides clench around his fingers, your hips twitching. He slowed his pace down, careful not to tip you over the edge just yet. It had been weeks since he had first caught sight of you, and now your cunt was just there, served on silver. He was taking his fucking time.

He continued, "Y'know damn well what I am, darlin’. I ain’t one o’ your silk-wearin’ gentlemen. That night... I was fixin’ to have my way with you. Willin’? Sure. But if you weren’t… well, that’d just make it a dull way for you to go. ‘Cause, I was gonna tear you apart like meat off the bone jus’ the same."

Your heart sunk down to your belly. There you were, body twitchin' and shakin', but the fear swept over you once again.

You knew what he was — night devil, neck nibbler, vampire. You grew up with those stories, you grew up with your nana telling you all about haints and marsh crawlers and the like.

And there you were, with your trembling legs wrapped around one.

"I was real hungry that night, and you were somethin’ nice to look at. Not a lotta' girls these days... so clean...”

But he wasn't talking about your scent, or how well-bathed and kept you were.

He glanced at your chest. At your heart.

You saw him frothing at the mouth, strings of glistening drool trickling down the corner of his lip, still red with your blood, and the most feral eyes you had seen in something most would mistaken as man.

Somehow, reality found its way back to you. You gave him a sudden shove and hopped off the porch railing, the night dress falling over your legs once again.

Beads of sweat dribbled on your hairline, your chest still bobbing for air.

You needed to get back inside.

But Remmick didn't fight you. He let you pull away from him, sure enough, his hand falling back to his side. He didn't step away, nor did those red-hued eyes falter.

He simply angled his head slightly to the left, just enough to study you anew.

“That pretty head of yours finally catchin’ up?”

The ghost of his fingers playing you like his banjo was still between your legs, a shiver still dancing on your spine, all macabre.

"You want me afraid," Your voice came out in a whisper, "Is that it?"

He gave a little tsk, head still tilted, like you’d disappointed him somehow.

"No. No, that ain’t what this is, darlin'." He muttered, "I know you're afraid, can hear your heart doin' laps."

But something in his face softened a little. Like he was trying to be sympathetic, trying to understand whatever human-driven-emotional-logic you had.

And honestly, you actually would have believed that he was capable of feeling, had you not known he was a vampire. There was something unnerving about the way the creases in his forehead deepened, and how sharp those fangs appeared under his frowning mouth.

What kinda' games are you playin'?

And then he stepped aside, hands in view.

“Go on then,” he drawled, voice low and thick as molasses, “Ain’t stoppin’ you. Door’s right there if that’s what you want.”

And it was. Lower back pressed against the porch railing where you once sat atop of, your eyes shifted to the door left half ajar.

Remmick, who held his hands defensively, coaxed you with a look of innocence so human-like you briefly forgot what he was.

"Go on." he repeated, the soft hue of the moonlight was painting him like some backwoods saint.

It was quiet for a while.

Because you didn't move.

The moonlight flickered over his face and suddenly, all traces of sainthood fled him. A slow smile spread over his lips, like he knew—

"Oh... you ain't goin’ nowhere, are ya'." he mused under his breath.

Your hands curled into fists. He was shaming you.

You scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I could break you in half ‘fore you even take your next breath." Remmick once again closed the gap between you two, "Could snap your neck like a twig, drain you dry, leave your body rockin’ in that porch swing ‘til sunrise. Easy.”

"I know."

Licking his bloody lips, "You know?"

"Yes."

A pang of silence.

Remmick looked at you differently. No longer in hunger, or greed, but with something quieter. Something dangerously close to reverence.

His eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to memorize it — the way your jaw tightened despite the fear, how your chin lifted just so. Proud. Defiant. Still trembling, but standing.

“Well, I’ll be,” he murmured, almost to himself, “Ain’t that somethin’.”

The porch creaked beneath his shoes as he leaned in to you, a finger slowly tracing the side of your neck in a way that was almost loving. His other hand came around to settle on the railing behind you, trapping you in.

You didn’t know the dead could breathe. Not until his face lowered to meet yours, and your eyes swam in the pools of oil and ember that coaxed you deeper.

The warm air you breathed in. His breath.

It wasn’t life, you thought, his breath was empty and cruel and you were intoxicated.

You gave your life to him. You gave yourself to the banjo-playing devil at your door. Spread your legs for him when other men had adorned you with gems and jewels, fed you, loved you forever in your waiting grace. And he had only whispered in your ear what others could not do to you.

You had been so lonely. How good does the blade feel when wielded by a man who knows precisely where your skin is the thickest? You needed him.

You needed him.

You needed him.

As if reading your thoughts, Remmick tutted. His lips momentarily hovered over your face before he pressed a kiss onto your temple.

He saw it. Everything. Remmick drooled from his mouth, but oh you drooled from your eyes. Wet and wide like a doe’s, he saw everything from the sadness in them to the desperation and the innocence — he wanted to take it all away.

He straightened up, his face now burying itself in your hair. You smelled like forsakenness and macadamia nuts.

Gently, he murmured, lips moving against the coils of your hair.

"You need me, baby... oh, yes you do..."

You gave a soft hum of acceptance. Of truth.

You felt the same hand on your neck slide up past your chin and to your swollen lip. His thumb gently caressed the padding of it.

"... need me to give it to you. Fuck you real nice, like you was made for it.”

The tip of his thumb pushed through your lips.

“Say the word, lambkin...” You heard him say as that thumb felt up your tongue, “...and I'll break you in jus' right.”

There was a croon to his voice, lulling you as your mouth parted further by the second, making space for his digit wedging further inside, a soft choke etched at the end of your throat.

With his fangs tucked behind open lips, he leaned in and let his mouth graze your skin. He watched you struggle to take his thumb, your lips around him like you were sucking honey off a spoon.

His other hand found itself on the thick of your hair. He pulled it aside like a curtain, brought it back behind your shoulder.

Seeing you like this: trembling, and undone.

Lord help you.

Remmick pulled his thumb out of your mouth slowly, wiping the excess spit on your lower lip.

"Please." the word came from you like surrender and confession.

With charcoal eyes ablaze, you felt Remmick shift. He, who carried himself with a lethal suave, and a careful restraint — it was never about inviting him in your family's estate, the ever so glorious Cypress Creek manor.

You’d already let him in.

You’d invited him into your soul.

A deep, guttural sound came from Remmick's throat as he kissed you whole, wet and wanton. Across your jaw he went, down your neck to its nape, licking the hollow of your collarbone.

He grabbed your hips, that cotton dress tearing gracefully in his hands as he tasted your skin, warm and bustling with life. He clawed at you, your flesh caught in his nails.

Your head tipped back in bliss.

You felt him press up against your side, his cock hard under his slacks — a vampire he may have been, but the appetite of man always remained.

A low, bone-rattling chuckle. A grin against your nape, "Oh, we gon' have some real fun, darlin'."

You exhaled. There was something else in the air. Something you had never tasted before.

And then you felt it — the clean, searing puncture of his fangs splitting your skin like silk.

[sillysowa]

Genuinely the best thing I’ve read on this app

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’."

[sillysowa]

Never a miss with this writer

Can you maybe write a drabble abt y/n who is really really bad at accepting kindness or was emotionally abused/neglected in their past

jjk men when you react poorly to their affections...

cw: angst, mental health struggles, mentions of generational & domestic trauma

-> hello all, thank you guys so much for all the sweet messages and the patience while i've been MIA. i really hope you enjoy what i've been working on for you! just a heads up, some of these are longer than others dependent on the scenario (and because i don't know when to shut up), but i hope i've done this request justice! i love you all and hope you're having a lovely weekend! <3

gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna

satoru gojo: hesitation to touch!

satoru's first instict before and after he discovers that he has fallen in love with you and worked to make you his is to clobber you with physical affection. he is ever the passionate man when it comes to his feelings, which have come around to him rather suddenly amid his weighted occupation and past experiences with unnurtured, trampled love. when he feels himself drawn to you for the first time, his lack of personal awareness in terms of others' space shines through, and he is attached to you at the hip.

satoru wants to throw his arm around you, hold your hand, guide you to the side by your waist just to catch a glimpse of how it feels for his hands to be pressed to your lovely frame, even if it is for just a milisecond.

as the two of you progress past a boundary of friendship slowly and mutual interest is made evident, satoru's affections shift and his desires double, triple, quadruple what they were before. he watches you with dazzled starry eyes, hands seeking to grab you up and pull you into him so that he can sprout kisses all over your beautiful face, down to the shoulders that support your neck and the legs that keep your body standing.

and satoru surely does try to expand his sense of affection directed toward you once you have gotten into a relationship after what he feels has been so long, but he can not help but notice how indifferent you are to all of it. satoru has never known you to be a mushy person, for when it comes to hugging you or kissing a cheek, you tend to shy away from him. he does not take it personally at first. he has known you long enough to understand that you have never been a woman of affection, and unfortunately he does not stray against your general preference. nevertheless, as satoru's love for you grows hand in hand with his physical needs, he begins to have doubts, fears, suspicions.

in truth, satoru does not know or understand the extent to which you avoid affection. it is not that you do not desire to be loved by the man in your life, or that you do not wish for him to express his love in the particular manner that he chooses to. you adore satoru, and you can see how he struggles to hold himself back when his eyes light up with that desire you know so well by now, the desire to hold you and wrap you up close. it pains you especially when you catch wind of how he deflates when you turn him down, his hands falling back down to his sides from a rejected invitation to his chest, and his glossy lips pressing together in a tired smile displaying both his desire to respect you as well as his poorly hidden disappointment.

while remaining understanding and desiring to make you happy, satoru begins to bring light to the conversation as time goes on. when he asks you about it “causally" after hours of thinking of the best way to approach you, you brush him off once more.

“you know i’m not a touchy person, satoru,” you would tell him. “that’s all it is.”

and god, does satoru want to believe you and move on with all his heart- he wants to be okay with your boundaries, to push aside his own to ensure that he does not offend you, and while it kills him he would hate to make any move that would bring you to resent him or anything associated with his touch.

but he just can’t.

he does not want to completely admit that it is partially because he craves the feel of you more than anything he has ever wanted in his entire life, for the main reason he is concerned is because he knows you are hiding something from him, something big.

his suspicions only manifest into truth one day when he reaches past you to grab something on the counter as you stand beside him, and due to your focus on your own task at hand, you are startled by the motion. you subsequently flinch slightly, a poor habit of the past reviving momentarily due to your uncertainty and distraction.

you feel the air around you immediately tense and it registers what you just did. when you slowly turn, you catch the look of pained horror on satoru's features as he slowly lowers his hand, having forgotten completely what he was initially doing.

"i-" you go to explain yourself, but no words come out. you realize that there is no painless way to describe your actions, why you flinched, why you never want to know what it feels like to be touched by a man who loves you because the last one who claimed he did lied, took advantage of your trust, and weaponised his physicality in the worst possible way.

you shudder, stepping back subconsciously. "i'm sorry, i-" you shake you head and look down to the floor. "i don't know what came over me."

"...(y/n), did you think i was gonna hit you?"

you can't even register his words. they go through your head like a harsh breeze. "no," you're quick to say. "...i just-"

"then what was that? why did you-?" you hear the silence rise after he cuts himself off. you imagine his mind whirring, his heartbeat pounding. you hate to make him feel this way.

he attempts to move closer to you, which you allow since he does not approach too quickly. "you understand that i would never- never hit you. right?"

his question lingers as your brows draw together and the lump in your throat hardens, the topic sensitive enough to send you spiraling.

he ducks slightly to try to catch your eye. "(y/n)? you know that right? please tell me you do," he pleads softly.

"i do," you mumble. "i don't think- i know you-"

"baby, can i-" he reaches instinctively for your hand then quickly retracts. you watch as his fingers curl his hand into a fist at his side before swiftly releasing. "wh- i'm so sorry. i just- why-" he struggles to find the words as you stand before him like a child preparing to get scolded. "why did you flinch like that?"

and he sounds so broken by your action, so completely defeated that you can feel the shakiness of his voice rattle your bones.

"did... is someone... hurting you?"

christ, satoru can only manage to keep the building fury within him at bay, as he wants to be present for you to understand what you're going through in your head, but the very idea of someone laying their hands on you makes an inexplicable rage rush over his body.

you take a deep breath in, sensing his growing panic. you knew that you would have to come face to face with your past one day, now that you are moving on and experiencing love in a manner you never got to before. you belittle yourself for allowing the signs to slip so soon, but you have to give satoru a little credit. you know he has been antsy about your hesitation to touch, and you doubted you were going to get away with the petty excuses you'd been coming up with for much longer.

"(y/n)?" the white haired sorcerer asks again with impending urgency.

"no, no one's hurting me," you assure him quickly. "i'm sorry toru, i didn't mean to freak you out."

"please don't apologize," he begs. "i just need you to help me understand what just happened. i don't want to pry, baby, but seeing you flinch like that isn't something i can just let go."

"i know," you gulp, voice shrinking.

"hey..." the consolation in his low voice urges you to look back up at him slowly. his brows are drawn together and his eyes search yours, soon darting all over your face and taking in every detail. "what's wrong?"

and in the moment you know he knows. he's piecing together every moment you've awkwardly gone rigid when his arm has carefully pulled you into his side, every time your mouth turns with nerves each time he goes to kiss your temple, every time you have rejected his advances not because you don't want them but because you're afraid they aren't real, that they will be weaponized against you, that they are a mask for some darker intention.

you know satoru's spirit. you know that he would destroy the very world you inhabit for you as long as you're safe and protected. you know that what you feel is true love, unconditional love. you know that. you see that. he shows you that, but your traumas leave you petrified. shadows of the past lurk behind his very frame and threaten to tear apart everything good you are slowly building.

"it's not you," you tell him after a moment and he is still with silence, sensing a confession, an explanation that he has longed to hear. "it's never been you."

"then what is it, baby? what's been going on?"

"i can't-" you struggle to find the words as the memories begin to choke you. you sputter. "i- i haven't had- you're the first-"

"(y/n), breathe," he instructs softly and you do. though he isn't touching you, you feel the security of his presence wrapping around you as if you were tucked in a safe embrace. "it's okay. you don't have to force yourself to tell me anything if it's too hard for you."

"i know, but-" you shake your head at yourself as if disappointed in your own actions. "i just- i know you want more from me. we've been dating for almost two months and i barely kiss you, i barely let you hug me, we haven't even had sex-"

"that stuff doesn't matter to me, (y/n)."

"yes it does, satoru. i see it all over your face. you're getting impatient with me, i know you are."

"don't do that," he tells you. "i'm not upset with you for taking your time. i realize affection is something that you're not comfortable with, and that's okay."

"but it's not okay for you. you want more- you need more-"

"i need my girlfriend to be okay," he interjects as he holds your gaze. "i need you to feel safe. i don't ever want you to feel like you owe me anything, (y/n). you don't. i love you whether i'm touching you or not and that will never go away. yes, my love language is different from yours, but that doesn't mean i'll ever get tired of you. sure, it's hard sometimes, but i'm okay. your wellbeing means more to me than anything else, you understand that?"

you swallow hard, overwhelmed. "it's not that i don't want-"

"it's okay."

"but i don't want to leave you hanging."

"(y/n). it's okay."

"...my ex... he..." you find yourself stumbling over your pending confession once more, straying from satoru's gaze to make what happened to you feel less raw, less real. and satoru studies you, dreading what is to come, heartbroken for what he has begun to discover without you even having to say it. "...when we were together..."

your brows twitch as something comes to life in your head, and satoru immediately knows to turn your attention away by speaking up after prolonged moments of weighted silence. "it's okay, (y/n)," he echoes for a third time, and this time you hear the sheer sadness dripping in his soft tone, the admiration of your strength, his guilt, his love, his patience, his fury. "you don't have to say it. it's okay."

"i just don't want you to think i don't love you..."

"i don't think that, baby. i know you love me. i love you too, so much."

and there comes the break in your exterior, the crack in your voice, the vulnerability that overshadows you. your mind revisits the betrayal, the fear, the hatred of the past and how it haunts you, how it is engraved in you, no matter how much closer you come to healing.

"but i don't know how to love you the way you need."

"all i need is you, (y/n). nothing else."

satoru sees it written all over your face and his heart is sinking. he wants to help you, support you. he wants you to know that everything will be alright as long as you lean on him, as long as you know that he is not the same and would never take advantage of your trust, of your affections, of your soul and your love.

he'll kill him. he'll kill whoever hurt you, whoever's abuse tore you apart and made you shrink into yourself, shrink away from confidence and certainty and true affection. he'll tear him apart, destroy him from the inside out for his crimes against you, for tainting your past so terribly. for dimming your light and making you hurt.

but before that, he needs to be there for you. he moves to do so in the best way he can, stepping forward and opening his arms to hold you. he doesn't think, forgetting about your hesitation with physical intimacy for the sake of wanting to protect you, so he's moving in until he catches your eye again.

he sees the way you hold yourself back, how panic subconsciously swirls in your eyes. he freezes, looking over you slowly in realization before dropping his arms to his sides quickly. "i'm sorry, pretty. i don't mean to cross your boundaries. i just..." he doesn't know what to say, words seeming to fail him when he concludes that he has no idea how to help you. "i'm so sorry."

you know he is apologizing for everything you've experienced, for not understanding why you are the way you are, and for not knowing how to be there for you all at once.

you think way back to when you and satoru first met. to the times you spent getting to know each other through work. the times he would make you laugh unexpectedly with his stupid jokes, the times he would begin to hover you despite having to tend to the first years' training, the times you would catch him staring shamelessly only for him to subject you to endless flirting. the times he'd reach for your hand, only for yours to tense in his until he'd awkwardly release it, sensing your discomfort. the times you would still when his lips met your cheek. the times you'd dodge him simply to avoid the painful interaction of watching him reel back sadly when you'd step away from his presence, scared not of touching him but of what may happen if you allow him to fully cross that line.

you think back to every time satoru has proven himself a completely different person from your ex, and yet the trauma of being with him overpowers what you have been blessed with.

you look up at your boyfriend desperately, apologetically, gratefully and find that you have nothing to say either. you can see his internal struggle, how distant he becomes despite still standing so close to you. he's so afraid of triggering you or hurting you, so he keeps his hands to himself, though they itch to seek you out.

your ex had made you so uncomfortable with touch that the memory of his began to plague any desire to feel satoru's.

and satoru is not him.

the two of you stare at one another, and for the first time you truly see the greatest sorcerer of the modern age before you. all of him. all the good that he is, the love he has to offer, to empathy he has for you, and the inviting warmth he emanates.

you feel something shatter inside you as an urge to be wrapped into a tight blanket of security washes over you. satoru's familiar cologne sinks into your senses, his glassy blue eyes silently willing you some sense of peace, even if he can't be the one to provide it. the man you love towers over you with no intention to go and yet no expectation of contact, and you melt.

you fall apart for the man that he is for you and the terror that he will never be.

your body is reacting before your mind can think, and satoru has no time to be shocked when you carefully step into him and push your body against his, curling your arms to your chest as he surrounds you and pulls you in.

your body shivers, scared of its unearthed wants until it registers the foreign sensation of gojo's snug embrace. he does not hug you too tightly, but instead lets you sink into him as his embrace follows. his fingers secure over your sides and his chin falls to your shoulder, your hearts hammering into one another's.

when you do not involuntarily jerk away, your brows curl together and your eyes glaze over. you register the firmness of his frame and how gently it cradles you, how safely you are tucked away into his scent, his protection, his anguish for all that you have been through.

you whimper at just how raw satoru's love feels for you in this state, as you see now that you have truly escaped what you have been dreading for as long as you can remember.

satoru feels that he can hardly breathe, overwhelmed by you and all that you have shown him with such little words. he hates how selfish he has been, for now he sees you wholly. he understands now, and he especially understands how big it is that you have found a desire for a hug, for him to hold you for as long as he has been.

so he savors it. he takes you in and keeps you close, wordlessly thanking you for trusting him and leaning on him when you needed to the most. you're so soft, so shaky that he crumbles on the inside.

you are everything. this moment is everything. for you, for the both of you. satoru can feel you begin to cry as a weight lifts from your shoulders, and his eyes water as he quickly follows suit. he knows that you will push away from him soon, that you will retreat once you register what you are doing, but that is okay. it's more than okay. this in itself is a ginormous step for you, a step toward seeing how much you mean to him and how fiercely he will protect you.

so he continues to hold you in silence, thumbs caressing soothingly over your shirt. he lets you feel him as he feels you. it is tender, it is peaceful, and it is finally safe.

suguru geto: emotionally disconnected!

for quite some time, suguru has noticed something about you.

normally, he would not consider himself the type to pry or press matters that he knows are out of his control or have nothing to do with him, but considering how deeply this has been impacting every aspect of your lives, he knows he can not go on without saying something anymore.

the black haired man would like to consider himself to be an emotionally mature person. when the two of you have issues, he's the first one to want to sit down and talk them out. when something is bothering him, he will wait for the proper time to approach you about the topic. he does not tend to overthink, for he sees things as they are and addresses them accordingly.

that having been said, suguru is not the most emotional person in the world. due to his prioritization of making sure things happen when the time is best suited for the situation, he still has a tendency to allow things to pile up internally. when he eventually sits down to discuss things, it is after they have been swarming his mind for at least a couple of days. he doesn't exactly see this as a problem, for he is occupied with work and his daughters as well as his relationship with you, but his self-awareness reminds him that putting things off is not always the healthiest habit, no matter how in tune he is with what he feels or how clearly he sees things.

and due to these habits that he has long been adjusted too, he always expects himself to be the "less available" partner when in a relationship. not because he does not want to open up, but because of how his tendency to put things off can be perceived. suguru knows how his behaviors can come off, and he knows that a part of his emotional maturity is understanding where he falls short. however, when the two of you first got together, he never would have expected to be the one struggling with your inability to be vulnerable.

suguru admires your strength. he admires your grit, your determination, your selflessness, and your drive. those traits of yours are just a few that initially drew him to you in the first place. you are strong, almost offensively so, and you do your best to support the family that the two of you are growing together. nevertheless, your strength can often meld into a painful tendency to block out not only emotion, but the entire world around you.

you are often so quick to offer logical or physical solutions. when suguru asks you to sit with him to talk something out, you present every rational reaction to an emotional problem. when he tells you that something has been bothering him, you offer to distract him by pulling him into the bedroom and shedding your clothes. though suguru does not overthink, you subconsciously make it seem as though he does when he presents you with some you are just emotionally incapable of understanding.

you turn your head away when you notice suguru holding onto something in his mind, you keep your lips sealed tight when mimiko or nanako approach the two of you with teary eyes in search of a little emotional consolation, allowing suguru to do all the talking as you sit one of them in your lap, and above all you never - never - allow yourself to feel disappointment or sadness or anger or shame if anyone does something that agitates or hurts you.

you never allow yourself to feel, fronting as though nothing can harm you or pierce your veil of strength that suguru would describe more so as an impenetrable wall.

suguru never considered himself to be excessively emotional, but in knowing you, he feels the most emotional he ever has been by comparison. you are impossibly indifferent, self-reliant, stubborn, and oh so emotionally unavailable. suguru loves you dearly and everything you do for your family, but he can not help but feel as though he is in a relationship with an unfeeling robot from time to time. with someone who chooses to evade with humor and sex and philosophy instead of just feeling.

suguru has known you for a long time, and he has noticed this about you from the day you met. you don't talk about your family, you don't talk about your past, you don't talk about feeling happy or sad, you simply act. you go about your day to day in a haze, brushing off things that happen to you like they are nothing. like you're afraid that the second you let one emotion in, you'll lose yourself or you'll be punished.

and the jade eyed man wishes he could understand why. he wishes you would open up to him and show him a piece of you that you've been hiding away. he wishes that he could sit down with you and actually have a meaningful, emotionally rich conversation, but you shut yourself off from anything remotely resembling such. you distance yourself, and it kills suguru. it makes him hurt for you, makes him wonder who could have possibly hurt you to the point where you condition yourself into believing emotion is the enemy.

as frustrated as he is with your habits, he is more worried for you than anything. he worries for your sanity as well as his, and for how much longer he can go on pretending like this is okay for you to do.

he decides one day, after having pushed it off for longer than he's held off on anything, that he will attempt to sit down with you and have a conversation. the girls are left with manami and miguel as suguru treats you to a day out over the weekend.

after a few hours out to lunch and shopping, suguru takes you to a nearby park that the two of you often visit with the girls. you take a seat on a bench by the trail, dancing trees shading you from overhead as streams of sunlight pour through the leaves. it's a quiet, warm day. things have finally calmed down after a few hectic weeks, and suguru is confident that he has picked the right time and place to speak to you.

"today's been really nice, sugu," you say absentmindedly as your head rests against the dark haired man's shoulder. his arm is stretched out behind you, resting on the back of the bench as he tilts his head to kiss yours.

"i'm glad you've enjoyed it," he smiles lightly. "we both needed a day for ourselves, don't you think?"

"hell yeah we did, work's been a pain in the ass," you chuckle.

suguru almost perks up, wondering if you are about to complain about your job or discuss how it has made you feel. "yeah?"

"yeah, but nothing i can't handle obviously."

your dismissal is so swift that it almost would have been impossible to notice if suguru hadn't known you so well and for so long. he sighs, deflating slightly as he looks over your head. "by the way... while i have you, angel," he starts. "i wanted to talk to you about something."

you have never been a fan of those words, of the anticipation that comes with it. what could suguru possibly want to discuss that he couldn't have mentioned before? why did he have to make an ordeal out of it by taking you to the park to talk?

those are the first thoughts that come to your mind, and you are quick to mention them. "oh?" you turn to lift your head and meet his gentle eyes. his fingers absentmindedly trace your shoulder as he watches you, preparing himself for what he knows will come. "you wanted to talk to me at the park?"

and there you already go, attempting to find reason in his behavior. "i thought it would be nice to get a change of scenery and treat ourselves."

"but you just said you wanted to talk. you did all this to lead up to that?"

he sighs. "(y/n), i just wanted to have a nice day with you."

"and you are. we're having a great day," you assure him as if it is so obvious. "but you also want to talk, so why don't we just talk? you don't have to make a thing out of it if you have something to say, you know?"

you shrug dismissively, as if none of it is a big deal, and it drives suguru crazy. he hasn't even begun to speak on what he wants to share with you, and he can already feel you anxiously pulling away despite you trying to appear so nonchalant.

there is a brief moment of silence as you wait, watching him expectantly. suguru nods to himself, pursing his lips momentarily before looking back at you and forcing himself to proceed with the dwindling hope of getting through to you.

"so what's up?"

he smiles knowingly, gently. "well..." he begins. "...i've been thinking about some stuff that's been worrying me."

"worrying you?" you echo.

"yeah. some stuff that i've noticed about you for a while now."

"me?" you repeat with a slightly uncomfortable chuckle. "what did i do?"

"it's not really... something you did, it's more so something you do."

you raise your brows up at him, astounded. "as in consistently."

"yes, angel."

you can feel yourself growing defensive as you process his words. "alright, then what is it? i can help clear it up for you if you misinterpreted something."

"i didn't misinterpret anything, (y/n). i've been thinking about this for a while."

"okay, what is it?"

your responses are so quick. you're eager to get to the point so that you can quickly denounce his claims, defend yourself, drill a hole in his head with the logistics of why his emotions are the issue and not you.

suguru can feel it brewing, can hear it in your tone. he's trying to practice patient so his frustration take control of the conversation, before he can allow your unavailability to stunt him.

he waits a few more seconds, giving you a cautious look before proceeding. it's now or never, he thinks. "i get nervous even thinking about bringing things up because you're always so quick to react like nothing matters to you."

"what?" you scoff a laugh. "what do you mean nothing matters to me? why would you think that?"

"let me finish," he heeds. "maybe i could have worded that differently, but you... (y/n), you've always been so strong. you've always proven to everyone that you're strong, but at the cost of some of your humanity."

"i don't undertstand."

"then let me finish talking."

you brows narrow and your body stiffens. suguru catches the first signs of you closing yourself off, leaning away, shutting down.

suguru waits for you to indicate that you are willing to continue to listen, and you give him a little toss of your hands upward as if to tell him to keep going, to tell him that there's no reason to pause because you are unbothered.

"every time i try to talk to you about something i feel, and everytime something happens to you that warrants you to be upset, you just brush it off. you pretend all the time like everything is okay when it may not be, and it's been hard to ignore lately. especially since we're both stressed from work-"

"i'm not stressed. i'm fine-"

"see, you're doing it now. and i told you to let me finish talking. it's like you can't help yourself."

you bite your tongue quickly, almost stunned by his boldness.

suguru lets out another sigh. "i'm sorry, angel. i'm not angry with you or anything, i'm just frustrated. you're always trying to prove to the world that you can handle everything that comes to you, and i get having to portray yourself one way to everyone else, but with me and the girls...? it gets exhausting. i don't want you to feel like you have to pretend with me. i want to stand beside you and i want to spoil you and love you and support you, but you make it damn close to impossible to do that when you don't let me in. you don't let me see you. and because you dismiss your feelings, you end up dismissing mine. and even the girls' sometimes. i know you don't do it on purpose, but you should know that it's a big thing."

"i'm not pretending, suguru," you frown when you decide that he has finished speaking.

"you are-"

"this is why i need you to come to me with these things the moment you think of them. you've been sitting on this and i haven't even been able to clarify so that you don't stress over it anymore."

suguru closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "(y/n)-"

"i'm sorry i never talked you about it before, but i'm just not an emotional person. we have different love languages, that's all. it's not that i'm pretending things don't bother me. they just don't. i don't stress over things like you might, and that's okay! sure, i can try to be more sensitive to what you think, but this is just a misunderstanding. that's all. c'mon, you really shouldn't yourself about this. i can see why it's exhausting you, you've got yourself all up in a bunch about it."

then you're laughing softly, as if it's all a joke. as if suguru is simply overthinking and you never do anything wrong. as if your own boyfriend hasn't studied you inside and out, known your tics when you hide something that bothers you, how you throw yourself into being present and hardworking to mask your fear of reality, of the things that keep you up at night when you think that suguru is asleep.

suguru's patience wears thin. he's done this dance with you a million times before and he doesn't want to do it any longer. he's tired. he's yearning for you and you just aren't there.

"i can't do this with you, (y/n)," he admits, slipping his arm from behind you. you watch him anxiously, confused. "i can't keep letting you do this to me and to yourself."

"but i'm not doing anything?"

"you are! you do it without even thinking. how can you not see that?"

"why are you raising your voice at me right now?"

"because i-" he sucks in a breath and runs his hands over his face. "i've watched you do this forever. we're getting old. i want to spend my life with you, and the girls love you, and you are truly an amazing person and girlfriend, but... it's like that's all you try to be. you're trying to put up this perfect front and it's building a wall between us. you're a human being. you're supposed to feel things. when you acting like you don't, it kills me. it really does. i have no one to talk to, no one to connect you. i don't know where you are."

"suguru, what are you saying?" you panic. "i'm right here. i always have been."

"you're physically here, but your mind is always somewhere hiding. i've seen the glimpses of you that hide away and i want to see more of that, but you just won't let me. and that habit makes you so absent... i mean, you're throwing logic at me whenever i talk about a bad day or feeling like we don't do enough together outside of taking care of the girls and going to work."

he takes in your face, watching as it drops into something he hasn't quite seen before... shame, insecurity, timidness.

his voice mellows out. "are you understanding anything i'm saying? i'm not overthinking. i'm tired."

you don't respond. you dissociate.

suddenly, you're eleven years old sitting at the dinner table with your mother as she stands over you with a hand pressed to the surface and a finger pointed a centimeter away from your face. your face is turned down as she berates you, calls you ungrateful for speaking up about feeling as though she was overreacting over a small mistake you had made.

how dare you, she'd say. i am your mother and you're the child, she'd day. because i said so, she'd say. don't talk back to me, she'd say.

and after she'd reacted that way enough throughout your childhood, emotionally manipulating you into feeling guilty for expressing your thoughts and your feelings at such a young age and training your brain to associate negative fragility with feeling, you trained yourself to slip away from expression, from your own emotion, and from your own boyfriend's.

emotion is weak, you would tell yourself. everything can be handled by a rational solution. no need to trouble yourself with the weight of pitying yourself or others.

you watch the past twenty six years of your life flash by as friendships fall by the wayside while you continue to climb higher into success, void of connection, empty.

until you met suguru.

he made you feel safe, feel seen, and it scared you, so you pushed away mentally. you found ways to financially and physically make him happy. when he presented you with an issue, you provided the best and only solution you know - to brush it off. to let things go. to avoid any possible resemblance of emotion.

you realize you are becoming your mother, and your chest caves in.

"(y/n)?"

suguru's warm palm holding your cheek pulls you out of your trance. you blink up at him with shrunken pupils, and the dark haired main sees that something heavy has dawned upon you.

you finally wake up.

"are you okay, angel?"

your mouth moves to speak, but you can't think of anything. it all comes rushing back to you, the aches in your heart that you have numbed for so so long. the depths of your love for this man and for your family, and how you can not afford to lose them.

your nose flares, and your brows slot downward in disbelief. "i didn't know i was doing that all this time."

"i know, babe," he whispers, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "i know. i just couldn't keep that in anymore. we can't go forward like this. you can't go forward like this. more than its destroying me, its destroying you."

your eyes scatter wildly about, as if you're searching for yourself, searching for an explanation for the behaviors you adapted. suguru grows concerned as he watches you.

"(y/n), are you okay?"

"i just didn't know. i'm sorry," you whisper in a hushed voice, your eyes stinging with angry tears. the emotions come so quickly. you try to push back, but the decades of suppressing them has set them loose.

you're no longer in control.

"angel," suguru coos, shocked. was he too harsh? he's never seen you like this before, so naked before him. "i didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"no, it's not that. i just didn't know," you sniffle. suguru turns to you completely, his other hand reaching your face as he cradles it softly and looks into your eyes.

"you don't have to keep saying that. i heard you, i understand. it's okay."

"it's not okay. all my life i thought i was being better and i'm just not."

"better than what, beautiful?"

you shut down again, shaking your head and turning away from an authentic confession, an admittance of your anguish. this time, however, suguru doesn't care. you've shown him enough for him to understand that this isn't your doing but a curse placed upon you by someone else, a pattern that is continuing its cycle.

"alright, it's alright," he accepts it and shuts it down the second a tear breaks past your lash and shoots down your cheek. he can see you battle yourself, angry at your own sensitivity and angry that you've done this to your own mind, to him.

he ducks in to kiss your damp cheek, nose dragging over your skin as you hold your breath, trying not to cry.

"you can cry, angel. it's okay. i'm here."

you hate yourself for the muffled sob you let slip, for the shattered exterior, for how long it took for you to get here. you're twenty-six years old, so afraid to cry that you would rather choke yourself, and you hate it. you hate everything about you. you always have.

and yet, it's impossible to when the man you love peppers kisses over your face and assures you that you can be free like this, that you can cry like this and he won't punish you, embarrass you, or deem you ungrateful.

and most of all, he won't stop loving you.

kento nanami: stranger to unconditional!

nanami is a man who believes he was made to spoil you.

truthfully, he does not even consider his actions spoiling, for he was raised to treat the woman he loves like a goddess gracing earth. he doesn't realize how rare his treatment is either, or in fact how rare of a man he is in general.

he's an incredible cook, he cleans the house without having to be asked, he brings home things you mention wanting to try in brief passing, and he asks for absolutely nothing in return. he listens to you when you speak, educates himself on the things that you are passionate about, he gives you massages when you're tense, and carries you up the stairs when you're tired

beyond the things he does for you is the authenticity of his feelings for you and how he believes you deserve to be treated. you've never met a more mentally, financially, and emotionally secure man. he is everything you could have possibly asked for and more, and you're so confused as to how someone like him chose you.

he always says that he is the lucky one, that he would cross oceans to find you over and over again, in this life and the next. he tells you that you are the only woman for him, the person he wants to marry, to start a family with, to end his life with. he looks at you and sees his entire world and it humbles you. his love humbles you as much as it emboldens you.

you should bask in the love he has to offer. you should savor the treatment he gives you, the little and big things he does for you, and is willing to do for you. you should ask no questions, accept his care and the fact that you are loved by him and move on, but something in you simply can't.

nanami is so perfect to you that it makes you feel as though you don't deserve it, as if he is doing too much for you. while being in a relationship with kento has made you the happiest you have ever been, a part of you feels as if you are going to sabotage it. you aren't sure how, but you know that it starts with every favor he does for you.

he cooks nearly every night after work, despite long, exhausting days. he allows you to spend his money on whatever you like as long as it is within a proper budget that still allows him to pay bills on time and get groceries (and with nanami, that was never an issue). he sits and listens to you ramble about nonsense for hours on end as he rubs your feet or strokes your hair, and in between each act of service, you ask yourself if you truly deserve all the good that nanami gives so willingly.

you internally panic, feeling indebted to the endless princess treatment. fears flood your mind about if nanami is truly happy, if he feels as secure and cared for as you do, if you're not doing enough to show him that you care or that you're thankful.

it's not that you don't do things for him. in fact, you do things for him all the time, but in your mind you begin to convince yourself that it is not enough. you have to work to earn this praise, just as anyone has to work for anything in this life. you have to win his love, which in the back of your mind you know he exchanges unconditionally, but you refuse to entertain the thought.

you tell yourself that it is too good to be true, that he will leave if you don't step it up and make him feel just as loved and then some.

nanami, of course, instantly notices when you start to wear yourself thin doing little things for him. you start waking up earlier than him to make him breakfast before work on top of the lunch you already pack for his day. nanami thanks you sincerely when he walks in on the huge spread you've made for him to eat within the span of twenty minutes, but is then quick to tell you that you don't have to do anything like that for him again.

"why not?" you frown.

"because you know i don't really eat a big breakfast during the week, honey. besides, it's too much for you to get up so early to do something like this," he smiles warmly down at you and you deflate. "but it was perfect. thank you for thinking of me. i love you."

he seals his declaration with a soft kiss to your lips that should have dispelled the disappointment gnawing away at the back of your head, but it didn't.

you scrap the breakfast idea, telling yourself that it was stupid and that you know better once he has left the house. you elect to explore other options. better options, you decide. something well suited for the vision of perfection you call your fiancé.

suddenly, you're making desserts, you're setting out his clothes for the work day, you're organizing his side of the closet and his drawers, you're dusting every crevice of the house, you're drawing baths for him every night, you're running to pick up his favorite takeout so he doesn't have to cook, you're dolling yourself up in the most extravagant lingerie you can find, and more, and more, and more.

now, of course, kento says something about you doing things for him when you do it a healthy amount. he is always incredibly grateful, showering you with love to demonstrate so and yet subconsciously informing you that you don't have to do these things for him. you never listened when it was an ordinary amount of spoiling, for you want to show him your appreciation and your love... but after a week of watching you double - then triple the amount of things you are doing for him, things that he deems to be completely unnecessary, he grows concerned. he's mentioned it a couple of times now, but you don't listen. you've drowned yourself in these thoughts of making it up to him, though you don't exactly know what you're making up for anymore.

all you know is that you love your fiancé and you don't want him to leave you. you don't want him to think that you're taking advantage of the things he does for you, that you aren't doing enough for him in return, so you push yourself to forget about your needs and engulf yourself in his. though, you're not fulfilling just his needs anymore. you're tricking yourself into overworking your mind and body and into doing favors nanami has never expected or asked from you before.

the blonde does not know how to approach you about it, for you're in so deep only after a week that you've blocked him out while claiming to take care of him.

he only finds that he is able to catch you early on a saturday morning, when he feels you shuffle next to him. he stirs awake, blinking through blurry vision to see that it is once again still dark outside as you rise.

the brown eyed man furrows his brows, seizing the opportunity to stop you by reaching his arm out behind him and blindly grasping for your wrist. when he successfully finds it, he feels you jolt against the mattress.

with a deep inhale, nanami turns over his shoulder, slipping his bare arm over your torso. he feels that you are sitting upright and is quick to block you from standing. you look down at him with wide eyes, a nervous smile dancing on your lips.

"ken, what are you doing? go back to sleep?" you whisper.

"darlin'," his sleep-coated voice grumbles out. you peer down over his messy blonde tendrils spilling into his face as his eyes open to slivers, the gleam of his iris shining up at you. "come here, come back to sleep," he coaxes.

you almost fold until you recall that you have several jobs to do before nanami gets up. you can't afford to let yourself rest any longer, not if you are going to prove that you are worthy of kento's affection.

"i can't, i gotta get up, love," you say, leaning down to peck the crown of his head. nanami's eyes open a bit more when you mention having to get up, befuddlement clouding his sleepy brain. "i'll see you when you wake up."

"(y/n)," he calls you, keeping his arm around your waist as your hands go to move it.

"hm?"

"it's saturday."

"i know, honey."

"you've had a long week. you're up too early."

"ken, shhh, i'm okay. go to sleep."

your response is enough to make kento shuffle around. he moves to push himself up from the bed to sit upright next to you, his arm still curved around you as he turns on his side to face you. you begin to fret when he rises, worrying that your schedule for him will be thrown off.

he moves in to press a lingering kiss to your temple. "(y/n)," he mumbles against your skin and you shudder. "there's no need for you to be waking up at this hour."

"no, but-"

"go back to sleep with me. we can wake up in a few hours."

you want to. you want to so bad. you want to allow your body to sink back into him and sleep the day away curled into his arms, to wake up in the middle of the day to warm lips moving over your ticklish spine.

but you tell yourself that's lazy, that nanami would not stall in bed knowing that you needed tending to.

"i can't, kento," you say more firmly, though you don't have the strength to push him away from you.

nanami draws back, catching the outline of your precious face in the darkness of your room. "why, my love? what are you so eager to get up and do?"

"nothing, i just," you shrug. "i have this list of things i want to do."

"chores? honey, you've been scrubbing the house down since the beginning of the week. i don't think there's anything left for you to do."

"it's not chores, it's stuff for you," you defend. "i wanted to make breakfast again since you didn't have time to eat it all on monday before work."

"i told you that you don't have to do that."

"but i want to, and i wanted to take the car to the wash and to get it vacuumed. and then i was gonna go to the bakery to get you some of the bread that you love... and then-"

"and then?" he repeats, squinting. "there's more?"

"...yeah. of course there is."

kento shifts, moving to prop his back against the pillows and take your hand in his. "alright. what is this really about?"

you freeze. "huh?"

"you've been burning yourself out all week doing things for me. and you know i appreciate everything you do, you know that, but it's too much. i don't need you to do all of this stuff, (y/n). i never have, and i apologize if i'm offending you in any way by asking you to slow down, but i really want you to sit and relax. if i did something to make you think i needed you to run yourself ragged trying to cater to me, then i will evaluate that myself. was it something i said?"

your brows curl as you look down at your lap where nanami's hand is holding yours. "you didn't like anything i did?"

"no, it's not that," he shifts closer to you. "i'm concerned is all. you've been up at four every morning this week. i've hardly had the chance to sit down at talk to you because you've been so busy doing all these things and going to work."

"i thought you... wanted it all, ken."

"when did i do something to make you feel like that?"

"it's not like that. you didn't do anything wrong."

"then please help me understand?"

you turn to look up at him, chewing on the inside of your lip. "i guess i just thought that you deserved to be spoiled the way you do me. you deserve special treatment."

nanami visibly relaxes, tilting his head lovingly. "honey, you spoil me every day by being my fiancé."

"yeah, you say that, but i just feel like- i don't know, you're always doing things for me and it felt like too much. like you were going out of your way... and i felt bad..."

"you thought you owed me in return?" he asks and you nod solemnly. "(y/n), i would never treat you one way and expect to be given something in return. loving you isn't a job for me, it's who i am. it's what i love to do. i do for you what i believe you deserve."

"and that's what i was trying to do for you!"

"no, my love, you were working to pay off a debt that doesn't exist," he corrects you. "you do things for me all the time. that's enough. you don't need to go out of your way to pile all this extra stuff onto your plate for me. i don't want that from you. i don't expect that from you. i love you and i love taking care of you. please don't think of my love for you as conditional. i'm not going to stop loving you if you don't do a million things for me. i would never."

you swallow hard, embarrassed. "i know..."

"so then please don't do this to yourself again. you're exhausted. and i don't want anything you do for me to be out of obligation, because that is not the reason why i do anything for you."

"i'm sorry. i didn't mean to project my insecurities like this."

"there's no need for you to apologize, (y/n), i just want you to truly understand that you are everything to me. i feel your love and appreciation everyday without you having to try to show it."

"and i do love you, ken. i love you so much. i just want to make you happy."

"that should never be a doubt in your mind, sweetheart," he smiles, kissing the corner of your mouth sweetly. "i love you. we can talk about this more in a bit. come lay back down with me."

you find that there is no fight left in you as you nod and press your lips back to his. you let him drag you back down with him gently, laying your head against his chest as his hand smooths up and down your back, the other pulling your leg up over his torso.

you drift back into much-needed sleep with the reinstilled assurance that you do not need to work for a love you are deserving of and already possess.

choso kamo: can't take a compliment!

"you're so pretty."

"oh, no," you rush out a hasty laugh. "it's just because of the makeup i wore today."

choso frowns, perplexed by your response as he stares at you from across the booth you've settled into. you turn your head away the moment the compliment hits your ears, looking down with a bashful smile as you toy with your straw, swirling it restlessly around the contents of your milkshake.

he does not understand. you told him that you liked him when he first asked you out, that you were more than excited to go on a date with him. he does not think you're having a bad time, for the two of you have been chatting nonstop from the moment he picked you up to the moment you made it to the ice cream shop.

the brunette looks over your face and discerns that you are not annoyed or disgusted with him for saying such a thing. sure, he understands that he has never complimented you before due to the fact that you always make him so nervous. hell, his face was cherry red and his words were damn near unintelligible when he worked up the courage to even make a move. the only reason why he let himself blurt it out just now is because he couldn't hold it in. his heart had been hammering the entire day as he studied you, your facial expressions, your features, your cute outfit, your gorgeous hair.

and he knows it's not just the "makeup," as you said. he's seen you every day for months, now. he's seen you flustered and sweaty from training, barefaced and focused. he's seen you bloodied and bruised, limping to shoko after rough missions. and he's seen you dressed in your sorcerer uniform, professional yet fierce, and always so breathtakingly beautiful.

he knows you. he has seen you. his opinions about your beauty have never changed in accordance with what you're wearing or whether you put on makeup or not, so why would you say something like that? why would you think that he only deems you pretty when you're dolled up?

he exhales something that resembles a tense laugh, the corners of his lips tugging into a hesitant, awkward smile. he doesn't know what to say. how should he respond?

"what do you mean?" he asks. "what does makeup have to do with it?"

you pause, caught off guard by his blunt question. you aren't sure what to do, for no one has ever said something like this to you before. you find yourself in a completely unique situation.

admittedly, you did not mean to evade his compliment in such a way. the words were leaving you before you could think to say thank you, for you have never thought there to be any truth in comments about your beauty.

for as long as you can remember, being complimented by someone was always one of your worst fears. you know it's because you don't believe yourself to be beautiful, that you've spent too many childhood years bouncing around different environments, different schools, different people to find a solidified foundation of who you are, of what your identity is.

you've always looked around at other people and seen the confidence that you lack. you look around, and there's always someone different looking back at you, displaying something you feel that you should have but do not. boys were cruel, girls were exclusive, and you were an only child returning home to stare at your reflection in the mirror for hours on end, nitpicking every part, hating every scar, every pimple, each brow, every lash. you hate the image of you because you see something that you have not grown comfortable with, something you have convinced yourself is not the reflection of what society wants to see in women.

you have spent your life placing other people's lives upon a pedestal, and you neglect your own. you neglect nurturing yourself, treating yourself with kindness because you were raised to care for others. to see others. to love others. to want to be others.

so when you look at yourself, you don't see beauty. you see everything you are not, everything you can't be.

you have had crushes before, of course, but choso is the first to feel so real to you. he is kind, curious, caring, and honest. you admire him as a person as much as you admire his physicality. you look at choso and you find yourself in awe that he has taken interest in you. you try not to question it at first, to enjoy the gift that is his presence and conversation and smile, but the second that compliment leaves his mouth, you feel your stomach turning.

you picture yourself through his eyes and see the mirror that you stare into. from the horrible things you feel when staring into it, you deduce that choso can't possibly think you're pretty. you must have done your makeup very well today, you tell yourself. for if looking at yourself makes you resent your own reflection, then there is no way anyone else can look at you any differently. especially not choso.

but still, his reply unnerves you. it picks away at your brain and leaves you speechless. what can he possibly mean? what is he trying to tell you? makeup has everything to do with what he is seeing if he truly thinks that you are decent to look at.

you worry that he is messing with you or playing some kind of trick, that he is trying to get your hopes up only to completely shatter them when he reveals how he truly sees you.

but the longer you ponder the notion, the more you remember the kind of person he is. you can see it in his face, the genuineness, the innocent confusion. he meant what he said to you, and for some reason, that is a harder pill to swallow than believing you're unattractive.

"um, well i mean- makeup always makes everyone look pretty," you try to say, but choso only grows more perplexed.

"but i wasn't talking about your makeup. i was talking about you."

your eyes go wide and choso immediately thinks he has said the wrong thing.

"not that- not that i don't think your makeup is pretty. it is! you're very talented. i was just saying... what i mean is that i've always thought that you are very beautiful."

you feel your cheeks flush and your stomach swarm with butterflies as well as dread. he can't mean it, you think. he can't be serious.

the pale skinned man's skin flushes as well. "sorry if that's too much."

"no, it's not-" you are quick to say, looking up from your milkshake. you tense your shoulders, pursing your lips into a tight smile. "you're really sweet but you don't have to say those things."

"...why not? did i make you uncomfortable?"

"no, i just- i mean... i'm just not use to it, is all."

you look down again and choso furrows his brows. "really?"

you nod mutely, leaning over to take a large gulp of your milkshake from your straw.

"i find that really hard to believe."

you sputter, almost choking before lifting your hand to shield your mouth as you lean back, swallowing. "w-why?" you quirk your brow up at him, uneased.

his cheeks are still swirling with color as he answers as though it is the most obvious observation in the world. "because it's so hard for me to talk to you sometimes 'cause you're so pretty."

you glare at him incredulously, face on fire. "why are you saying this stuff?"

"because it's true? i'm sorry, (y/n), i'm really confused. you're sure i'm not offending you?"

"no- i mean yes- i," you stumble, burying your face in your hands. "i just don't really know... how to react."

after a moment further of watching you shield yourself away behind your own hands, choso leans forward, pressing himself against the table. "you don't believe me?"

you sigh, peering up past your hands to meet his gentle gaze. "i dunno," you murmur, letting your hands slowly fall back into your lap. your eyes flicker between choso's face and the table, unable to maintain contact. "i'm just not good with compliments."

"oh," the brunette says. "because... you've never gotten them?"

"not necessarily..."

"then you just don't believe them?" he asks again and you shrug.

"it's hard for me to sometimes," you admit. "sorry, this isn't really a first date conversation, is it? i didn't mean to dodge your compliment. i should've just thanked you and moved on."

"no, but... i want to know more about you. i want to understand this so i know for the future."

you perk up bashfully. "the future?"

choso pokes his lips to the side and brings his shoulders to his ears, flustering himself once more. "y-yeah... i really like you and i want to... keep spending time with you."

you feel an ache in your cheeks as you fight of a shy smile, continuing to avert his gaze. "i really like you too."

"good," he nods, dimples poking into his cheeks. "so can i ask again about the compliments? should i be more careful? i do want you to know what i think of you, but if you don't like it then i'll stop. i can show you in other ways."

"you don't need to worry about that. it's all me, not you," you tell him, surprisingly comfortable sharing so. "i've just always been weird about it. i don't know why."

"is there anything i can do to help with that? i think someone like you deserves to hear good things."

"choso," you chuckle as a nervous yet giddy smile takes over you. you're quick to duck your head in an attempt to hide it.

"i mean it. i think you're nice, and smart, and you're really dedicated to what you do, and you're patient. you always answer my questions even if they seem stupid," he rambles, craning his head forward while you shake your head, smiling. choso's heart jumps, for he can not fathom how the most stunning woman he has ever seen can shy away from praise in such away. "and you've got the prettiest smile-"

"okay!" you stop him, turning to look around to make sure that no one is listening. you lean your elbow on the table and cover your mouth with your hand. "okay, t-that's enough," you wave him off.

"it's all true though," he says sternly. "i mean everything i say."

"i get it," you giggle. "you can- you can stop now. please stop."

and he does stop, only because you asked him to. even so, he can't help but continue to be in awe of you and the person you are. he's grateful to spend time with you, to have his feelings for you returned, to get to buy you a milkshake and talk with you for hours.

he's enamored with you, but the thought of you not knowing your own worth, your own impact on him and everyone around you, hurts him.

and he wants to work to show you how beautiful you are inside and out as the two of you grow closer.

when your date concludes and you are called back onto the campus, the two of you are sad to part ways. you hug each other tightly, choso pulling away to grasp the back of your hand and lift it to his lips to kiss softly. he asks to see you again tomorrow, and you agree.

you walk away feeling as though you're floating, your cheeks still stinging when you feel your phone buzz. you're quick to pull it out from your pocket and open it to see a message from choso. you unlock your phone to read it, only to find a candid picture of you staring out of the window to your left in the booth the two of you had been sitting in. you can tell that you're in the middle of speaking, as your mouth is opened into a bright smile and your eyes are following something that distracted you. your eyes are lit with joy and your hand daintily clasps around the bottom of your milkshake glass. the sun is peering in through the window to illuminate your skin.

you're hesitant to look at yourself. the imagine surprises you, but what stuns you even more is the message choso attached to it:

cho :)

prettiest girl <3

toji fushiguro: doubting love!

in many ways, you would say that you hate toji.

you hate the way he talks, how crude he is. how he has the mouth of a sailor when discussing the most mundane things. you hate his snarkiness that slips into his tone whenever he feels an argument brewing, the way he is always so quick to mock you when you tell him about something he has done that has upset you because he fails to take most things seriously. you hate the way he rings you up like you're a hooker on his line that he can summon whenever he thinks its convenient. you hate how he keeps you around after, too, questioning where the hell you think you're going as you hurry to put your clothes back on and get out. you hate how frequently he has begun asking to see you, how working as assassins separately for shiu turned into a one-night stand, which turned into a regular tuesday, then into a weekend, and hell, almost a 24/7 affair.

you hate toji's stupid ruggedly handsome face, his comically massive build, his entrancing green hues, that damn scar across his lip that you feel dragging against your own mouth when you're trapped beneath his frame. you hate his hair, his clothes, his very personality.

and above all, you hate the way you love him. you hate the fact that you don't hate these things at all, but that you are addicted to them. to him, all of him, and yet you are smart enough to know that he is the last man on earth willing to settle down with another woman.

nevertheless, you still let yourself bicker with him. you still let him drag you out to drinks after work and then into his bed barely forty-five minutes later. you let him call you over time and time again, and you hate yourself for it so much that you would rather resent him instead.

it's unfair, how he can parade you around like it's nothing with no promise of anything more. he strings you along when it's convenient for him, when he's cranky or needy or whiny or bitchy. you've become his emotional support fuck and you hate it. you hate that you cling to these moments because you know that they are all you are going to get from him.

yes, you would consider toji a friend. you work with him, you see him often, and you've held conversations with one another regularly before having sex with each other came into play. he's just always there, so when the two of you breached the boundary of friendship on a lonely, rainy, drunken night, it didn't really matter.

at first.

but as time went on, toji began seeking more from you. offering more, wanting more, and hell, you had to suffer those consequences. you would be lying if you said that you didn't enjoy it when he called or texted you to ask for some company, but you hated the fact that this was the farthest the two of you would ever get. that he could use you whenever he wanted, oblivious to the fact that you were falling deeper for him with every moment you spent together.

and why would he care? why would toji stop for a moment to think about how you feel?

he is always so focused on what serves him in the moment that it completely blinds him from the way you will look at him when he's not paying attention.

and god, you hate how he got you. toji fushiguro finally reeled you in and trapped you, cursing you with a love that will never in a million years be requited. a widow, an absent father, a killer, and who you also convince yourself to be a whore.

it's easier to think of him that way.

but despite it all, you love him. you love his grit, you love his strength, his power, his drive to wake up every morning to make money in the most heinous way possible. you love his calloused hands that are two times the size of yours, his stupid grin that he tosses your way the moment he makes eye contact with you, and the filthy words he groans into your ear that grow more pleading with each night you spend together.

you love the silent, still moments when he invites you over to share takeout, and he is wordlessly chewing his food, staring mindlessly at race scores with a free hand rubbing your thigh under the table. you love when he is drifting off to sleep at the end of what felt like an endless night, gazing up at you with a subtle smugness in his heavy eyes. you love when he looks you over after missions to check for injuries when your focus is elsewhere, dropping a pack of bandaids or a bottle of disinfectant in your hand later that night without explanation if he detected anything.

you know that toji has his moments, moments where he is not cocky but thoughtful... and dare you say sweet.

but at the end of the day, toji is toji. he has too much baggage, to many other priorities to love you.

so you tell yourself that he doesn't, and never will. this consequently makes you turn cold to him, distancing yourself little by little until you can wipe him clear from your thoughts, from your heart.

you start ignoring his calls and texts. you start secretly asking shiu to keep your jobs staggered, far apart, scheduled on different days. you don't go out to drink with him, you duck invites to his place, and you move forward with trying your best to pretend he does not exist.

it has only been a couple days since you have instilled these new, isolating rules for your relationship with toji, not that there ever was one to begin with. you haven't been able to bring yourself to block him, for something inside of you tells you that is too harsh, especially since you haven't communicated with him about what you've chosen to do about the two of you.

instead, his notifications are on silent, and you find that once they are your world has fallen eerily silent. there is no loud laughter, no murmured intimate conversation, no heavy moans. just the grating sound of nothing, and your heart plummets further because you know that you are in too deep to forgot him.

one night after work, you decide to treat yourself to a drink. or two. or three. or, hell, who's really counting anymore? you surely aren't. since the bar you chose to visit was only a ten minute walk from your place, the rare option of your choice because you had always gone to the one closest to toji, you stubbornly choose to walk your drunken ass home. thankfully, the streets are rather busy as you stumble about, wobbling on your feet with an angry pout adorning your face.

your mind is buzzing, your heart aching, and all you want to do is pile onto your bed and knock out. you don't know how you made it back to your apartment in one piece, but you hurry to fumble with your keys once you reach your complex.

you trip to an abrupt hault, pushing out your body lip as you scrunch your eyes at your key ring when you feel a hand graze your back from behind.

you practically jump out of your skin, almost falling forward in fear. you clumsily whip yourself around, stepping back with wide eyes to see the very last person you wanted to see standing before you with an agitated look on his face.

you groan exaggeratedly, hunching over. "y're fuckin'kiddng me," you slur, rolling your eyes and turning back around on your heel. "go away. i dun'wanna talk to youu."

"what the fuck are you doin', girl?" toji throws his arms out as you move to step up the stairs to the lobby. "i've been callin' ya nonstop, shiu says you- woah woah, watch it-" he rushes behind you, settling his hand on your lower back to stabilize you before you could take a bad tumble. he looks down at you incredulously, only for you to muster up all your strength to shove at his shoulder.

"don'touch me. fuck," you grumble angrily, grasping the railing to help yourself climb up to the door.

"you're fuckin' shitfaced, doll. i'm gonna have to touch ya if you want to make it to your place alive."

"d'you rem'mber me askin' for help?" your voice goes up a pitch at the end of your question. you toss your head over your shoulder to glare at him as you grasp the door handle. "NO!"

you fling the door open and step inside, keys jingling furiously in your hand.

toji grinds his teeth together. "fuckin' hell," he hisses to himself before following you inside.

"stop followin'me y'creep!" you hastily make your way to the elevator, stamping your index finger into the up button while your whole body sways with the motion.

toji slows to a stroll as he walks up to you, tucking his hands into his pockets and surveying your appearance with lips pressed tightly together and brow cocked in judgment.

"as you can seeee, m'doin'perfctly fine withOUT your help," you say, tilting your chin up at him.

"yeah," he deadpans. "ya sure are, doll."

"and don't call m'that. m'not y'r dolly... little fuckin' plaything. leave'me alooooone."

"what the hell are you babblin' about?"

"y'don't care 'bout me. leave me alone."

"(y/n), why the fuck do you think i'm hanging aroud your place at twelve in the mornin'? you haven't answered the phone and you disappeared from work. i haven't seen you in god damn days. if i didn't care about ya, i wouldn't be tryin' to track you down in the middle of the night," he grimaces irritatedly. "i didn't even know you weren't home 'til i saw your drunk ass stumbling over here alone in the dark. the hell's wrong with you? y'know how dangerous that is?"

"shuddup," you scoff. the elevator door dings, opens, and you shuffle hastily inside. just as you press the button for your floor, toji is moving to step inside with you. you gasp and push at his shoulders. "no! get out, 'don't want you here!"

"yeah, figured that much," he rolls his eyes as he stumbles from your force. you shove at him again hard, sending him staggering back out into the hall. he looks up at you with big eyes.

"(y/n)-!"

you spam click the close door button as you stare him directly in the eye. the door closes shut in his vexed face, your free hand flipping him off.

you don't know why you are surprised when the elevator doors open on your floor with a ding and reveal his burly stance with folded arms blocking your way.

stupid fucking stairs.

you suck your teeth and shove past him. "fuckin'annoying."

"(y/n)."

you ignore him, but he is hot on your tail, crowding you when you get to your door and unlock it.

"(y/n)," he calls again as you trip into your space, kicking your shoes off and flicking the light on. your front door slams behind you, and you whip your head around.

"SHHHH!" you raise your finger to your mouth pointedly, referring to how disruptive the slam of the door may have been to the neighbors.

toji rushes toward you, hand reaching for your shoulder to keep you still and looking at him. your vision is so blurred, your red eyes struggling to picture him. when you finally stop, you make out his handsome face and the fire in his eyes.

perhaps if you were more sober, you would see the pain intermingled with the rage.

"why're youin m'house," you whine, tugging at the shoulder his is holding. "leavemealoneee."

"no. i ain't leaving you alone," the assassin orders firmly. "what's goin' on with ya? you don't like me now? is that it? that why you're bein' a brat and disappearin' on me like this?"

"fuck offfff, don'tdo that," you groan, rolling your head back on your neck.

"do what? what am i doing that you hate so much? lookin' out for you? huh?" he demands, growing more aggravated by the second. "what are ya so mad at me for?"

"THAT! Y'REPRETENDING T'CARE! STOP THAT!" you shout, yanking your arm away and storming off to your living room.

toji stands stunned for a moment, angling his brows with hands grasping the air where you just stood. "pretendin'? pretendin' to care?"

he knows he shouldn't be trying to get answers from you right now, for you're in an inebriated state and arguing with a you drunk was not going to get him anywhere.

still, he was hurt. you ghosted out of nowhere after almost a year of building the foundation with each other that you share now. he thought that meant something to you, but if you're so willing to throw all of that away along with him, then maybe he has been reading the entire situation wrong.

he needs to know.

so he follows you into the space, the space he's visited a hundred times over before. "what is wrong with you? why would you think i'm pretendin' to worry about you?"

"cause'i'm just oneeee thing, toji," you throw up your index finger, eyes rolling. "m'just one thing, and tha'sfineee, y'know, it's- it's fuckin- great, but'yneedto stop wastingmy time if that'sall i'mgonnaever be!"

your words slide into each other, making your drunken speech almost impossible to understand. toji squints, as if doing so to his eyes will help him hear you better. "one thing? is that what your drunk ass said, you think i think y're one thing to me?"

"DUH!" you drop your jaw. you huff, throwing your keys onto the ground to shuffle yourself ungracefully out of your coat. "y'don'tcare about myfeelings. y'don'tcare that- that there'smoree. there's more. you don't care."

"doll, i'm losin' my shit because i fuckin' know that there's more," he counters you, but you shake your head nonsensically, fighting to rip your arm free from your left sleeve. toji sighs, going over to you to help. "here, hold still."

"no," you curl your lips at him, turning to face the other way but toji follows, not letting you out of his sight. "stop! i donneed help-"

"yes you fuckin' do," he snaps, seizing either one of your arms. "relax, crazy. will ya relax for me, huh?"

"don'ttalk like that," you push against him, your coat dangling from your still trapped arm. "stop."

"yeah, i'm not gonna listen to ya right now. you're a mess."

"don'call me that! asshole!" you gape up at him and the sight is so amusing, it allows him to calm down a little and let a snort slip.

"hot mess."

"shudthefuckup."

"here, i got ya. keep your arm straight." he cradles your upper arm to slide the sleeve off until it drops to the floor along with the rest of the coat. you watch it do so with a grumpy expression. "see? wasn't so hard."

"screw you."

"so what's all this bullshit about me not carin' about ya?"

"go'homee."

you step to move around him, but he stands in your path, making you stumble into him. you curse incoherently under you breath and glower up at him.

you, however, are not met with a harsh stare any longer. his eyes have softened, the crease beneath them smoothing out as he looks down at you with his hand still holding your arm.

"why are you so drunk?" toji mumbles.

"why'dyou think. y're a prick."

"you care about me, dollface?"

"die."

"you had me worried," he exhales, his hand raising to graze your chin. your knees almost buckle, his touch sending you into overdrive, emotions hyperactive now that you register that the very reason you drank so much tonight is standing in your apartment.

and toji knows you won't remember half of this. he knows doing this is pointless, but he's missed you. and he sees you now, upset, concerned that he doesn't care and he's relieved. he's relieved that you've been losing your mind over him as much as he has been losing his over yours these past few days.

"tojiii," you curse, though your eyes flutter when his thumb strokes over your chin. "can'tdo this to'me. to'other girls."

"there ain't no other girls."

"liar."

toji exhales, admiring you. "it's just been you, ya idiot."

"stop- stop lying."

"i'm not," he smirks, and it annoys you. you push against him again and he chuckles lowly, tiredly. "let's get you to bed, baby."

you stop him. "are y'sure?"

he lifts a brow. "sure what?"

"you care?"

toji knows he is terrible at expressing his feelings, but he still wonders how you can even ask him that, as he's loved you since the moment he saw you.

he watches you blankly, eyes grazing over the first woman he's fallen in love with since his late wife, wobbling in a drunken stuper before him inspired by the irrational fear of being unloved.

he knows you two will have to revisit this conversation when you're sober, but he sees you and knows what you want and what he wants, what you need and what he needs.

what you feel and what he feels.

"care doesn't begin to describe it, girl."

you stare at him for a long time as your face morphs with almost sad relief. "oh i messed'up," you say quietly. "m'sorry, toj."

"alright, come on," he is quick to shut you down before you can get too emotional. the last thing he needs for you is to break down into tears before him. he knows for a fact that sober you would lose your shit if you did so, and he would suffer the ramifications of your humilition.

he bends down to scoop you up from under your legs. you inhale sharply, arms naturally tightening around his neck as he carries you bridal style to your room. you ramble nonsense under your breath as he sets you down softly onto your bed, which you immediately collapse into.

toji helps to adjust you more comfortably the second your face hits the pillow. "this alright for ya?" he asks, tugging your throw blanket over your shoulders.

you nod, eyes drooping. "yeah."

he hums. "you gonna let me stay til you fall asleep?"

you grunt, closing your eyes. "m'not sayin'yesor no."

the raven haired main chuckles, softly moving pieces of hair from your face. "stubborn ass." he leans down at kisses your forehead. "go to sleep," he mumbles.

"don'tell me whatta'do," is the last thing you say before passing out.

toji stays, sitting on the floor before your bed with his back pressed to the wall. his knees are bent as his forearms dangle over them, and his eyes have not strayed from you for a second since you've fallen asleep.

the assassin inhales and exhales slowly, mulling over the night's events and determining that he needs to work toward showing you how he feels rather than expecting you to know.

ryomen sukuna: too many gifts!

"kuna, i don't need all of this."

the king of curses slowly turns his head to look down at you as though you've declared some kind of war against him. his eyes slim menacingly, brows curling with inquisition. his arms fold across his chest, unamused.

"i dont believe i understand what you just said to me."

you see that he is taking offense to your comment and sigh. on your bed lay a pile of gifts practically forming its own mountain where you would sleep. flowers, chocolates, fragrances, and things you aren't even sure you can name lay in the heap, practically sparkling in all its grandeur.

sukuna is a man of physical things. sex and gift-giving. he has more riches than he knows what to do with tucked away in his temple, and while he has spent many a millenia basking in his glory, he much rather prefers to spend offerings on you now that you are nagging away at his life.

and of course he would never admit it, but he enjoys it. he anticipates the moments in which he gets to shower you with unnecessary treasures, adorning you in expensive clothes and jewelry, and gifting you things that he knows will bring a smile to your face. sukuna is quiet in his expression of love when he is not fucking you into a different dimension. quiet yet unbearably over-the-top.

sukuna is a king, and by association he considers you to be his queen. you are his woman, his pride, his passion. what is his is yours and what is not yours yet will soon be. everything you are to him can not possibly be uttered into words, for love is a human emotion and therefore not something that sukuna can admit himself to be capable of. but he looks at you and he knows, so he drowns you with material things, with whatever he knows your silly human brain to like.

and you do like it. you love it all, truly. every gift he has gotten you has at one point made you very happy, but it is too much. you're not a material person, you don't need all of these things. you don't need him to spend his fortune on you just for the sake of it.

it's become too much for you. too overwhelming.

"i'm saying i don't need all of this," you repeat yourself slowly, lifting your hand to his bicep. "seriously, you've given me enough. this is too much."

"too much?" he tchs. "must you always find something to complain about? never in my time spent living on this earth have i heard someone react in such a way to gifts."

"would you calm down? i'm just saying that you don't always have to buy stuff for me. it's not a big deal," you say.

"you hate everything i have brought."

"what? no! i didn't say- i don't hate things you buy me."

"clearly you do, or else we would not be having this ridiculous conversation."

"for the love of god, i don't hate them!"

"then what is truly the issue?"

"there's no issue. it's what i just said! are you even listening to me?"

"i am listening. that is why i am telling you that you are not making any sense."

"urghh!" you groan out, turning and waving your arm up to him. "whatever. it's all good. it's fine. thank you."

the salmon haired curse immediately detects the shift in your tone and mannerisms and refuses to allow you to walk away in such a fit. "where do you think you are going?"

"just out of the room."

"w are not done speaking."

"we must be, or else you would have actually hear the things i tried to tell you."

"enough," he orders firmly, eying you as you move to the bed. your shoulders slump and you turn back around to face him. "what is this, why are you suddenly unhappy? i have just brought you gifts. you do not normally react this way. i would have expected you to be more grateful."

"i really fucking hate when you do that."

"(y/n), do not start with me."

"you don't start with me!"

"stop this. now," he asserts, taking slow steps toward you. you huff, turning to look away with your hands planted on your hips.

the crimson eyed demon approaches you, eyes glued to you. "look at me."

"are you incapable of not being bossy?"

"you're testing my patience."

you snap your head up to look at him. "and you're testing mine." sukuna blinks, his lips curly slowly. "oh, and you're gonna start laughing again, great. every time i'm upset."

"what is troubling you, peach?" he asks you. "use your words instead of getting an attitude."

"for starters, i'd like it if you stopped fucking treating me like a joke?"

"i do no such thing."

"you're laughing. you always laugh when i'm upset."

"because you are so quick to dramatics. it is amusing."

"my feelings aren't for your amusement."

"your reactions, not your feelings."

"what the fuck ever."

"why are you angry."

"i wouldn't be getting angry if you weren't being such an ass."

"i elect to disagree."

you know he's teasing you now, and you know that this entire thing may be so stupid, but you feel so strongly about him listening to you. about understanding why you don't want his affection in a material way.

"speak."

"i was speaking before and you-"

"speak."

you exhale. "these gifts are too much for me."

"i heard that the first time. what i am failing to understand is your reasoning behind it."

"...it's not that i'm not grateful for it. i really am, kuna, but sometimes i just get overwhlemed. it's more stuff than i know what to do with, and i don't think you should have to go out of your way to do all of this for me."

"i do not do anything that i do not desire to do."

"i get that, but... i don't know. it's not gonna be something you'll understand. i just... want you to focus more on just existing with me and not on what to buy me sometimes."

"i get you things to show how focused i am on you."

"not one me. on existing with me. just being."

"i do exist with you. every day i am with you."

"no, not if you're too obsessed with getting me stuff."

"now you are the one not listening."

your brows pinch together as sukuna steps in until you are centimeters away from one another. you watch each other wordlessly before he turns his head to gesture to the things he has gotten you. "i connect with you here, then make purchases. the latter does not interfere with the former. this is a treat for me as much as it is for you."

"...how?"

"you are pathetic," he grumbles. "this is not my burden. i enjoy getting things for you, how much clearer must i be? i am not trying to purchase your affections. i already have them."

"...i don't think that-"

"but that is what you're assuming. that this is superficial to me. it is not. it is real."

you understand what he is saying even though he does not directly say it. this manifestation of his love is real. his love for you is real.

"...then..."

"if you would like for me to stop, then i will stop. i will only do so, however, if it is for good reason and not because you are doubting my word or because you've determined yourself unworthy of my pride."

he sounds almost as though he is intimidating you, as if he will punish you for thinking lowly of yourself.

"do you understand?" he asks and you nod mutely.

"yeah."

"then do you wish me to stop? is it no longer making you happy?"

you look down. "...no, you- you don't have to stop," you mumble. "but you could stand to reel it in a bit. i don't need piles of gifts every week, and i don't need this much stuff."

"it's the fragrances you've been looking at. and those damned chocolates you said you couldn't find."

"i know, and i love that. but i only need one of each. not fifty of each. other people may want some of this stuff too."

"i do not care about other human desires."

"sukuna, you're missing the point.

"fine. fine, i will deliver accordingly in the future and let other grubby human hands take things that could be yours."

you raise a brow. "will you?"

"you doubt your king once again?"

you smile mischievously. "i don't know, you have a habit of doing what you want and not listening to me."

"i do not answer to you."

"but you just did," you grin.

sukuna grunts, giving you a harsh glare. you chuckle lightly, leaning onto your tiptoes to stretch out your arms around the giant. sukuna indifferently opens his arms to welcome you in, presenting as though he is irritated with you.

"thank you for the gifts. really, i mean it. i appreciate it all," you say sweetly. "i love you."

sukuna only rolles his eyes. "you're a needy pain. your little human brain makes no sense to me."

"but you still love me anyway," you beam.

the king of curses peers down at you past his nose, a calmness catching his intimidating exterior. "i do not," he answers, but his expression and the way he holds you tells you otherwise.

[sillysowa]

i’m not switching between my hyperfixations because i’m autistic, i’m just a whore

[sillysowa]

This is literally incredible and I cried

forwards, beckon, rebound. / machine herald!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is fem bodied, angst, size difference, fingering, choking, dry humping, praise, russian terms of endearment, somewhat toxic relationship, mild augmentation kink, way too many emotions, mix of arcane + league lore / spoilers. word count: 16.2k

read on ao3

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Viktor enjoys making you feel helpless. 

Technically, it isn't enjoyment so much as it is a responsibility; you'll repeatedly show up at his secluded lab in the Undercity, and as he does with everyone who comes to his doorstep worn and destitute, he'll take it upon himself to give you what you need. You are like the rest of his endeavors — meticulously examined, ambitiously furthered. But unlike his various grandiose experiments and his pursuits for evolution, it isn't just his mind you occupy. 

There is some dusty, disregarded hole in his once-perfect mechanical heart, and if the hypothesis he's formed but doesn't want to acknowledge is correct, you are the most probable cause. Or perhaps, you'd be the cure. 

Carefully, with his usual amount of precision, Viktor pulls his leather glove from his hand. He allows his fingers to flex: scarred skin improved by intricately-crafted metal joints. He's positioned above you, large and imposing while he keeps you pinned beneath him. The firm, steel surface of his giant worktable feels cool against your bare back. The room itself is dim, worktable lit by an overhead lamp that burns when you happen to look directly at it. Thankfully, Viktor's armored form above you, encased in dark shadow, blocks out most of the light. 

The Hextech third arm on his back grasps your wrists unwaveringly, and keeps them in place above your head, utilizing an exorbitant display of strength. You can't move a muscle, not even if you tried. Lingering heat sears into your skin, radiating from the metal — from where the laser he's perfected could easily sever your wrists from the bone. 

What's more, you can hardly think. Your head is spinning; your heart pounds from between your ribs, fiercely yet uselessly. You can only stare at the glowing, emotionless eyes of Viktor's mask, and wait for him to decide what he plans to do with you. Gentle. With the way you're looking at him, you need him to be gentle, this time. 

He presses his palm to the center of your chest, where he can feel the erratic beat of your heart. Slowly, he begins to drag his hand down. It's a knowing, practiced motion — not as soft as it ought to be, considering his cold, purple-veined hand and calloused fingers. As his touch is brought down to your stomach, your waist, you shiver, and your body relaxes. Finally, fully. 

It doesn't take long for you to arch into his touches, just as he predicted, just as you always do. Your flesh loves to sing for him. 

This dance has been performed by the both of you numerous times beforehand. Viktor questions if you'll ever grow tired of it. Of the pirouetting, of revolving constantly around unspoken, trembling complications, just to return, to let your mind and your heart reel all over again. 

What he feels for you — what he has evaluated from you, because machines do not feel — is something unexplainable, foreign, futile. He knows this, this dynamic you've fostered; it hardly makes sense. You are allies with no common goals. You were friends, some disregarded years ago. Every other night, you stumble into his lab to interrupt his work, and he lets you. 

No, he indulges you. 

"You are quivering," Viktor hums, voice muffled and deepened by the mask's filter. A usual, matter-of-fact statement, but the edges of his tone sharpen in the wake of a held-back, dark chuckle. "You want me to touch you. Say it." 

The powerful, vastly-superior Machine Herald already has you right where he wants you. 

Slightly riddled with static, the way his thick accent curls around the words only serves to make you shudder more. Your breathing is choppy, your chest rapidly rising and falling. 

Not from fear, if Viktor had to guess. His scans of your heart rate would come across much differently if that was the case. This is from arousal. Clear, easily definable arousal. Just from his thick voice, his soft touch, and the imagery provided by his large body above yours. 

The sight of you is addictive. Addiction isn't a sensation built into his mechanical repertoire, but it's the best word he can think of to describe this. You are small when you're underneath him. So malleable, so fragile. So human. How abnormal. The compulsive surge that runs through his veins should not, according to all of his tests and conclusive research, be occurring. 

Viktor supposes this type of behavior would be more fitting of the past version of him. Presently, he doesn't have room to let time go to waste. His vision is all that matters. The old him, though, the Viktor you once knew would've given you whatever you desired without a second thought, even though he hardly deserved it. 

He was weak, once. For you, perhaps a part of him still is. 

You are intelligent, you always have been. He has cast away much of his past in pursuit of chasing a better, more important future, but still, he remembers each and every moment he shared with you quite vividly. They play in the background of his mind sometimes, persistent like a system error, recurrent like a late-night looping television program. 

Your inventions often kept pace with his. Your smile was bright, brighter than the pillars of light that shone from Piltover's grandest lighthouses. Starry-eyed and driven, you wanted to improve, as a person and as a scientist. You challenged him to push further right alongside you. 

Of course, you knew him better than most, but Viktor wonders: did you ever expect him to go this far? Did you ever plan on retreating back to Zaun with him, to fall further into madness together? 

By now, you must be smart enough to know he is different. What you might've had, a friendship or a partnership or something delightedly improbable, it is now nothing. Nothing more than another one of his shed weaknesses and old, discarded memories. 

Perfect machinery does not feel. Not even for you, no matter what it once felt. Scientifically, it can't. You should understand this relationship is not beneficial. He could and would gladly break you, it's what he built himself to do. And yet, as he's starting to realize, perhaps being broken by him is exactly what you want. 

"Please touch me," You're begging, as his palm caresses the all-too-human curve of your side. Your voice is warm, lustful. A sweet, familiar taste settles in the back of his throat, as you coo the old nickname you still reserve just for him. "I need you to, Vik." 

And just like always, because of you, because of his predisposed sense of responsibility, or perhaps because of an unrecognized fault in his complex machinery — Viktor gives in. 

He revels in your vulnerable, quivering limbs and your heavy, desperate gaze. The grip of his Hexclaw tightens on your wrists, your hands closing, fingers tensed. He drags his palm down your stomach slowly, carefully. His gentleness is calculated, but it is yours, all the same. 

Your legs spread for him on impulse when his hand reaches your thigh. He squeezes, before he brings his hand between them, allowing the end of his index finger to brush your clit; his touch is precise, with all the efficiency and learned confidence of a flawless, apathetic machine. He could make you fall apart for him so easily, every part of you perfectly attuned to his touch, and his touch alone. 

Yet, he's teasing you, careful and slight touches barely grazing where you're oh-so sensitive for him. Your thighs shake, and spread wider; your body is exposed to him, soft and sweat-soaked expanses of skin contrasting splendidly with his bulky, armored chassis of metal. Now, instead of his index, Viktor uses his thumb, providing more friction and a slightly firmer touch. You squirm, the pretty features of your face washed over in pleasure, before you breathe a small, satisfied whine. 

"That's it," He murmurs firmly. "To think this is all it takes to make you submit." 

Viktor allows his thumb to trace circles onto your swollen, needy clit, and your breath proceeds to hitch so deliciously for him. An action, and reaction. Repeated experiments make for predictable results. Hextech hand practically digging into your wrists, Viktor brings his free, metal hand to your cheek. Oddly tender, his cold palm cups your face. He isn't surprised at the response it gets out of you, your chest heaving with a deep, trembling sigh. Every part of your skin tingles, as you lean into his faux, steel touch. 

"Earlier, you wished to be defiant. Disobedient." Viktor scolds, his thumb flicking over your clit while his fingers brush your cunt, gathering your dripping slick on the digits. He takes his metal hand away from your cheek, and he presses it flat to the table, right beside your head. Your brows pinch disappointedly, clearly unsatisfied with his subtle form of punishment. 

"And now look at you. Wet and desperate." 

He's barely touched you, barely even begun with you, and you're already dripping. 

"I wasn't- I'm not disobedient," You're countering, although it's damn near impossible to keep your voice sounding steady when his persistent touch is toying with you. He's teasing, circling your clit agonizingly slowly, just to make you squirm. "I brought you everything you asked for. Like always." 

"Yes, and you did well," Viktor praises flatly. As though he's reading off a trained script, rather than watching the way your eyelids flutter as his knuckles brush your entrance. "Our current project will run smoothly now, utilizing the tech you acquired for us. But when I told you to wait, to bring the tech after I had finalized our plans, you did not listen." 

You admit simply, foolishly, "I missed you." 

Those words are familiar. You'll often tell him you missed him when he returns to the lab, home at last after finalizing a few affairs elsewhere. You said you missed his face the first time you saw it, your hands gently holding his cheeks, caressing metal and skin — despite how different he looks now. Despite the scars, the mechanical parts. 

He knows you missed him. In a soft, delicate way. In an indecent, desperate way. His form of longing is much, much different. When the mortal matter and fraying wires of his brain yearn to have your presence beside him, with him, under him, it is strong, it is carnivorous. It is encompassing. 

"You nearly comprised everything we've been working towards." Viktor's third arm tightens even more, making your wrists and arms go nearly numb. "There is only so much I can do to protect you. I disposed of the last enforcers to attempt tracking you down, but if you were to lead them here, you will not just be putting yourself at risk. You are threatening our entire vision with your recklessness." 

Carefully, his index finger finds your entrance: sensitive and wanting. He deliberately pulls his hand away when you whine, instead placing his palm back on your inner thigh. Your skin is soft to the touch. Your gaze stays steady on him, on the unflinching shape of his mask, your eyelids heavy, pupils blown with clear arousal. As though he encompasses all you need, anything you could possibly want, and everything that could devastate you. 

You are frustratingly beautiful. 

Viktor hums, the sound low, somewhat mechanical. He gently guides his hand over your neck, just how you like, until large, metal fingers are wrapping around your throat. Not squeezing, just tightly holding. Enough to ground you, to remind you of who you belong to. You let go of a sigh, your eyes growing heavier. Your heart is skipping, and with his hand around your throat, the subtle vibrations of your quick pulse shudder through his complex machinery. 

"Viktor-" You start, voice weak, barely there. "I'm-" 

"I know you want more." He squeezes your thigh, applies just enough pressure to your throat to make your mind go fuzzy. "Tell me what you have been waiting for me to give to you, what you desired so strongly that you ran to me, instead of following the plan. And perhaps, I'll let you have it." 

You tremble: a full-body, tingling shudder. Viktor — the Machine Herald — is so much larger, so much stronger than you. He's augmented himself to be significantly taller, significantly more imposing, and underneath him like this, you must look meager. Pathetic. Fully bare, your legs spread open for him. Giving yourself to him so easily. Your chest heaves, your mortal heart skipping and wavering at the sight of him above you, pinning you beneath his heavy, metal form. 

"Breathe, zayka," Viktor murmurs, his grip on your neck loosening up. "Your heart is racing. Focus on me." 

Taking in slower, deeper breaths, your mind quiets, your pulse calms. Stars and static thrum in the corners of your vision, your thoughts a knotted up blur. Viktor — his touch is all you can focus on — traces his fingers further up your thigh in approval. 

"There. Very good. You're alright." 

"Your fingers," You pant, "Please." 

Viktor scoffs, his tone mechanical and rough, "You can do better. Try again." 

Huffing, your head knocks the firm worktable when you toss it backward. 

"Bastard." Your hands clench and unclench, your wrists giving a poor attempt at struggling against their hold. To no avail, of course. "Are you at least going to let me touch you?" 

"No. Answer me. Do not make me repeat myself." 

You briefly gnaw on your bottom lip, your jaw tense, thighs shaky. "I need your fingers inside me, Vik. I've missed you, I need you, please. I'm going fucking crazy." 

Viktor's unmoving, glowing eyes examine you carefully. "That's it. That is much more sufficient. So exquisite, when you are begging. Take what you need, then." 

You're well aware he isn't the same man you once fell for, nor is he the soft-spoken, bright scientist you once knew. Rumors paint him as a maker, a monster, a machine. He is cold to the touch. He isn't supposed to feel, he removed such functions ages ago; they were useless to him. As were his failing lungs, his weak legs, his heart. A heart made from machinery never skips. It can't be blinded by love, or lust. It cannot be distracted by old, unkindled flames, in the same way you often are. You envy him, somewhat. 

But Gods, when it's just you and him in his lonely little corner of Zaun, and when you are at the pleasant mercy of his perfected touch, you swear, he feels more human than anything. Nothing else truly matters, because still, he is yours. 

Viktor's index finger slides inside you slowly, just barely stretching you around its thickness. You're wet enough that he could press it in easily, could have you melting and drooling over whatever you're given — but instead, he chooses to let the digit fill you languidly. The feeling is slight, enveloping and enthralling and familiar, yet not enough to make you feel full, at the same time. His fingers are long, dexterous. Pretty and scarred. 

You've watched him work on plenty of augments and automatons, hands tightly grasping a wrench to turn it, fingers carefully holding the ends of thin wires to thread them together. Each action swift, exact. 

With the same level of precision, Viktor presses his finger deep inside you, and crooks it upward to nudge it right against your sweetest spot — and you whimper, your whole body shivering, collapsing. 

"One is never enough to satisfy you," He asserts; he gently pumps his finger into you to a steady, easily manageable pace. "Isn't that right?" 

If his mask weren't there, you're sure you'd see him speaking through a slight grin, maniacal and crooked, impossibly him. Your heart pounds. You're doomed, you must be. 

In response, you nod your head fiercely. Another shaky moan tears through you as he works you on his slender digit. Pressing in, dragging out. Calculated and perfectly steady, like the continuous beats of a metronome. 

"Or," Viktor questions, "Should I have you come undone around just one?" 

"No," You snap quickly, although you're obviously in no position to be making demands. Your eyes flutter open, your face contorted in a mix of pleasure and frustration. He finds your desperation strangely satisfying. All for him. It's the same sort of hungry satisfaction that comes with working on an automation, striding closer and closer to a job well done. He adjusts, pushing your legs apart with his large knees when they tremble and threaten to close. 

"Give me two," You're pleading, "Please." 

Viktor hums, the sound low and vibrating. 

"Guiding you to your peak would prove trivial, even without the means of penetration. You are simple. Easy to unravel." His low, intimidating voice effortlessly sends goosebumps careening down your spine. "You could most likely be led to cum against my shoe or my thigh, from modest friction and my voice alone." 

"Viktor," You almost wince at how pathetic you sound. "Stop talking." 

Viktor eases his index finger as deep inside you as you can take, and heat surges across your form in thundering, breaking waves. "Why would I stop when you are enjoying it?" 

Oh, he knows you far too well. 

"Dammit, at least-" You exhale, trembling through a moan, and Viktor's Hextech arm holds onto your wrists impossibly tighter as your hips roll into his hand — desperate to feel more of him. It works, momentarily. Until he is using his free hand to firmly grip your waist: thick metal fingers digging into warm, pretty skin. He pushes you back against the worktable, holding you in place. 

You groan in frustration. "At least quit teasing me." 

"Such impatience. I am working you upwards, gradually conditioning you to take higher levels of stimuli. It will make the process as a whole much more pleasurable." 

"Gods if you weren't wearing that stupid mask, I would shut you up in no-" 

"I always satiate you, milaya," Viktor answers calmly, as he slowly drags his finger out, leaving you quivering and empty. The nickname he uses is tender, familiar. It reminds you of your once different life. Vividly, it forms blossoms in your chest, unfurling flowers and delicate petals. Tugging sweetly at your thudding heart, despite the cold artificiality of his manufactured tone. Milaya. His darling. 

Though, the Machine Herald does not covet. What he desires, he takes and makes his. 

"Interesting," He's muttering, seemingly mostly to himself. "Your neediness has greatly increased since the last time we convened. Normally, you are capable of controlling yourself. To a certain extent." 

He tsks, metal hand caressing slow, reassuring circles onto your waist, while his other palm dives back between your legs. His fingers drag over your cunt with an irrational sense of clumsiness, considering the motion is coming from him. He lets his fingertips search for nothing in particular, getting them slick with your arousal, nudging your clit carelessly with his knuckles until your back is arching, and your sighs are sharpening. 

"Sorry." You mumble a half-hearted apology, eyelids softly fluttering. 

"It was not a complaint." Viktor presses his fingertips close, dangerously closer. 

Your body needs him, needs what only he can give to you. His hands, his fingers inside you. Every inch of you screams for his touch. As though you are a solved puzzle, a piece of technology broken down to let him understand each individual part. Your thighs shake, and that's part A. Your chest heaves, your shoulders go tense. Significantly human responses. Components labeled B, C, D, V. Your lips quiver, before they mutter another breathless, desperate plea of his name. 

Predictable, and understandable. Yet, for certain, you are a delight to decipher. Those pieces and budding sensations come together as he thought they would, and they — and you, are primed to be bent at his will. 

You expect him to tease you further. When he falls silent, becoming more impossible to read than he already was, you feel your arms and your thighs tense with what must be anticipation. Surely, he can sense how eager you are. 

But Viktor doesn't falter, he does not hesitate. He guides his metal hand underneath your back, predicting its arch, and he presses two of his fingers, his middle and ring, to your drooling entrance. They slide into you with a filthy, wet noise; it's almost obscene how eagerly your cunt accepts them. How you plead with whiny utterances of yes, yes, your voice breaking, eyes closing. He eases them inside you slowly, fills you with them completely — until his scarred knuckles are nudging against you, and you're sobbing through a half-sigh, half-moan. 

He doesn't wait to hear you beg for more. You're given a calculated amount of time, just enough seconds to catch your breath and get used to the stretch of both digits inside you. He fucks you on his fingers, pumping them in and out to the tune of your broken whines and gasps for air. It's a gradual process. A coded, mastered technique well-baked into his mind, his heart, and his hardware. 

Of course, he's long since learned just how to make you fall apart. He has studied you, he's proceeded to subconsciously store your data in the most important vault in his mind. It is simply a matter of getting you there, of drawing out your pleas for him and your tremors and your pulses, to push you even further past your previous crescendos. 

You can always be louder. Finish harder. You deserve to. And when it comes to any and all of his endeavors, including this one, he is persistently, unquenchably ambitious. 

"Vik-" You're babbling, in a wavering voice he might logically, astutely label as precious. His quiet lab echoes with the whirr of various displays and devices. With your soft noises, echoing alongside the wet squelch his fingers make each time he presses them deeper. "Please, I just- I'm so- I want you so much-" 

"You have me," He answers rigidly. Prepared and intentional, his fingers move slower, drawing out your moans and your shudders of pleasure. "Or were you demanding more?" 

"I always want more with you." A faint, endearing pout forms on your features, the kind of look only he can draw from you. "Want- I want you to fuck me." 

It isn't anything of importance; just an aimless, desperate plea. The kind you might be expected to ask of him when you're in this state — your mind wandering, your body relaxed. You need fuel for your building fire, you need to hear him outline through words what he can't through actions. You cannot make him feel as you do, but Viktor is kind enough to let you play pretend. 

Though, for whatever strange, unrecognizable, illogical reason, he goes against the fixed line of actions he was previously adhering to, and he hesitates. He contemplates. He twitches, circuitry briefly inoperable, fuzzy and working against him. His center, his self-regulating core, hums with marginally more force than it did before. The hand he has pressed to your back trembles. It thrums with artificial, built-up heat, before he grips you much tighter. 

Fortunately, he rediscovers his composure as quickly as it waned. Viktor quirks his fingers into your sweet spot to make you cry out for him, and then he drags them half-way out — every moment agonizingly slow, so he can admire the way the digits glisten in the lamplight. 

"Filthy little thing." His voice is thick. His words are stern, making you picture how his jaw might be tightened. "I am already providing you everything you asked for, and yet still, you act greedy. Human desire is terribly intemperate." 

"As if-" You're squirming, sweating, your hair a mess, warm gaze and moon-wide pupils locked onto his obscured face. "As if you feel nothing from this." 

"I cannot feel. You are well aware of this reality. I suggest you do not continue to persuade yourself otherwise." 

"Bullshit." 

"In fact, I do feel nothing." Viktor brings his thumb to your clit on his next press in, rubbing it roughly, circling it precisely. "I am incapable of experiencing desire," His fingers crook and spread. "Nor enjoyment." They pump slowly, while they stretch you around their shape. "Or affection." 

"But you were worried about me- fuck- when I went off on that stupid mission," You're mumbling, barely able to speak through ragged gasps for breath, "You were fretting over my safety. You- hah, you stopped everything you were doing just to check on me, because you felt relieved, you felt happy when you saw me walk in, didn't you?" 

Did he? 

Hours earlier, you returned to his doorstep, and he knew it was you from the way you knocked; he put aside the small automaton he was working on, and hurried to meet you at the door. He gave you a quick once over — in this form, he is vastly larger and taller than you, to the point where you have to crane your neck to look up at him — but you assured him you hadn't been injured. When you fell against his armored chest in something of an embrace, he didn't push you away. Nor did he protest when you pulled his heavy, bulky shape on top of you as you fell back against the nearest surface, his additional sensors picking up your already increasing breathing and heart rate. 

He recalls your arms around him, hands tugging at his cape, removing sections of his armor, fingers threading through his hair. Soft lips pressing to cold steel — 

Viktor tenses. You are plenty capable on your own, capable enough that he rarely considers whether or not you'll return. You always do, after all. This mission was considerably riskier, though. Considerably more worrisome. 

If anything had happened to you, if he discovered you were injured or captured or worse, his subsequent reaction would be less than logical. His mental processes would malfunction, and he would lose the ability to think rationally. The stifling, unstoppable force that would build within him could be compared to something like rage, something like love. 

You swallow thickly, and the room swirls around you in a dizzy haze as Viktor slowly pulls his fingers from you. Leaving you empty. 

He murmurs, "Look at me." 

It's a little difficult of a command to follow, with your head spinning and your eyes all heavy. Still, you force yourself to breathe deeply, to steady, in the wake of the sudden lack of attention. 

You look up, and his hand, fingers slick and filthy, momentarily moves to grasp your chin. He tilts you towards him, to make sure you're watching. Viktor reaches up, and he presses a mechanism on the side of his mask. It hisses, releasing air, small puffs of steam streaming from either side. 

He removes it tentatively. He tosses it aside with a bit less caution, causing it to clink, spin, and nearly fall when it hits the upper edge of the table. 

You're met with messy brown hair, scarred skin, and familiar moles. The entirety of his jaw is made of metal, reconstructed into intricately crafted steel that continues down his neck and underneath his armor. His skin is overly pale, to the point where you can notice deep eye bags, and the criss-crossings of several individual, purple-hued veins. His expression is stern and deadpan, his brows slightly creased. He takes you in, gaze flickering down for a moment, then back up — and searing eyes, dark purple pools and bright orange suns, finally meet your own. 

"Your legs," He's instructing; his voice, no longer filtered through the mask, sounds warmer, clearer, a little less deep. Despite everything, terribly familiar, and blissfully human. "Place them around me." 

Unable to stifle a smile, you lift your thighs, casually locking them around his back at the ankles. You rarely get to see his face, and it's impossible to keep your eyes off of him, nor can you stop your heart from pounding. Viktor returns your gaze, cold and unflinching. It's like he's examining you, regarding you with the same restrained interest as he'd have for the subjects of his experiments. 

"There you are," You're cooing, head tilting, "Vitya."

Viktor's expression finally shifts from his usual indifference, his brows scrunching up to form a slightly irritated scowl. 

"Defiant again. As expected." 

"You used to like it when I called you that. Am I not allowed to tease you now?" You're laughing, and your smaller frame, still pinned underneath him, shifts somewhat when he loosens his grasp on your wrists. A faint amount of mercy. You offer him one of those radiant smiles he can't stand — can't resist. "You can be such a hypocrite." 

"Open your mouth," Viktor sneers coldly, "So it can be put to better use." 

With a firm, metal hand, he holds the curve of your soft side, measuring your individual tremors, paying attention to the steady movement of your lungs. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your lips. Your breath hitches, and your mouth forms a line. You can't help but roll your eyes. 

"I can just leave, you know," You mutter, your voice still playful, yet noticeably a few volumes lower. "But I'm guessing you don't want me to." 

Funny. You seem to think you could escape from his grasp. 

"Open. Your. Mouth. Before I give in, and do something I shouldn't." 

"I'm not-" 

Your protest fizzles out into a surprised noise and a subsequent sigh; Viktor grabs you, he pulls you closer in tandem with surging forwards, and his mouth promptly crashes into yours. 

Finally. 

The kiss tastes sharp, like iron and ash, like something distinctly him when his tongue slowly brushes against yours. You allow your eyes to close — but Viktor hardly leaves you any room for air as he practically devours you. It's deep, enthralling, and clumsy. Needy, on your end, and hungry on his. The kind of kiss that possesses you, consumes you. Your mind is dizzy, your breath is gone, but you need to kiss him more than you need to breathe. 

You melt into him gently, naturally. Like you were always meant to. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheek: a motion far too soft, far too important. 

When he pulls away, finally giving you some breathing room, your eyes immediately meet. Your chest is heaving, your heart warm and pounding to a tempo made just for him. His gaze is once again sharp, once again perfectly composed. 

You miss the softness of his lips already. "Vik." 

And he needs you, needs more of you. He's wanted to feel your lips against his for far longer than you or even he could have realized. Since those days when you were both young and stupid, when you vowed to achieve your dreams together. As though your gentle voice pleading his name is just tender enough to push him over a metaphorical edge, to flip some hidden switch in his complex mechanics — He kisses you again, again, again. 

All of this, it isn't meant for him. It is unfathomably human, from the way you breathe fervently against his mouth; stuttered breaths, quicker than his, heavier than his own could ever be. To the way he touches you, a half-machine's best imitation of intimacy. His still-human palm moves to brush your neck, then glides further to hold the back of your head. Your body is all awkward limbs and soft edges and smooth skin, but you fit underneath him oh-so perfectly. 

He can't stop. It doesn't seem real; Viktor imagines he must have fallen into a different reality, he's in a different body with a different, mortal heart. None of this makes an ounce of logical sense otherwise. Then again, when do you ever make sense? 

He can't focus on anything but your lips on his — because for a few fleeting moments, he isn't defined by metal and machinery; he is himself. He is a mess of muddled thoughts and imperfect touches. Your legs around his back pull his figure closer to yours, and you have him wondering what it might entail without any steel in the way. Just skin against skin. 

It'd be impossible for him to feel such a thing, when there's little skin left. His entire arm, his legs, his torso, his spine; they've since been replaced, improved upon. Is this the closest he'll ever get to you, to love? 

Waves upon waves of warmth wash over you, they drown you, they envelop you. Even once Viktor has finally pulled apart from you with one last soft kiss, you still aren't able to breathe. Your heart pounds against your ribs, so fiercely it almost hurts. 

He settles back above you, and as you calm again, he holds your gaze. His slender fingers move to trace the column of your throat, where they not-so-subtly seek out your pulse. It's racing for him. He looks remarkably composed now, compared to how disheveled you're sure you appear. 

Gently, he trails his hand upwards. His thumb swipes your kiss-swollen bottom lip. Your mouth parts instinctually, allowing him to carefully press the digit into your warm mouth, onto your wet tongue. 

"Do not leave," Viktor murmurs, an analytical edge already returning to his tone, in spite of what transpired between you. He pulls his thumb from your mouth, brushing it over your bottom lip again, smearing your lips with your saliva. "Stay for tonight." 

"Are you asking? Or is that a demand?" Your breath on his skin is foggy and hot. When it's clear he isn't going to answer, his gaze regarding you inquisitively, you propose another question. Your hands clench, they briefly push against the unyielding grip of his Hexclaw. "Will you let my hands go now?" 

"Tsk. Only if you are capable of keeping them to yourself." 

"C'mon…" You hum disappointedly. He appears routinely unaffected by your pouting. So, you change your approach. 

You shuffle, trying to get more comfortable. The table beneath you feels especially firm. "What if I say please? Is that what you're looking for?" 

"Go ahead. It will not affect my decision." 

"Seriously? But I want to touch you. You're so pretty." 

Viktor hesitates, but only briefly. He senses the whirring in his chest, the usual hum of his augmented components. Substitutions where imperfect pieces should be, strength replacing frailty, mechanics coming to life once more as his mind becomes forcibly unclouded. His systems are working as usual again. All it took to experience a malfunction was your lips on his, and all he needed to do to rebuild his composure was pull away. And you are still a gasping, heavy-eyed mess. 

Still, there is something troubling him. The same illogical functions that've been prodding at his mind since the very beginning. Lingering errors. Faults in his perfected frame. When he looks at you now, he strongly senses the push and pull of those inaccuracies. 

If he allows you to touch him, each framework, every mechanism — Everything he's been carefully constructing might come crashing down. 

Would that be so bad? 

Pretty. How ridiculous. Viktor scoffs, his jaw tensing up, his next words arbitrary. "Most are afraid when they look at me." 

Perhaps they should be. Perhaps you should be. 

But you just smile, your expression growing soft as you tilt your head, and you answer in earnest: "I don't think I've ever been scared of you." 

Again, there goes his worthless, thrumming, obsolete heart. 

You should be afraid of a man who's designed himself to fit an image you no longer recognize. You shouldn't try to get so close to him, when his compulsive obsession to destroy and remake borders on a clear line of danger. This new chassis embodies perfection. It has long since relinquished any weaknesses, but if you detested him, he wouldn't blame you. Others are reluctant to embrace his vision, save for a select, fortunate few. You and him have history. History that would make seeing him like this rather difficult, he assumes. 

Usually, Viktor is able to keep any oversights from throwing him off course. He can't be distracted from achieving his goals. The people of Zaun need him. This new body poses no hindrances. Pain doesn't disrupt him; it can be turned out, like anything else. Pain of the body, and pain of the heart. 

You, though. Any thoughts he has of you start as small blips. Tiny, persistent sparks. They build overtime, burning brighter, hotter. Until he sees you, and you look just like how you did back then, so, so long ago. There are tired lines on your face, faint scars, and he knows they're his fault. All at once, his mind is threatening to become a mess of discordant, fraying parameters, of processes that are refusing to function in the manner they should. 

He wants to keep you far, far away; far from him, from this lab. Far from this terrible, awful place you both grew up in. If he could, he'd have you go somewhere so very distant, where you couldn't distract him — where you could be happy and free. You will see the sky, feel the sun's warmth, and breathe fresh, cool air. It'd be what's best for you. And he will continue to further his endeavors in evolution. Alone, as intended. 

But ultimately, no matter what he winds up doing to his mind or his body, he would think of you. Of holding you or unmaking you, sometimes he isn't sure which. If you were truly afraid, if you ran, he wouldn't follow on your heels. But along with you, you'd take a piece of himself, a faint trace he would never get back; for better, or for worse. 

Viktor listens to the sound of your breathing: steady, deep. His gaze studies you, but it lingers on your eyes for longer than intended. You are still looking up at him, smiling, sparkling like a sky full of stars. As though he is a sky filled with stars. 

Your breaths become heavier when he presses his palm to the center of your chest. He drags his touch down, down. You are more sensitive this time, he notes. You lean into him once his hand caresses your pelvis, your waist, and you loosen your legs from around his back to become more comfortable. His fingertips trail up your inner thigh, and you shudder, you shiver. 

He thinks of kissing you once more. A couple times more, maybe. Proper judgment tells him he should resist. The thought remains there, lingering and burning between you. 

"Viktor…" You murmur, your voice a bit broken, but he's hanging onto every word. "Touch me again." 

Pleasant sensory inputs glow within him; tingling veins, reverberating wires. Overwhelming heat fills his shoulders, the back of his neck, his head — the heat of machinery, the warmth of his soul. 

Viktor grabs your waist assertively, metal fingers digging into your hip. His gaze doesn't waver from yours as he guides your thighs to spread. Suddenly, he pushes himself against you, until you are hopelessly pressed between steel and metal. Between him, and the worktable. 

You feel his weight, you feel the intricate ridges of metal plates and hard edges, the artificial heat of his much larger body radiating against your bare skin. Now, you are completely pinned, practically chest to chest, pressed underneath the Machine Herald so closely it's enough to make your head spin. You wonder if he can feel your heart beating. Perhaps he can hear it. Or maybe, he just knows your heart must be pounding for him, as it always does. 

Your limbs tremor with excitement. As his palm squeezes your thigh, you can't help but arch into his touch. Thin, skillful fingers press close and feel how wet you are — still so sensitive, already dripping out onto him. You aren't teased, you aren't even able to catch your breath, because two of his fingers are swiftly dipping inside you, giving you exactly what you need. 

It feels so right. Viktor reaches for your cheek. He encourages you to continue meeting his gaze when your eyes flutter and nearly close. 

Your gaze on his, you let his name leave your mouth in a series of sharp gasps, and desperate pleas. He fills you slowly, but wastes no time building a rhythm; his fingers pump into your sensitive cunt gently, then methodically. Satisfied, Viktor hums, and he carefully shifts his other arm down. He holds your back as it arches, further pressing you against himself. 

Now, the way he pleasures you is deliberate, it isn't enough, but Gods, you'll take anything he gives you. 

"That name," Viktor starts, speaking in a smooth, level tone, perfectly contrasting the airy huffs and whines you utter for him. The name he hoped to relinquish, his name. "It sounds best when you are pleading it." 

You smile through a soft moan. "It's my favorite. Such a sweet name." 

Precisely, determinedly, his fingers crook into the spot within you he knows all too well, and you crumble, you sob. 

"The tech you brought to me will accelerate the completion of our latest prototype," Viktor is explaining, matter-of-factly. As though the conversation is as simple as it is necessary. Like he doesn't have his large body shoved against you, and his fingers knuckle-deep inside you. It just serves to excite you further, honestly. 

"I will install the heat core, and adjust its interior components accordingly. We could have its systems operational by tonight. However, I doubt I will be able to focus." 

You take a forced, deep breath. "Yeah? Because of me?" 

Obviously, he wants to say. You'll be here, staying in his lab, as you usually do after a tough afternoon or a previous sleepless night. He doesn't mind. Your chatter might occasionally be disruptive to his work, but your voice is nice, it is calming. Your presence itself might be a distraction, an interference that his mind tells him he should discard, but having you here is a nice change of pace, compared to the long, lonesome hours he's grown used to. He has never minded. 

Sleep is less of a necessity for him. Resting for a handful of hours a few times per week is usually enough to keep himself operational. The torn leather couch he keeps in his quarters is there just for you. He no longer needs to eat in the typical sense, although he still needs to recharge burned energy. He keeps stocked up on the foods he remembers to be your favorites. 

It's strange, out of everything he's forgotten, he still remembers such useless, trivial details. Each and every detail about you. 

Without you, this space — the adjustments he's made to accommodate your presence, the dip in the couch from where you always sleep, your articles of clothing strewn over the floor and the couch arms. His lab would feel so empty. 

His next words sound much gentler than usual. Warmer, more desperate. 

"Because your voice will not leave my mind. Begging for me. Breaking for me," Viktor murmurs. He nudges his fingers against your walls, testing, teasing you. "Pleading my name." 

Once more, he challenges your limits; his fingers slide into you deep, so deeply you can feel them everywhere. Nudging at your core, filling you perfectly. As if on queue, you whimper a broken plea of yes, and as your eyes flutter, you're cascading into a needy mess of pleasant, shaky gasps. You writhe, your pinned hands trembling, wishing for something to hold onto. Though, he keeps you in place underneath him, blissfully unrelenting. 

"Say it," Viktor demands, "My name. Tell me who it is you need." 

"Viktor," Your voice is light, clumsy and slurring slightly, but in the way you say his name, there's an unmistakable lilt of pure adoration. You need him, you need to feel him everywhere: his practiced touch, his soft skin, his steel-built anatomy. You want him to not have to leave you, to not need to choose between you and the Undercity's future. 

You feel completely, utterly dizzy. You want so much. You want his hands, flesh or metal, to study every intricate inch of you. You want him to stop holding back, you need the both of you to make up for the stupid amount of time you've lost — "I- hhah- I want…" 

With your eyes nearly shut, static and stars flickering at the edges of your vision, you hadn't noticed how close he'd become until Viktor's voice echoes warmly, right against the shell of your ear. 

"You want me to fuck you?" 

And holy shit, his tone is sultry, his accent is thick — you shiver so hard you're sure he's left feeling the aftershocks, your body still pressed up right against his, even through his layers of metal armor. Viktor doesn't stop the steady pace of his fingers, pumping and arching and working you so well. Nor does he quit speaking, simply because he knows this is what you want to hear. What you need to hear. 

"You are insatiable," He scolds, although there's little emotion in his level tone. Just an obvious, already-known sense of acknowledgement. His voice is a thousand times more intense when it is curling directly into your ear; "You wish for me to render you even more weak than you currently are, so you can be shown exactly who you belong to? Oh, and how I'd fuck you. How I would take you. I would make a mess of you, I'm sure. You'd be begging to be given all of me. To be used by me." 

It's merely theoretical, a set of fake promises and dirty words to put pleasant visualizations into your mind — calculated, like everything he pursues. And it works. Predictably, your entire body shudders with pure, forceful need. You pulse around his fingers, throbbing like a heartbeat. You sob, and try to twist to face him, although it's impossible, considering you're still tightly pinned beneath his figure. 

You want to see his face, he figures, so Viktor shifts up. He re-puts himself in the center of your vision, and you glance towards him, eyes flickering across his face; your gaze on his is practically teary-eyed. Desperate and eager, you find ways to plead without words. 

You want to let go. Of course you do — always forced to be strong, you need nothing more than to melt at the hands of the last person left in Zaun that you trust. Even if he is more machine than person. Even though he is not right for you. 

For a moment all too brief, Viktor wonders what it would be like to push those boundaries. To truly have you, beneath his hands and in his heart, to feel you resounding beside him like the echoes of a rippling, rolling wave. 

How would he take you? No, how would you want him? 

He formulates a few possible outcomes. Perhaps you'd want him hard and desperately. You need to be put in your place, to feel him as close as he could possibly be while he molds you to his shape. You want to be obedient. A good little subject. You want to be called good, very, very good for him while he pounds you into the table, or maybe while he leans back, glowing, masked eyes focused solely on you, your hands gripping his armored shoulders so you can bounce on his lap however you'd like. The Machine Herald's perfect little pawn. He wagers with such filthy actions and words, he could make you even louder than this. 

You'd be pinned underneath him, and instead of his fingers, he'd fill you with all of himself — carnal and raw. Warm and sweat-soaked. Yet still, your body pressed to his would be agonizingly tender. 

Or maybe you'd want him in a different way. In a much softer way. 

Tenderness has never been afforded to him, it's hardly a concept he knows, but perhaps it's what he once hoped for. With you, it's what he once pictured. 

Every touch would be slow, delicate. Your hands interlocked. Bodies pressed together, galaxies against galaxies. So close, they could be mistaken for the same shape. He would learn you truly, and honestly. Warm and gentle, you would touch him soft enough to make him human again. 

Your voice would beg for him, whispering sweet nothings into his ears, against his form. Useless, perfect declarations of love. Viktor shudders. He imagines your hands, pretty and delicate, brushing the space between his shoulder and his steel spine. Feeling his scarred skin, alighting fiery sensations he assumed he'd long since lost. 

Compared to who he was before, he is much stronger. He must be strong, must be forged of grit and iron, he must not submit to worthless, human desires. But you make him oh-so weak. 

He isn't supposed to be weak. 

"Please," You're gasping. You are barely able to speak at this point, babbling sweetly between broken noises as he fucks you on his fingers; it's just enough to make you shut your eyes and imagine more. "Fuck- Vik- Oh, p-please…" 

Splintering, throbbing with mechanical heat, his inner workings surge with a sublime abundance of molten, unbridled energy. Burning, it's burning him up from the inside, melting him down and making him fragile. 

You've gone fuzzy beneath him — No, his vision is fuzzy. Your edges are blurred, your chest is heaving as his fingers barely leave you before pressing back in. His hand adjusts, allowing his thumb to brush your puffy clit on the next press in. When you whimper his name, as you've done countless times before, he swears he sees nothing but flickering, colorless static. 

Burning and heightening and building, he must be malfunctioning, experiencing crucial gaps in his design. This shouldn't be happening. He should not feel, and this isn't feeling, but there is something building inside of him, something with your name on it. 

No, no, your name is flickering through him, pounding against his mind like a drum, and he has to establish control. He has to fucking fix this. 

He needs to be closer, so much closer. He needs you in an unexplainable, all encompassing way. In a way that shouldn't be occurring. He doesn't want anything, he can't experience the sensation of wanting because it isn't meant to exist. 

Truthfully, he's past the point of no return, and you might be all that's left to hold him in place. Impossible. The only thing he's ever desired is progress, evolution. Improvement is what matters. Improving, fixing, augmenting. 

You are going to be the death of him. He needs to be pressed against you, holding you, in you, examining your inner workings, guiding you to reach your true potential — 

Something snaps. 

"Do you know," Viktor grasps your face, roughly tilting you in his direction. The newfound harshness to his tone is exhilarating. "How impossible it is to resist breaking you?" 

He laughs, the sound sharp, almost chilling; his smile is crooked, barely recognizable, showing off even more crooked teeth. His gaze holds your own until it practically burns into you. His body is hot. To the point of overheating. You feel the heated metal against your skin, pressing to your chest, your thighs, faint puffs of searing steam pouring out from gaps in the plating. 

The grip his Hexclaw has on your wrists is so tight it nearly hurts. But it's faltering, his hands are twitching. He seems to recognize he might be hurting you, and so he lifts off of you slightly, he forces himself to loosen his hold. 

There's a sound coming from him that echoes like grinding gears, like the hiss of burning filaments. Like something is crumbling. Fighting against itself. 

"It is all I have ever known, milaya." Viktor lets go of something akin to a sigh, although he has no need to breathe. He is utterly ruined — the poor excuse for a heart he once placed between his ribs is aching, shuddering with the anticipation of a touch, soaring with the softness that comes with a kiss. Is this what it feels like to be dizzy, to be lovesick? 

You shudder as his thumb rubs your clit, and he digs his metal fingers into your side, feeling the space just beneath your ribs. "You will soon understand," He murmurs, "And if you are incapable, I am still willing to teach you. To make you into so much more." 

There's a stirring in his chest at that, at the thought of completing you; a deep-rooted abnormality he can't quite pinpoint. Is it excitement? Guilt? Lust? 

You swallow. You're crumbling, as he sends tingles through your veins in the wake of more enthralling words. 

"You are mine. Your fundamental place is at my side." Viktor senses the building heat of his inner workings, a deep wave rolling up from his constructed spine to settle onto the back of his neck. Building, burning, breaking. "I cannot wait to unmake you." 

Pulling you apart would be delightful. 

Your pieces would be disassembled, separated by each individual, pretty, dizzying section, so you could be redone carefully, gently, with a sense of tenderness only he could manage. He wants to understand you. To know exactly what makes you tick, down to your most basic of functions. To be close. Indistinguishable, the both of you made from the same materials. If you were constructed in his image, your components marked by his influence, there would be no doubt who you belong to. 

Through breaking you and mending you, he wonders if he could find new ways to make you sing. You'd relax under each touch, shuddering and breathing his name as he completes your newfound enhancements. Gazes locking. Touches lingering. Metal soldering. Viktor trembles. Gods, how he wants you. 

Furthering your potential and heightening your pleasure both require similar sentiments. Trust, and vulnerability. Opening your chest to watch your heart pound for him is the same as measuring your hitching breaths, growing heavier the deeper and faster he presses his fingers into you. 

Because delicately pulling you apart just to put you back together is some metaphor for intimacy. Carving out a space for you within the confines of his fake heart is some synonym for tenderness. Holding onto his memories of you, replaying everything he can't quite forget to the point of near insanity — to the point where he attempted to forcibly remove you, by removing those emotions. Only to fail. Feeling these sensations for you when he shouldn't is some form of devotion. 

You shouldn't feel for him either, right? 

Having you there from the very beginning meant something; you were beside him when he only dreamed of becoming someone greater. When his ideas for evolution were just prototypes, when he first put the full extent of his weight onto both his legs. Didn't it mean the world to you too? 

You were equally misunderstood. By your peers, by the world. Just as you believed in him, he saw light in you, from the very start. He thinks you could burn bright enough to melt anyone who stands in your way. And now, years down the line, when he is seen as less than human, you only see him. Not what he's become. It's infuriating. It's unmistakably loving. 

You are panting. Getting close. Your bottom lip quivers, and your body tenses, each shudder more forceful than the last. His fingers echo a filthy, wet sound each time they pump into you, and your back is arching, you are simply begging to fall apart around him. For him, because of him. You deserve to. 

And you sing, voice trembling like plucked strings, "Just p-please. You can do whatever you want to me, I trust you- I've always trusted you. Vik, I need you. I'm yours. All yours." 

All his. 

Whatever he turns into, whatever becomes of his body, memories, and heart, you would still follow. No matter what his goal might be; to destroy this city for what it did to the both of you, or to work in unison to try and remake it. Or perhaps, he plans to become more. An example of perfection. A God. As if he isn't one already. 

The first time he touched you, when he felt the softness of your skin and heard the plea in your voice, and knew you were in his heart still, still, wasn't it akin to a prayer? 

Oh, he is going to unravel you. 

Viktor allows his grip on your wrists to finally, fully loosen; his Hexclaw presses flatly to the table, helping to support his weight. Relaxing, you exhale a deep breath, but you don't hesitate for long. Your arms waste no time wrapping around him, pulling him close. When you kiss him, a hand cradling his cheek like he is something breakable, and not a perfected piece of unstoppable machinery, the tender press of your lips to his feels undoubtedly inevitable. 

All he knows is since the day he pretended to forget about you, when he decided to become something more, his new heart beat steadily, his enhanced mind was clear. But his systems wouldn't stop buzzing. 

When he hardly knew where you were or what state you'd return to him in, the noise grew sharper. Fervently pulling, Hextech whirring, unsated electricity sizzling like fireworks underneath his skin. Having you in his arms once more only made the static form so thick, he thought his mental processes might completely go haywire. All he knows is that now, as he's kissing you, feeling your lips on his, your body against his own, and your hands tangling through his hair — for once, the static is silent. Blissfully silent. 

And he kisses you, harder than before. Softer than anything and everything. 

"Faster-" You're pleading brokenly against his mouth, between breathy kisses, your voice echoing through him, "More." 

Faster, harder, more. Whatever you desire, he's going to give it to you. Viktor mumbles, "Of course." 

Finally able to move, you hook one leg around his waist, you use it to drag him in even closer. You rock into his hand when his fingers spread and crook inside you, and you grab tight, messy fistfuls of his hair. His lips on yours, kissing you over and over, leave you little room to breathe. 

Once you've pulled away, you're gasping for air, and his gaze fixates on yours: examining, devouring. Viktor takes note of your every movement. How you grind into his fingers when his thumb teases your clit, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, brows pinched. How you fall back against the table when the sensations overwhelm you, eyes shut and limbs weak. Pulsing and tensing around him, so sensitive. So close to falling apart. 

Your arms wrap around him again, and he tries to keep the pace of his fingers steady, while you begin placing hurried kisses to his cheek, his neck. You kiss the side of his face, soft lips on soft skin. Then, your lips continue down, they press to his steel jaw. He tilts his head to let kisses fall over the expanse of metal that runs down his neck. Tingling phantom sensations curl into him and split him open. 

"Close," You're muttering, so quiet he nearly doesn't hear. You hold him as tight as you can manage. Your breath is warm on the side of his face, tickling his skin, making him feel even warmer within. 

"You are close?" He repeats for confirmation; his hand finds your side, and you grip his shoulders, hands brushing over thick plates of metal, desperately searching for something to hold onto. Your nails dig in, firm enough that he thinks the steel might chip. Viktor breathes a slight laugh, "You sound so sweet." 

"So- I'm getting so-" You swear, "Oh, f-fuck…" 

The only way he might quench what's come over him and steady his systems is by watching you come apart. Pleading his name, while you melt into a needy puddle of all the emotions and pleasant sensations he could never let himself have. Brought to your peak by his touch, his voice, because you are his, all his. 

Viktor's free hand traces up, cool steel carefully finding your collarbone, your neck. Then, his fingers are wrapping around. He squeezes your throat just barely, just how you like, enough to make you fall back with your arms sprawled above you. Your head is perfectly dizzy, as his fingers work you steadily, his thumb flicking your needy clit much faster. Pushing you closer, closer. 

Until it's far too much, and you are at his mercy, guided right to the edge of an exhilarating, electrifying precipice. 

"Let go. I have you," Viktor instructs, "Let yourself submit." 

Everything you've been building towards, all of his touches, all of this ecstasy, and how terribly you've missed him coalesces into this. Into a single, shuddering moment, waves upon waves of pleasure pushing you over the waterfall's edge. You're melting, cumming hard for him, your arms shaking, until he's removing his hand from your throat and giving you something to grab onto — delicate fingers laced with thick, strong, metal ones. Perfectly contrasting. 

Your vision goes white. Your body tenses and then goes limp, like you've been shut down. The high is forceful, before it becomes soft, ebbing over you with gradual warmth, his hand in yours enough to steady you. Heart pounding, you take quick, loud breaths. 

You can't help but feel disappointed when Viktor's hand releases yours to return to your waist. He holds you carefully, cold fingers brushing your skin reassuringly. Every touch feels deliciously raw, alight and sensitive. 

Your eyes open slowly. Viktor's hair is a mess in his face, likely caused by you. He seems flushed, if only slightly. His unflinching gaze flickers across your form, before it settles back on your eyes. 

"Breathe," He instructs carefully, gently. His hand grips your side a bit tighter; he's clearly affected by the way you sigh. You do your best to follow along, the aftershocks fading as your pulse slows, and as you start to calm. 

"There. Excellent, you have done so well," Viktor praises. He smiles slightly in satisfaction. "You have never been this breathless." 

Whatever words you could've formed in response don't come. They can't, not when his fingers are still inside you; not when Viktor is pressing them into your sensitive cunt just barely, squeezing your side as he delights in the way you whine. Pleasure, white-hot and familiar, surges through you fiercely. 

It's so much, it's so much, it's too much, he's already fucking you with his fingers, and before you can fully wind down, you're swiftly building towards another high. Your body needs this. You just aren't sure if you can take it. 

"Ah- shit," You murmur; reaching up, you tangle both hands in his hair, gripping tight for leverage. His expression remains infuriatingly calm. "I want- I need more. It feels so good, Vik," You're practically purring those last words, your whole body shuddering through another wave of ecstasy. "But I don't- I'm not sure if I-" 

"You can." Viktor interrupts, assured and composed. "You can cum for me as many times as I dictate." 

You're smirking now, obediently spreading your trembling thighs wide, while you roll your hips into his touch; his fingers are so thick, so impossibly, perfectly deep — "Hah- and you said I'm the insatiable one." 

"Yes. You are the most insatiable human I have ever known. And it would seem you are particularly insatiable with me." 

"You were once- Oh-" 

Your head falls back as Viktor nudges that sweet, tender spot inside you, and your body becomes limp once more. 

He takes the opportunity to bring the Hexarm's hand to your cheek. It's large enough to eclipse your face, the same way it was big and strong enough to easily pin both your wrists in its grasp. The heat radiating from the metal makes your eyes briefly flutter, before he trails it down to your throat. Perfectly responsive, your eyes grow heavy. He provides you with your favorite, much-needed pressure. 

You've watched him use this very same hand to solder metal and create machinery. The device could heat to a temperature a thousand times hotter than it is now, it's capable of firing off a single ray of concentrated energy potent enough to slice through steel. And he has that hand wrapped right around your neck. 

Fuck, that shouldn't excite you. It shouldn't have you quivering more and whimpering, shaking while you try your best to keep meeting his eyes, all because you so desperately want to hear him speak again. Praising you — You are doing so well for me, so pliant, so adorable. Or scolding you — Pathetic, aren't you? Quivering like a rabbit, and all it took was a little brush with danger. You are amusing. 

Whichever he prefers. Because Viktor is so much stronger, so much smarter, and it hardly matters what he chooses to say, when any and all of it still gets you off. 

Deep within your heart, you know he'd never hurt you. He would take away your pain if you asked it of him, so you wouldn't have to feel it again. His words can be sharp, simply because he wants to protect you. He wouldn't even attempt to put his hand on your throat like this if he didn't have complete, total control over the Hexclaw's laser. Carefully, he observes your every movement for any sign of discomfort, calculating and controlling each aspect of your pleasure — and it only serves to make your heart pound faster. 

Of course, he can tell when you start to truly shake. He knows every inch of you is melting with overstimulation, and he's going to give you more. 

"Take it. I know you are capable." His voice gives you goosebumps, while his fingers press into you shallowly, but the smallest movements are more than enough to make a mess of you. "There, perfect, you are performing excellently. Relax. Continue breathing deeply, nice and slow breaths. I will take care of you, love." 

Love. 

"Don't-" You choke, trying to keep your eyes on his despite the way your vision wavers and blurs; your reaction is immediate, predictable, and instantly satisfying. "Don't stop…" 

You're beautiful like this, when you're underneath him. Since his enhancements, compared to his new body, you are now much smaller. He had to learn to adjust to the touches you need, to be gentle. Like you once were with him. Your roles, reversed in such a crucial way. You are undoubtedly strong in your own right, but when it comes to him, you are as sensitive as you are receptive. He needed to study how to keep from holding you too tightly, how to regulate his temperature to not burn your skin underneath his hands. 

You are a pretty sculpture of quivering limbs and glistening skin. Your chest heaving, eyes fluttering. As beautiful as you were back then, before this. Before he lost the warmth he felt in his chest every time he saw you, before feelings on their own became mere faded memories. His iron consequence, locking away his dying love. 

He gives you another. Three fingers press inside your dripping cunt, stretching you, filling you. A hand grips your side, his third lightly squeezing your throat — he works your pleasure for all it's worth, and has you gasping as he wrings out your aftershocks. 

Viktor's mouth can't help but twitch into the slightest smile. "Look at you. You are worthy of the world." 

He would give it all to you. 

The Machine Herald will have this city in his hands. His vision is moving fast and accomplishing much, so it is only a matter of time. If you wanted more, he'd just have to reach even further. Relinquishing his human emotions left him without the need to be happy, nor content. But you, your happiness, keeping you safe, seeing you smile. It is stupid, foolish, doesn't make sense; his mechanics stutter, until he thinks he is choking on his own contradictory tenderness. 

His body is betraying his mind. There is heat at his center, more than the normal amount emitted by his internal components. A very human, very filthy amount of heat. His skin underneath his armor is flushed and warm, his chest is aching from the weight of your heavy destruction. You are destroying him, and he can do nothing but allow it. 

"I missed you," You murmur earnestly, voice weak, close to shattering. Your eyes are closed. Why, why are those words making his hands and his limbs and his heart shudder? "I missed you so bad- don't stop, keep fucking me Viktor- don't, please don't stop talking…" 

Is that what you're imagining? 

So he doesn't stop. 

As you fall back against the table, Viktor removing the Hexclaw and letting go of your neck, he leans in to speak right against your ear. "I am proud of you, lubov. Infiltrating Piltover must not have been simple. You brought me more than I required, you did so with much efficiency. And you returned to me safely. Allow me to reward you. Fall apart for me, cum like I know you so desperately need to." 

Your body curls, your hands move to his shoulders and grip them impossibly tight in an attempt to keep yourself steady. "Vik- Viktor-" You're gasping, you're close, "Kiss me, please kiss me-" 

His hand holds your chin, the cool, rigid steel of his thumb swipes over your bottom lip; teasing you, making you whimper. Sliding further, into your mouth, until you're tasting the sharpness of metal. Until you're gently sucking, feeling the intricately crafted notches and joints on your tongue. When he pulls it out and kisses you hard, when his lips press to yours and your high-pitched moans become muffled on his mouth, you cum on his fingers hard enough to see the afterimage of stars. 

He's trailing kisses down your jaw while you pulse around him, your thighs shaking, your head tilting to let his mouth find your throat. In the wake of his soft kisses, his foggy breath, you melt, and fully succumb to your shuddering high. 

Working you back down is a slow, patient process. A kiss onto your neck for every gasp you take in, the feeling of gentle teeth once your body starts to fully relax. Everything you've wanted, everything you missed; far too tender for who he's become. 

There are faint marks on your neck by the time he pulls away. Signs he was there. Proof he is softer than he is meant to be. 

You could stop here. Instead, the next few moments happen in their own special space of reality. 

Away from this city, away from his lab. A different plane made for just the two of you. Your mind feels dizzy, heavy. Viktor meets your gaze, momentarily scanning your face, waiting to make sure you've calmed. 

He is all you can think of, all that has ever mattered. And even when he is right here, you miss him so, so much. 

You tremble from the end of your spine to the top of your shoulders when he carefully pulls his fingers from you. He brushes his palm from your thigh to your side in one steady, soothing motion. You can feel the scars on his palm, the slight hesitant tremor to his still-slick fingers. You're reaching up, palm pressing to his chest. You absently feel the various ridges of metal. Smooth to the touch, armor radiating the faintest flickers of heat. 

He glances down, watching your movement as your palm brushes further, further. Delicate fingertips trail the dips and outlines that continue down his stomach. Eventually, you reach as far as your arm will let you, your fingers drawing circles onto the rib-like sections of steel crossing just above his hips. As he glances back up to you, he finds your soft, pleading gaze to be already looking at him. As sweet as he's always remembered. 

Your breathing is heavy. "Vik," You're begging, "We shouldn't- I'm sorry. This is stupid. I know we should stop, but…" 

He is going to regret this. 

Before he can stop himself, before his mind and his systems can even be led to form a single rational thought, Viktor is pressing the palm of his Hexarm just above your head, flat to the table. He is leaning over you, he is finding your cheek with a soft hand and a gentle touch. He's pulling you in, crashing his lips against yours, and he knows you're right — you shouldn't continue. He shouldn't allow this. 

Machines do not feel. The Machine Herald feels nothing, and wants for nothing besides evolution. But Gods, you're kissing him like his lips are a drug, all you need after wanting to kiss him for so, so long. Since before you both became dim shells of what you once were. Your legs are wrapping around him, your fingers are brushing his face with such devastating tenderness, and Viktor believes he is feeling everything. 

He's reaching down between your gasps for breath that make gaps in your kisses, and he's deftly activating a set of small, circular mechanisms on either of his sides. The armor on his chest unlatches with a clicking noise, platings becoming loose, unaligned. 

The larger, more cumbersome sections of his armor, including his gauntlets, cape, and shoulder pieces have been discarded from the start, making the portion of chest armor come off as two simple halves. He has to pull away, sit up straight, and partially slide off of you to remove it all the way. Both pieces of armor hit the ground with a particularly heavy thud. 

Most of his body has been replaced. Underneath the metal armor, there's just more metal; sections of iron that've been fused to replace muscle and skin, alloyed parts that reinforce his thin frame. 

You have only seen him like this once. He was fixing some miscalibrated platings on his side, a wrench in one hand, the Hexclaw's laser busy welding a suitable replacement. Two thirds machine, and one part still human, he was definitely much different from what you remembered. Still, there were small sections of pale skin on his back, split where his spine had been reconstructed. And jagged scars, adorned by faint, dark moles. His messy hair still falls around his face just like you remember it. 

You wanted to touch — he says he can't feel, but would he sense your fingertips as they traced his scars, would he shudder as your hands felt his skin? If you kissed what remained of him, his hand and each of his fingers, his back and each of those pretty moles, his chest down to his stomach, could you alight new sensations in him? 

You've never wanted to touch him more than in this moment. 

The bottom portion of his armor comes off much easier, leaving just the thick sections that cover his thighs down to his legs, including the steel brace mechanism. You're only able to catch the faintest glimpse, before he's pulling you into another deep kiss — a kiss that burns with every moment lost, his body pressing you against the table and beneath him. Your arms wrap around him, palms trailing across his back. 

As they've always longed for, your fingertips feel the back of his neck: the ridges and hard edges of his spine, the solid base of the Hexarm, his soft skin. Viktor physically shudders. When one of your hands tangles in his hair while the other falls, landing upturned beside you, he kisses you harder, he absently finds your hand and holds it in his. Your fingers lace together. His hand feels so warm, still slightly larger than yours. His skin is scarred, your thumb brushing over calloused knuckles and thin, purple veins. Every touch is so tender, earnest, human, it's nearly unbearable. Your hand was meant to be in his. Even if it won't last. 

It's a strange sensation, when his body presses ever closer to your own. Metal leads down from his navel, across to his pelvis, trailing underneath the armor on his thighs as one smooth, solid construction. Partially welded into his skin, but seemingly designed to make some sections removable. It is warm like the rest of him, designed with faint ridges and indents. 

Your legs, locked around him at the ankles, encourage him to press ever-closer. He devours you, kissing you deeper than you thought possible. You sigh against his mouth, and hold on tightly to his hair. His body rocks against yours in an instinctual, clumsy motion. Close, pressing, grinding. Warm metal and those perfect little ridges grind between your legs, against your core, against your clit. And you practically jolt. 

Oh. You break away from the kiss to toss your head back with a breathy, pretty noise. Pleasure threads through you, thick and unrelenting. 

Viktor mumbles something that barely registers in your ringing ears: Should stop, you manage to make out. And then, Are you alright? 

"Yes, I just-" You mumble, panting hard, "Don't. Don't stop." 

So Viktor grasps your waist in a tight, yet careful grip. His eyes never leave yours, gaze burning with a fire you've never once seen. He guides you to press against him, grinds his body against yours until you're making a mess of the metal. Until the faint ridges are nudging your swollen clit just right, until the heat of the iron is burning through you, into you, and your slick arousal is glistening on the steel. 

Your mind and heart are racing. 

"Oh, fuck-" You're swearing, your words surely seeming broken; he finds your cheek, he tilts your head up towards him, and you can't decide if the gesture is tender, or possessive. "I need you, I really, really do." 

His body feels as though he just touched the surface of the sun, and Viktor hardly knows if the warmth is coming from his overloaded systems, or if it's surrounding him, heat drawn thickly from the friction between the two of you. Perhaps it's a mix of both. 

Either way, he is losing himself. It's all happening so terribly fast; when his body rolls against yours, and you whimper through a filthy utterance of his name, there is a clear, undeniable response. A tingling in his veins, an eager sensation that shoots from his back to his chest to his core, consuming everything like a wildfire, and threatening to envelop all of him. 

He doesn't even know what to do with this. How to silence these disruptions, how to get his stupid brain to stop picturing you shuddering beneath his form as he presses against you, presses inside you, and brands every inch of you with his own name — 

"Milaya," Viktor hums, and you swear, his tone sounds lighter, his voice sounds strained. "I have always needed you. I'm not- No, I want- I shouldn't…" 

Trailing off when you cry out, he swallows. His thumb brushes your bottom lip as he continues to guide you towards him. Sweat beads on your chest, your thighs. He instructs, partially shakily, "Keep looking at me. Please." 

You've rarely heard him stutter or falter, never seen him anywhere close to worked up. You hardly knew if he had the capacity to feel this way, even though he certainly wasn't built to, even though he definitely isn't supposed to. And isn't it all because of you? 

The way your gaze locks with his as he rhythmically rocks against you has your heart skipping beats. There's a slight softness to his cold eyes, to his expression, that you're sure no-one else has seen before. Not since back then. You are impossible to resist, and this definitely needs to stop, this is definitely too far — it's going even further when your hand reaches down, fingertips clumsily tracing the edges of the metal seared into his navel. 

He knows what you want. You're greedy, a glutton for punishment, a sweet, terrible fool. But if he's honest with himself, perhaps he is worse. You are pleading his name again, the sound echoing unendingly in his ears, and Viktor is removing the front-most section of the metal enhancement: a thin plate that forms a triangular shape from his hips, all the way down. 

When he presses against your form, the next sensation to bleed into you is much different. It's smooth, soft latex, shoving against you. The last layer remaining between you and him and — 

And you can feel him. Straining hard and heavy against his underclothes. Firm and warm as he rocks into you, grinding all of him onto your throbbing cunt. You aren't thinking, you can't think anymore. Not when Viktor is hard, and when your heartbeat is so damn loud in your ears, you couldn't possibly hear anything else. 

"Viktor," You're murmuring, your chest pleasantly aching. Pleasure welds with emotion, walking the same shaky line, until your heart is unfurling with delicate petals that fill your throat sweetly, consuming you wholeheartedly, "I love you." 

If Viktor's mechanized heart was still capable of faltering from its pre-programmed rhythm, he's sure it would be fucking pounding. 

Every part of him is set alight. Burning, he feels smoke in his throat, and swears he tastes fire. He's overloading, practically overheating, like a fragile body trembling with need and want, like a system with too many programs open at once — and oh Gods, it just keeps opening more. His vision has long since gone blurry, and every sound in his ears is thick, as though he's been submerged in deep water. 

How long have you wanted to say those words? He thinks of quiet days spent with you in Piltover, the lingering glances and faint touches he tried his hardest to forget. 

How long has he needed to hear you say them? 

Honestly, he could cry, if he was at all still capable of crying. His mind is a mess. Heat is threading through his circuits, devotion and desire, a terrible softness; he's so soft inside, it hurts. It actually hurts, and he believed he taught himself how to forgo any pain. 

Electricity and faulty Hextech sizzle in his core, radiating, echoing. His damn foolish, worthless, synthetic heart. He needs to hold you, fuck you, break you. To encode this sensation into his head and his blood, because forgetting the way your voice strummed those words would be worse than admitting he is too weak to discard them. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

He doesn't deserve this. He was not built to love. Love should be thrown out, along with everything else. Love is a weakness. You may be fine with placing your heart on railway tracks, you might not think twice before putting yourself in danger, but if anything were to happen to you, he might be entirely consumed. 

With his mechanized existence, he could soon become immortal. This longing would surely stick with him after you're gone, an eternity of something he could never understand. Swallowing him whole, holding onto him tight. Endlessly painful. But right now, when he is here and stuck in a dream at the same time, when he is more of himself than he has ever been, and you are all that exists in his veins, could he ever manage to stop? 

You are so close to so much more. So close to ruining everything — just one last layer, one more touch. One movement, one press of his palms to your figure before he slides into you, one last massive, unfixable mistake. 

"Vik, please, please, I'm-" You can barely hold on anymore, as much as you've been trying to. You curl into him, grinding back against him hard; "I can't, I can't fucking- hhah- I'm so close-" 

Your bodies rock together desperately, beckoning and wanting more of what they shouldn't have. His heat radiates into your skin, and your breath fills the air in thick, heavy huffs. You're still so wet, and it makes every movement slick and simple. Your hands feel his back, his shoulders, his steel jaw, his face. Anywhere you can touch, you're making the most of it. 

Viktor finds your chin, he holds it delicately, and when he says your name, it feels personal; devastatingly so. Like he could make a home with the familiarity laced through each syllable. He breathes them like he did back then, coveting you so deeply. Muttering it as one final plea. 

If he can't fix this, perhaps you can reconstruct this part of him. Could you show him how to live again, could you instruct his mechanized heart, and finally teach it how to skip? 

"I have you," Viktor sighs, because he's sure you want to hear his words as much as he needs to say them. He doesn't require a working heart, when he can let all of himself echo through his still-human soul. "I love you." 

Your chest bruises with sparks in the wake of his gentle voice. Still somewhat robotic. Spoken as though each individual, inevitable word is one he is learning to speak. I. Love. You. 

Your legs and arms wrap around him, holding him as close to you as he could possibly get. Exhaling shakily, your whines are broken, your nails digging into his back. They'll leave red marks onto his pale skin; he hopes they do. His chest is pressed right up to yours. Viktor allows his forehead to rest just barely against your own, utterly tender, and he melts, as your thudding heartbeat echoes through him. Body to body, scarred skin on softer skin. Delicate limbs held around a partial chassis of firm, strong metal. 

Helpless. Perhaps for you, he is the helpless one. 

It doesn't matter; everything is crumbling away, and the both of you are thrown right back into reality, because you are falling apart for him at last. One last time. 

You shake, liquid hot pleasure drips over you like burning wax, and you're left at the mercy of your blistering, final high. Another few deep grinds into each other are all you need — the both of you throbbing, his jaw tensing, Hexclaw twitching, stiffening, and radiating a powerful amount of heat. His eyes flutter, the artificial glow behind them flickering like a dying lightbulb. You hold onto him tighter, and he lets go of a slight noise. A quiet, shaky, all too desperate moan. 

You stay rocking against one another even while you're cumming, even after your voice is sore from chanting Viktor's name so loudly, you briefly worry that anyone just outside of his lab might've heard you. 

Finally stopping, you only begin to relax once your whole body is entirely spent. 

You breathe slowly. In, and then out. Deep, calming breaths. Your heart pounds with force. The room refocuses around you, the harsh light of his various lamps burning into the back of your eyelids and making you see colorful spots. Viktor waits a few moments, before he shakily pushes up to prop himself above you. 

There's a hum of ambient, grinding metal coming from him. The hiss of steam. The echo of small shudders, and forceful gasps. Your vision is still fuzzy, your limbs incredibly weak, but you notice when he reaches for something; the thin metal plating, which he secures back onto himself. 

Once your eyes are completely clear and your heart is beating to a normal tune, you're finally able to focus on him above you. In barely any time, with a half-machine's perfected efficiency, Viktor has already regained every last aspect of his composure. 

"Stay. You require rest," He instructs matter-of-factly, his tone filled with his usual sternness. His gaze scans you up and down methodically. "I will supply you with a change of clothes." 

Right. Viktor's heart can't shudder like yours. Soft sensations have no need to linger. You'd almost forgotten. This is what you were always bound to return to: you, an ally. And he is just a machine. 

Through heavy, lovesick eyes, you admire the sight of him above you. His thin figure, enthralled in shadow, light reflecting off of the metal sections of his outline. He runs a hand through his hair to push it from his face, a gesture you find particularly endearing and human. 

"Oh, don't worry," You hum casually, stretching your arms and legs out. Your voice is light, foggy and still weak. The table beneath you feels firm against your back, but with how lightweight your whole body feels, you couldn't care less. "I don't think I'm moving even if I wanted to." 

Viktor raises a brow just slightly. He taps your neck with a single smooth, metal finger. "And something needs to be done about these." 

Briefly, your expression shifts into confusion. You tilt your head, allowing his fingers to trail further, and they examine the base of your neck down to your collarbones; the marks he left on your skin are swiftly darkening, forming blotchy, pretty bruises. 

Realizing what he's getting at, you smile smugly. "Worried someone's gonna ask questions?" 

"Half of Zaun acknowledges you as my right hand. I am not worried. But they will ask. It could prove arduous." Viktor explains, his tone exceedingly controlled. "Come. Hold onto me." 

When you don't immediately move, he stares at you expectantly. So, despite your tiredness, you listen, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his middle loosely. Viktor lifts you with ease. His heavy boots clunk with each step, and he carries you just a few paces from the table, setting you down on your back, and onto the familiar, ripped-up leather couch. It shifts, accommodating your weight and his. Compared to the worktable, when your back hits the soft yet worn cushions, you feel like you're resting on clouds. 

Viktor shifts, starting to move away, but you keep your arms wrapped around him, and speak before he has the chance. 

"Vik…" You're purring, "Stay here." 

A brief look of contemplation crosses his face, categorized by the slightest pinch in his thick brows. You smile, and nearly wind up kissing him again. He doesn't attempt to pull apart from you when you drag him closer to yourself, your lips gently brushing his cheek. 

At first, he's overly stiff. His arm fits underneath your back to hold you out of mere obligation. In contrast, his metal arm is kept beside you, refusing to touch, steel-jointed fingers flexing absently. But once your hands trail up, your fingers tracing the back of his neck, before they run through his hair, he honestly, earnestly relaxes. 

Your body underneath him is comforting. Limbs entangled, your legs brushing steel and the rigid metal brace. His head leans gently into the crook of your neck, almost hesitantly, as though he isn't entirely sure where to place it. He can't help but fall against you, bodies pressed into one another naturally enough to form the same grave. If he ever came face to face with death, he would refuse to accept it, unless it was just like this. 

You let your tired eyes close. You allow yourself to focus on his warmth, on the weight of him, and you can almost pretend this is natural. That you are in the past, or perhaps residing in a much different future. You are both lovers, as you wished you would be; simple and uncomplicated, nothing more, resting together in the dizzying comfort of your afterglow. 

It'd be nice. Nicer than anything you've been afforded. The only problem is Viktor is all firm steel and hard edges. His metal hand shifts to hold your side, and his fingers are digging into your skin, gripping a bit too tight. His weight on yours is making it damn near difficult to breathe. And right now, he is very, very hot. 

You frown, your eyes fluttering open again. "You're overheating." 

"My internal temperature is regulated by a liquid cooling apparatus," Viktor murmurs, after a moment. "It seems to be malfunctioning." 

His voice is smooth, as it always is, but it sounds much warmer, much quieter, when it's spoken this close to your ear. You sigh softly, and shuffle a little under him, trying to get more comfortable. 

"Ah. That sounds concerning." 

"The device will adjust itself in time," Viktor clarifies. "If it does not, repairs will take a few minutes, at most." 

Your fingertips brush over his back. They feel the thick ridges of his spine, and the thin steel shape of the Hexclaw's base. It feels cool and lifeless under your palm. "This is cold, though." 

"It is inoperational. It stopped responding, I will need to reset it individually." 

"That so?" You huff in response, laughing a little. You hold onto him tighter, and lean your head into his shoulder. "Whatever. Just don't let go of me." 

He doesn't. You exhale a long, weak breath. Your hands tremble slightly, as they uselessly grip onto the sections of cold steel that frame his shoulders. Viktor stays perfectly still, and he allows you to hold onto him as tightly as you need to. This might be the last moment you'll have together. For a while, at least. He has much to attend to, after this. Some tasks he can work on at your side, with your assistance, preferably. Some missions he must complete alone. 

The next time you speak, your voice is so fragile, he thinks he should be holding it in his palms. Or else it'll break. 

"We shouldn't- or, I guess I shouldn't have said… you know." You shudder, shaking all over before you tense. You're holding him too close to allow him to see your face, but he can picture your expression: slightly playful, to attempt to hide your uncertainty. "Gods, I'm so stupid. But I meant it. And I just-" You laugh, "I'm sorry, Viktor. Maybe you were right. I've been way too reckless." 

Viktor has no need to ponder his answer. "I know. Don't apologize. You should be resting, our conversation can continue tomorrow." 

You breathe deeply, and he quietly murmurs, his voice echoing through your ears, "I love you, milaya." 

Fake. Expected. A ghost of choked-back emotions, of all-too tender moments already slated to become forgotten memories. But something is there, something that tells you he's trying. For now, you'll take it. It's more than enough. 

You are close to falling asleep; every one of your nerves, washed over by warm, inviting waves, enveloped in his persistent heat. As though he can sense your building exhaustion, Viktor rubs your back with slow, reassuring circles — as best he can manage, considering your shapes are pinned too close together. Your breathing evens out, and you relax into his touch. Your mind feels as heavy as your weary, weak limbs. 

Your love would be soft, he considers, distracted. Gentless personified, warm like your smile, like the radiant sun shining down on one's skin. Patient and alighting. Like being pulled by the wrists, wrested out of a rocky, dark sea — finally alive, and finally able to breathe. The still-human part of him feels in measures of softness. The mechanical part is much, much different. 

Heat is running through his veins. It's racing through his system, and he knows it isn't from any sort of malfunction. It burns. The taste of it is like sharp blood on his tongue, it spins in his head like the dizzy grinding of gears, sears through him with fraying wires and sizzling static. Pain and softness, forming a mix he might certainly call love, but might also swear to remove. 

There's a certain sharpness gnawing at him. A flickering, raw bruise, brutalizing him from between his ribs, regardless of his attempts to try and ignore it. Your efforts are failing. You are feeling, and that means you have failed. Even dying embers burn out the same as raging flames. 

You've drifted off, it would seem, your breathing slow, your body limp. So Viktor holds you just a bit tighter. 

For once, for the first time since he truly decided who he wanted to be and what he wanted to accomplish, he is lost. 

In the end, he is going to have to make a decision. One that will benefit his vision. Or one that will destroy him from the inside out. He must carve out these distractions, remove the sections of his heart that are faulty, or he must learn what it would mean to embrace them. 

It scares him, truly. Viktor, the Machine Herald, genuinely scared over something meant to be so trivial. Fretting over the one person he never wanted to lose, even though he was sure he'd already lost you. He wonders what his opposition would say, what those who view him as soulless might think, if they knew the truth. And if you knew? 

Just having to tell you, forcing himself to push you away, or coming face to face once more after he's altered his brain to completely forget you — No, the thought alone might be enough to seal his fate. 

He'll make up his mind before you wake. His head will become clearer, eventually. When your voice is gone from his ears, when your phantom touches tracing his skin have finally disappeared. Besides, this moment won't last, and he wants to savor what's left of it. 

Whatever happens next, wherever he takes this, he knows you will follow — to a different path, to a better future. Or to the ends of the earth. 

[sillysowa]

if i had a nickel for every time Viktor died i would have 2 nickels... WHICH IS WAY MORE THAN I'D LIKE PLEASE STOP KILLING HIM

[sillysowa]

HOLY FUCKING SHIT OH MY GODDDD THIS IS WHAT WRITING VIKTOR SHOULD LOOK LIKE I JUST DID A SOMERSAULT I LOVE YOU

— i’m in love with a dying man

rating: mature. or explicit? i’m not sure. angsty study on grief in unconventional forms. (mild) smut purely for poetic reasons

word count: 4,1k

pairing: viktor x gn!reader

cw: terminal illness. several mentions of death. everyone is horny in a heartbroken way, so grab a napkin—but not for the reasons you think. and yes, you may dox me for making you even sadder after whatever happened in ep 6.

—

He licks a tear off your cheek, and it seeps in between the bumps on his tongue, all prickly salt running down your face in two glossy trails of sorrow. Stinging, when his calloused thumb swipes over a puffy eyelid, only to inevitably fall to your lip and tug, nudging your mouth agape. His desperate grip softens when you oblige and arch, letting him grunt over the slope of your throat; wheezier than you remember, raw, rhotic and ravenous. The hard shift of his lungs is palpable under your hand, ruckling heavily in his sternum. It almost breaks down to a cough when he cants his hips into you, slanting one last slow, weak slam. Spilling all his pent-up frustration deep inside you through that bitter orgasm, leaving a clumsy mess of stickiness to dry on your inner thigh. Stilling for you to hold him through that collapse, grateful for the shaky hand that you firmly fist into his hair. Not receding until at least a few kisses are strewn upon your shoulder. 

It’s always like this now. Viktor clings to you, and you cling to him, nails digging into handfuls of him hard enough to draw blood, each embrace so tight your ribs might just break if he doesn’t retreat in time. And god does he wish to let it linger, to drag it out until eternity tumbles in—even if his eternity is reduced to a question of mere months at best, even if he must crawl out of a casket to have your touch back. 

The night you almost lost him still has you in shambles. You remember it all too well—hell, it’s almost like that acute smell of hospitals and doom still coats his skin, more slimline than it ever was, its once ivory shade fading to chalk-like disaster. The utter horror of crushing verdicts, endless heaps of bloodied handkerchiefs and palms so cold that even the heat of your breath fails to make the feeling of him any less chilling. 

The dark humor of sneaky death: she’s right around the corner, the cruelest of all mistresses. Ready to snatch him away whenever your fingers ghost over his spine, stroking a languid count over each prominent vertebrae. And no matter how tight you curl up beside him, she will supplant you, and her proximity can’t be measured in miles, feet, or inches. Because death is a termite—she gnaws at his very heart. And blooms metastases everywhere you still have him. She’s inside him. She’s merged with him into one.

At first, you denied it. Knuckles drummed against the wall in a frustrated fistfight, painting that scabrous canvas bright with your frustration. White and crimson—the speckled pattern of your hysteria. You recall how bad it stung, and how shame creeped up your spine—frightening and so, so sticky. Throttling, when he tended to that self-inflicted disaster, bandaging your smashed hand in motions sick to the core with gentleness. 

And it felt so ugly. Like you’ve grown to loathe everything around you: the doctors, for their disgusting prognosis; life itself, for being hardly fair. And even Viktor. Especially him—for slowly slipping out of your pale-knuckled grip. Well, red-knuckled, more like. That angry stunt did cost you a decent injury. White and crimson, remember? 

Naturally, grief doesn’t always progress by the book. However, denial always comes first. It’s an axiom, an invariable component, and you’re sitting on Viktor’s hospital cot, hand in trembling hand, eyes snapped wide and ferocious. Wrapped up in fear while the silence rings in your ears. 

His doctor addresses the quandary. It doesn’t feel vicious—at least, not yet. Flimsy, more like. Deceptive, too. Like if you just blink it away hard enough everything will snap right in place, and you’ll find yourself at home again—where that aseptic smell of medication can’t reach either of you. 

Well, of course, there’s always a possibility of postponing the inevitable. Winning over a year or, even, two—if Viktor’s lucky enough, that is. But you both know that he’s lacking in that department.

And yet, you grab your little hope by the throat: to look into later, when your comprehension is intact again. Surely, it’s just not plausible: so what if Viktor’s cough pulls you out of sleep every night, so what if every shirt he owns has tiny blood stains on it? Yes, he spends more time in bed than he does at the lab. He’s simply tired. He needs the rest. Not in peace. 

The retraction doesn’t linger, though. It survives a few more blood tests and a lengthy, dreadful discussion of his calamity—most strikingly frightening when the doctor talks him through each option. And not a single one manages to appease you. To stop your fury from retching out and causing an ugly scene. 

So you fling the door to his room ajar and leap inside with a bitter scowl, teeth gritting hard enough to crumble into powder. Arms a tight crisscross over your chest, step wide and listless—punctuated with a muffled clack of heels. Viktor’s eyes follow your tremulous circles—a lazy, sheenless flick of pupils, each widened into a bleak void from the rancid dose of painkillers. He lays supine, with his hair ineptly slicked back, umber waves awry, loose and sweat-damp. He’s almost mellow, tongue barely a glide over his chapped bottom lip—a martyr-like stiffness, the carrion of a man. 

But you don’t look at him. You pace, and pace, and pace—in that same tiring route, all around his creaky cot. Viktor rasps something indistinct—a muffled plea that tickles the back of his throat, rupturing yet another coughing fit. You silently hand him the speckled handkerchief. 

He looks up, eyes the saddest shade of buckwheat honey—dark with remorse; seeking comfort. But you don’t have any to give. You stare past him, gnawing at your tongue hard enough to draw fleshy copper. Dodging the kiss he tries to press to your wrist—pulling yourself back and out of his loving grip, igniting a staring competition full of glassy eye-daggering. Blink slow and borderline drowsy. 

“Milackú,” he pleads. Pulls at the corner of his mouth to wipe the bloody evidence of his withering. 

Your tear catches in your bottom lashes. 

“Milackú,” he rasps again, kicking the blanket aside. Stepping one bare foot on the cool tiles and reaching for you: arms, legs, and heart—all yours for the taking. If only you consider crawling under his minty sheets again. 

You don’t. 

“Why?” It’s so meek you barely recognize it as your own. Taut throat tightens even more, and, suddenly, you’re choking on a gasp. “Why did you turn down the treatment?” 

“Please, if you could just—“ He husks, but you can’t hear him through the ringing in your ears; the room already smudged into wattery, astigmatic lumps, Viktor’s face but a bunch of fuzzy dots you’re struggling to make out. All missing jigsaws, blurry little fractions. 

“What did I ever do to you?” You yell, shielding your eyes. Turning away from the arm he extends, his weak fist clenching to grab thin air, then tumbling as he stares at his palm in sheer dubiety, upper lip trembling. 

He winces. Ceases you by the hand and tugs as hard as it gets—frail enough for you to easily nudge him away—but you don’t bother this time. Your knees ungainly bend into shaky arcs, drifting apart when he clasps around you and pulls until you finally land on the sheets next to him, your tears mingling with his cold sweat—a salty fusion of mutual suffering.

Then comes a sequence of guttural, squealing whines and you stay twined with him for a while. Lithe fingers run through your hair, spreading to untangle an occasional knotted strand—up, and down, and over your shoulder in a caress. His lips purse on your temple, sucking an indistinct kiss. His heartbeat trails off under your fingertips the second you rake them over his thin hospital gown, growing frenetic again when you tug at the fabric, demanding closure.

“Please. Please don’t do this to me.” You exhale your choked up entreaty into his neck and it pours over his skin in a rigid breath, aftertasting of stinging desperation. His hand seeks your face, taking a forcefully gentle hold of one puffy cheek, drinking in your unsightly, woebegone rebuke. Looking at you like a repentant devotee, his timid eyes meeting your fierce ones.

“This is not about you,” he wheezes, too stern for your liking. Presses his forehead against yours and holds you through yet another shudder—and there’s no avoiding his pleading stare. “I’m not trying to get away from you. I merely want to escape my conundrum.” 

“These aren’t mutually exclusive, Viktor,” you hiss, voice simmering with betrayal. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“Unfortunately?! Is that all you have for me right now?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

He sighs like he means it. His words keep slipping away from him, drowned in coughs and ambiguous humms. You get it, though. Your semantics became sparse the minute Viktor almost died in your arms. 

You melt into one-another in a teary, sniffling twine—simply breathing, trading tense silences. His stately stance collapses into a lifeless hunch, straightening a bit only when your fingers billow over his shoulder-blades—chiseled like ones of a famished dog. There are plenty of dog-like things about him now—the pleas lodged in his glances, the newfound hunger for your touch. Especially for the way you’re holding him; every embrace like a loving headlock—and the pressure soothes him. 

“I’m tired of taking risks,” he finally whispers against your temple. “All these… labored efforts for mere fractions of peace. Decaying steadily. Constantly hurting. I’m spent.” 

“Exactly. Which is why you need the treatment.” 

His lashes shudder against your cheek in a prickly tickle. They keep fluttering when he recedes, shaking his head with a bitter frown.

“But its success is… highly improbable.” 

“Yes, but there’s still hope—“

“It’s running thin as we speak. I shouldn’t squander it on… the imminent.” 

Viktor’s irksome choice of words had you springing backwards in glossy-eyed delirium. Staring in disbelief as if he’d requested something inexorable: which he did, inherently so. 

He curses when tears slice your face again—tends to them with the softness of a man most contrite of his omission, shaky hands already catching holds of your waist, using your temporary pliancy to swiftly nudge you into his cot. Curling up close enough to have your weeps reverberate in his sternum. 

“I’m sorry,” he repents with a deep rasp. “Please, don’t cry.” 

He held you in reticence again: this time horizontally. Offered you every solace his body could provide: your fingers in his hair, fumbling mindlessly (he put them there himself). Tangled legs. Apologetic neck-kisses. His head heavy on your shoulder, its weight a welcome tranquility. And only when your last tear soaks his pillow does he commence with his explanation. 

“I don’t want to spend what little time I have left miserable,” he tells you, drawing a breath. “Yes, the treatment might win me a year—a year I would spend bedridden, nauseous, and weary. A travesty of life. An illusive salvation. I’ve had enough of those.” 

Your hand stills in his hair, nestled within unkempt strands. You’ve run out of tears, so this bitter truth is met with nothing but a piteous sigh—the only thing you can still master after crying your heart out into his skin. Now you can only stare at the ceiling, chewing on your cheek in cruel denial. 

He’s right. He always is. 

Viktor sees the shift in your face—knits his eyebrows together in tender pity, tucking himself firmly against your face. Wincing, when he feels the aching tension in your temple. 

“I know I’m asking a lot of you. Too much, even.” He’s sincere when he says that, and you can sense the gratitude in his voice—for even allowing him to utter this excruciating of a thing, for attempting to understand. 

You simply nod. Yes. It is a lot. But you want to hear everything he has to say. 

So Viktor continues.

“I would hate for your last memories of me to be tainted with despair and hospitals only for all the struggle to go to waste when I inevitably pass away. I have no desire to postpone this torture at the expense of growing indifferent towards everything that makes me feel alive.” 

“But what if we manage to cure you?!”

“That’s too much of a ‘what if’ to risk dying a grim death for. I want to die…content. I want to enjoy myself before I do. Please. Don’t take that choice away from me.”

His eyes brim at you with every ounce of guilt he possesses, big tears wallowing in his eyes like an earnest plea—tacit, weary, earnest. Yes, it’s not like you have a word in his terrific decision, but Viktor wants your blessing. It’s only right that he includes you. Even if he’s intending to refuse the treatment regardless. As absurd  a bid as that is. 

You clasp his face like it’s about to vanish. Like you won’t be able to make it out when he’s gone if you fail to remember it right this instant, your gaze frantically jumping from one feature to another, seeking to embroider the image into your very eyeballs. Roaming over the artifically-white hospital light hallowing every streak of his hair. Indulging in a bittersweet smile when you note how prettily it spills over the pillow. Lingering on the patterns in his ochre irises—almost fully swallowed by his void-like pupils. Observing how they match the insomniac, mauve shades under his bottom lashes. Tracing every convex little thing—two lovely moles, thick eyebrows, the pointy mouth. Everything you’ve grown to love so dearly. Everything his illness keeps taking away from you. 

You wince, cradling his cheeks, your thumbs dipping into the hollows of them gently. Urging him to scoot closer—eye to eye, lips on lips. Breath over shuddering breath. 

“Are you sure?” You mouth the question on his skin, barely even uttering it. Hot pressure meanders into your head like a prickly impulse. It’s timid like motion sickness—borderline nauseating, too—all murky splashes of trippy lights under your closed eyelids. And the unease is diluted only when he finally kisses you—an approbatory, guilt-ridden thing. 

He’s certain. And for that, he’s so, so sorry. 

You try not to think of it, focusing on the feeling. No tongue, no teeth: just sheer tremor and so much rawness. A soft, soothing exhalation straight into your mouth like the gentlest of placebos—and yet, it works for you, slaps your pulse out of its frantic antics, and the stiffness slowly leaves your limbs under his touch. 

When it’s over, he winces at you in that sleepy, adoring way of his. Attempts a wry, sad smile. The cold light besieges his head into an even clearer halo—a foreshadowing of what is to come, an inconspicuous little thing. But everything about him is conspicuous to you. Loving Viktor has made you wary, and you wanted to hold onto that attention to the detail before it eventually slips away alongside him. 

 “Are you sure?” You repeat, tightening the inadvertent chokehold around his neck. The grip weakens only when he pulls away to clumsily clear his throat. 

“Yes.” And you know he means it when his face turns just as solemn as when he confesses his love to you. 

“I’ve had a nice life with you,” he adds, hoarsely. “I want it to feel nice when my time comes, too—whenever that might be. Sooner than later, I presume.” 

The figurative knife in your stomach twists anticlockwise. 

“Will you stay with me?” He dares to inquire. Meek, shaky hope tingling in his throat. “For however many months I have left?” 

And when you look up at him with a hurt frown, he’s reminded not to ask you rhetorical questions. 

— 

A few days later, Viktor is discharged from the hospital and insists that you both go back to normal. Well, to the new, tainted definition of it—where one spoiled napkin less is considered an ephemeral improvement and grief is a fixed variable by your side. 

Your slow-paced, quiet life that keeps turning even more timid in a frail attempt to savor what’s left of it. Faux preservation, but he allows it—savors it just as earnestly as you do, and your weeks weave into a darling, familiar routine. With some minor, necessary changes, no less: rest comes before the lab now, all deadlines fashionably late to accommodate this newfound tempo. Mandatory hourly breaks. Weekly check-ups. Four days off for every three he spends bent over the parchment. But this time, he doesn’t protest. His body demands it, inconveniently so.

You don’t tell anyone about your horrific arrangement—not yet, at the very least. It’s all you can think about, and the words threaten to slide out every time you speak—but you’re forced to swallow them with a smile so lopsided that everyone around you can only suspect the worst. A mantra of countless ‘What’s wrong’s irritating your ears with pure sincerity. 

What is wrong with you, indeed? You’re a spectator to death—not just any death, but the one you dreaded most. And not only are you witnessing it in the making, but this decision was never forced—you handed Viktor the choice and accepted whatever he went with so obediently that it felt absurd, and it had your skin crawling every time someone vaguely mentioned anything even remotely related to his condition.

But they—whoever that refers to—could never get it. They wouldn’t know what it’s like: to be stripped of your selfishness for the sake of Viktor’s peace. Defying your needs. Forcing yourself to find relief in demise. You might’ve failed to intimidate her into allowing you to keep him, but you could still accompany him into her arms and make it glorious. Here it is. Your new, appalling reason. It’s all that you want now.

Or is it? 

There’s plenty of nobility in being his chaperone—welcoming him into bed every night, painfully aware that it can become his death one. Treating every new invention of his like a soon-to-be postmortem legacy. Mourning the living. Anticipating the inexplicable. Marking every shared kiss the last, just in case. 

But then it came—unabashed and sudden. That blurry line where mourning merges into something dubious, a confusing paradox that leaves you full of filthy carry-over somewhere within your gut. The scorch his lips engrave into the column of your neck. The way it ignites a swell you can almost convince yourself is actually tangible, running your fingers over it recursively like a tactile little prayer. The gaze he throws at you across the lab ever so sneakily—a figurative punch that feels surprisingly close to a kiss. And you never resist turning it into one. Escalating. Claiming. Indulging those ambiguous, yet-to-be-defined things and having them wash over the remnants of your decorum. 

You try to fight it when it first happens, but it doesn’t last. There’s no place for restraint in grief—not when it turns into a beautiful desire to be all over him, to take everything life has to offer before he runs out of it. And Viktor doesn’t judge you. He encourages it. He craves it, just as bad—if not more—than you do. How many more undoings can he claim before the final one absorbs him? You’ve already lost that count. So much for having your love bleed on every inch of his skin.

Tonight you let it bleed mouth to mouth—a sweaty, heartfelt thing that commemorates your hunger for him in a kiss so dizzying that he has to lean back with a silent, breathless plea for brief interlude—foggy eyes staring up at you so devotedly. Shuddering, when your arms wander over his chest to feel the rasp, pointed lips bruised full of spit-slick swell. He’s a beauty—exquisite, albeit worn-down, his lines and angles blurring together into one eager, contourless essence, and you cage him in a firm straddle—your bare thighs over his clothed ones—grinding in a whiny attempt to reach him through his pants. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, leaning back to let him breathe. He’s sprawled out beneath you, tortuous hands already busy with tugging his tie off—impatient, clumsily nervous. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” you say at last, averting your gaze almost shyly. His fingers lurch to your hip, locking it in a gentle cradle, stilling above your backside in hesitation—asking for a laze caress, pushing your flimsy limits. As if forgetting that you never set those for him. Or, perhaps, he simply likes hearing your excited ‘yes’ every time. You can’t quite figure out which it is. 

He grabs a handful of you with reverence, and yet there’s something resilient about that grip—like he dreads that you might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on possessively enough, staring up at you with his head thrown back in a curious, admiring droop. Aiming to dispose of your shirt in a nimble pull. Plotting a sequence of kisses from neck to collarbone. 

You expect it when he rises on his elbows, then grips the bedframe to shift beneath you in a silly leap. Inelegant, but he couldn’t care less, releasing his hips from the hedge of your legs to make you slide up his crotch instead—a most welcome, brusque change that you adapt to in a squealing instant. Your moaning mouth agape under his grin. His hips thrusting through restraining fabric. Shaky. Erotic. With your arms tumbling astride his shoulders. 

“Don’t apologize,” Viktor insists in a lulling whisper, switching to a cautionary nip on your ear. “I’ve missed you, too,” he confesses somewhere into your hair, brushing through it with a tip of his nose—breathing you in through a tender whiff.  

Your words get lost in a deep fluster, rolling back into your throat and lingering there in a suffocating lump. They have you stiffening, heavy eyelids squeezing shut—a voluntarily blindfold to help you explore him through touch only. An invitation to feel you where he pleases. And, well—it just so happens that your whims align with his—a cohesive, welcome collateral. 

Viktor starts at the slope of your shoulder. Pulls the shirt down and traces that lovely curve—fingers first. Throws a brief, askance glance at your face to make sure that your eyes are closed, and, when met with the flutter of your lashes, gets back to his lovely tease. Tender, warm lips taste your skin with delicious, savoring sounds. Getting wetter when his tongue makes a fickle appearance—leaves a slick, capricious lick in the dip of your collarbone, fluffy hair tickling your face when he bends to tend to your chest, too—and you shiver as he sucks a plum love-stain that you’ll proudly wear under your shirts. 

“See,” he cooes. “Whatever gets into you must be contagious.” 

You give in to a half-lidded peek and find him begging for your assistance—a sweet request that you understand in half-nod. Arms up in the air and over your clouded head when he unleashes your skin from the thin garment—throws it on the floor for you to find later in the morning. 

“But it feels wrong.” You sigh. “Ever since we found out…”

“I’d rather you quit talking about that in bed, please,” Viktor reproaches, eyes heady with want. His fingers slide into your underwear, contemplating its fate—should he make it join your shirt or pull it to the side in hasty fashion? Either approach had him shivering at the thought. 

But the sudden sorrow stops the rush, rendering your urge for consolation. It wraps you around him all over again, legs locking in a tangle around his waist, drooping hands combing through his hair in a brusque, fervent tug. Seeking succor. Heart to heart and thumping an anxious march. 

“I’m afraid,” you admit, but it’s not a revelation. All shuddering shoulders under his idolatrous caress, and you pang with guilt at that, too—it’s you who should be fondling him this delicately, warm reassurance seeping into his ears—not yours. But Viktor wants to be your comfort. If anything, it’s the only thing on his mind.

“What are you afraid of, beloved?” A little shiver at the unforeign endearment—a rare occasion. His thick brows still drawn together in a concerned arc. They relax only when you rake your fingers down his body—counting ribs, toying anxiously. The hurry is gone, there’s only caution now: his enamored eyes, waiting for you to find your slippery words. 

“Of losing you before I get to show you how much I love you.” You whisper, suddenly tasting teary salt in your mouth. His thumb comes to the rescue, swiftly flicking the wet trails. So you chuckle at the affection in a silly stagger to bump sweaty foreheads together.

“Nonsense,” he insists. “You’re showing me right now.”

“Indeed.” You shrug. “But… Is this the right way?” 

And when he puts your palm over his eager heartbeat, you’re reminded not to ask him rhetorical questions. 

—

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @nausicaaandhermouth @thehistoriangirl @vyshnevska

[sillysowa]

Omg famwhy ily

WHENEVER GOJO SATORU CUDDLES WITH YOU—

—it feels... constricting. Like you can't breathe.

He lays his head on your chest, fluffy white hair tickling your jaw, and wraps his arms around your waist; squeezing and squeezing and squeezing—until your guts start to merge, and your lungs fail to expand.

He pushes his whole weight right onto your breasts, cool ear pressed flat against your shirt—listening—as his fingers crawl underneath it, once again, pushing.

Whenever Gojo Satoru cuddles with you—it feels... engrossing. Like he wants to consume you.

He leaves no gaps between you, covering you whole, the clam shell to your pearl—hiding your beauty as he selfishly gobbles you up so he can keep you to himself; keep you away from others.

He melts against you, as if trying to make your two bodies one; trying to cocoon you. He always holds your shirt in his hand, scrunching it up harsh enough that it tears, and when it does, when his fingers finally make contact with your bare skin, he lets out a deep breath, and closes his eyes in bliss.

Whenever Gojo Satoru cuddles with you—it feels... threatening. Like you can't leave.

His grip on you is tighter than a bow-string, and yet somehow—someway—it grows even tighter when you shift. And just like that, you can't breathe all over again, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as he coos and gently wipes them away, grip still so tight.

"Oh no baby, don't cry. I only wanna hold you for a little longer. Can I?"

Whenever Gojo Satoru cuddles with you—it feels like a warning.

[sillysowa]

i love finding blurbs like this

friday nights.

satoru gojo

“hold still…”

your command comes as a soft murmur as you guide the wand of your white mascara over your boyfriend’s eyelashes. he tries to obey, though involuntarily his eyes twitch and his pink lips press together in a crinkled, tight smile as though he is holding his breath.

“please don’t stab me in the eye, their my best feature,” he hisses slowly, and you only lean in closer with intense focus, legs squeezing over satoru’s waist as your abdomen presses gently to his.

“relax, i know what i’m doing,” you whisper.

long fingers smooth gently over your bare thighs and to your waist, pressing in gently to hold you close and busy his restless urges. you keep a hand cradled to the pearly soft skin of satoru’s jaw as he breathes in and out calmly, crystal hues staring at your concentrated face as the first stroke swipes upward and over his already quite long lashes.

you dust a strand of snowy hair from his forehead that has snuck away from the band that holds his hair back from his face, freeing the space of his forehead and only accentuating the electricity of his model-esque features.

you feel satoru’s chest jerk slightly, a swift shot of air blowing from his nose and into your face, and when you look down you see his lips curling with laughter. “feels funny,” he explains quickly, hushedly as though he should not be speaking. “do i look prettier yet?”

“i’ve barely even started, toru,” you chuckle lightly, a flutter of heaven that hits your boyfriend’s ears and encourages the tender caress of his hand over your curved back.

“i know, but i wanna see what it looks like.”

“you will, just give me a second…”

“you do this every day?” he asks, blinking accidentally before popping his eyes back open widely when he realizes his mistake. you reel your hand and the mascara back an inch.

“most days, and i told you to be still,” you eye him. his eyes lock to yours, a dimple prodding into his cheek with the approach of a sheepish grin.

“sorry, keep going. i want you to make my eyelashes look just like yours.”

“baby, yours are much longer than mine,” you sigh, leaning back in and cautiously stroking the brush of white ink across his. “if anything, this’ll make you look like you have extensions.”

“i still like the way you do yours, princess,” he smiles. “they’re so pretty.”

“but yours are beautiful,” you counter. satoru gazes over you as you press yourself further into him, lips hovering over his as your brows furrow with the finishing touches you apply.

satoru’s eyes grow heavy, and he doesn’t even give you time to pull the wand away before pushing his head up gently to meet your lips with his. the wand, consequently, swipes lightly upward and over his upper lid.

he pulls back, head hitting the pillow again with a satisfied smile, three streaks of white lining over his skin. “satoru!” you cry, and he hums, sliding a hand to your cheek once you lower the tube from him.

“go ahead, pretty, do the other one.”

“you got mascara all over your eye,” you roll your eyes with a giggle. you set the wand down and swipe your tongue quickly over your thumb before rubbing it over the marks.

“ew,” the white haired man beneath you playfully cringes and you roll your eyes.

“shut up.”

satoru’s eyes crinkle with another laugh, hands settling back onto your upper thighs as you fix up the small error, the two of you soaking into one another’s closeness.

-> trying something new for the little thoughts i have that are too small for fics :) yay or nay to blurbs?

[sillysowa]

haven’t even read this yet but i’m already kicking my feet excitedly

"mutual understanding"

part 1.

modern | business au, business heir!gojo, hints of fluff, banter, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage

satoru gojo x reader

Synopsis: you, the daughter of a wealthy law firm ceo, are forced into a binding arrangement with your father's competitor's son for the sake of his company

to sum it up: you've always hated satoru, and now you're expected to marry him for your father... how the hell were the two of you meant to get along?

WC: 19,667

Warning(s): none

-> i'm alive guys! so sorry about the delay, i've been super busy but i come home from vacay in a week and should be back to a normal uploading schedule soon! i hope you enjoy, i got carried away with this one :) [also requests are still paused as i catch up on those submitted before i traveled!]

You found this entire ordeal to be absolutely ridiculous.

You sat in the corner of the room on one of your father’s lavish couches, arms crossed frustratedly as though you were a toddler having been shunned to time out. In many ways, however, it almost felt like you had. Your father had grown tired of your bickering and disdain over this stupid arrangement, and had sent you to quietly sit at the other side of the room and to not serve as any more of a ‘distraction’ he claimed you had already become.

I mean, how unfair was this bullshit?

Not only was your father orchestrating your entire future before your eyes without allowing you a say, but he was doing so in collaboration with his previously opposing company; his former competition. You glared angrily ahead into the back of the elder, snowy white haired man’s head as he presented a contract that your father bent over the desk to put pen to, then gritted your teeth as the said men tossed their heads back in scheming, haughty laughter in response to some throwaway joke that was made, making amends at your expense. 

Your father had always taught you the importance of business expenses and exchanges for the sake of successfully pushing forward, but was this all really necessary? You were twenty five years old, having just completed law school, and this was where your father wanted you to be, cramped inside his eloquently stuffy office with the head of the Gojo Firm, feet away from his heir who your father is forcing your hand to in marriage. 

You clicked your teeth at the sentiment, having listened to his seemingly endless rants about the Gojo Firm and their business practices that he oh so frowned upon, yet were the same practices that brought the two companies neck and neck with each other, and at times, the Gojo Firm ahead of your father’s.

“Those Gojos,” your father would hiss through gritted teeth, pacing his office. “Such arrogance. They don’t even bother to polish themselves the way we do, and yet, they’re constantly climbing the ranks! That head of theirs will be the very death of me, and don’t even get me started on his Satan spawn of a son they call an heir-”

Yeah, the same Satan spawn that your father was suddenly springing onto you for the hope of a lifelong commitment. He was such a hypocrite, feigning a bright, gasy grin as he shook hands firmly with his enemy, clasping his other firm hand over their conjoined ones to solidify the commitment. 

He had not even bothered to ask you what you felt about the entire ordeal. He begged you not to complain or misbehave, but you felt he should have known his daughter better than to be one to sit back and complacently accept the forceful conjoining of her life with another snobby little nepotism baby for the sake of the company. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t understand why your father was making you go through with this. You knew perfectly well that choosing to make amends and to bind the notorious families together by means of marriage would work wonders for all of you in the end, and you wouldn’t have had to work another day in your life, but it simply wasn’t what you wanted. You had your own goals, your own aspirations, and marriage in your mid twenties had never, ever been a part of those plans. 

Additionally, you’re unsure if your father’s opinions bleeding into yours were to blame, but you simply could not stand the man you were expected to be marrying. 

You snuck a harsh glare over into your right direction, peering angrily at the Gojo Firm heir, who leaned back into the adjacent sofa with his long legs spread out so widely before him as he sank into the cushions. A look of resenting apathy splayed over his expression, eyes staring emptily forward as he tuned out whatever his father was yammering on about. 

You scowled at the very sight of him. 

If you were to be deciding upon yourself to engage your life to another human being’s before your life had truly even begun, Satoru Gojo would not have been your first pick. In fact, he would not have even made it as a contestant within the race to capture your heart. You doubted that Satoru was any more interested in you than you were in him, but you didn’t care. You felt you had reason to dislike him, when he merely appeared to be pouting about getting tied down. 

You had the misfortune of crossing paths with the twenty six year old a few times before, and each time you saw him, he made it a point to remind you of his father’s advantage over your own. He’d stop in his tracks upon seeing you on the street, at a shopping district or climbing out of your father’s limo to enter a restaurant, and the same, sickening smirk would curl its way onto his porcelain features, crystal eyes slimming in judgment and pride as he peered over you, pressing you for a reaction as though he enjoyed to watch you doubt yourself at his manipulation.

He was exceedingly pompous, he was childish, and he had no manners. He did as he pleased, and while the two of you were in the same boat in regard to your privilege and your parents’ success weighing down on your own lives, he behaved that much more uncouth than you did. You at least had the decency to practice what you liked to call normal human decency, despite your ranking as the 1%, but Satoru Gojo behaved just the opposite. He paraded around gallantly, flaunting his riches, blabbering on about his future reception of his father’s company, which was and remained the “best law firm in Japan, if not the entire world,” according to his own beliefs. 

You had often curled your nose in disgust at Satoru's behavior. How someone could have been so blatantly self involved, you didn’t understand. You believed he was the very reason as to why the world frowned upon the richer, isolated sanction of the world, though you could have probably chalked that idea up to naivety since you yourself remained on the inside looking out, struggling to understand the issues society had with you all. 

Nevertheless, you believed yourself to be better than the Gojos tenfold, and far better than Satoru Gojo could have ever been, but now, you had to harbor that hatred elsewhere, channel it into something other than your… dreaded fiance. 

Satoru took notice of your gaze on him and turned his head to catch your eye boredly. He curled an irritated brow at you, and you rolled your eyes, turning away staring angrily forward once more. You could feel those pools of ocean blue seering into you after you looked away, likely challenging you to see how long you could ignore him. You clenched your jaw, tightened your crossed arms and pushed yourself further back into the seat of your chair.

After what had felt like forever, your parents turned to you with the freshly signed contract within their grasp.

“Kids,” Gojo announced. “I do believe (L/n) and I have come to an agreement. Have you come to an understanding?”

You refused to answer, shaking your head subtly in opposition as you turned away. Silence filled the air as Satoru looked to you, then back to his father with a disinterested face.

“Dad, can’t we just reconsider?” he sighed. “Clearly the girl can’t handle a business collaboration.”

You perked your head up, whipping it into his direction. “Um, excuse me? The business collaboration isn’t the problem, it’s who I'm doing it with and how.”

“(Y/n),” your father warned, throwing you a testing look. You tossed your hands up and leaned forward, curling your lips downward.

“What? I can’t speak my mind anymore?”

“Maybe you just need to speak a little less in general, how about that?” Satoru posed, tilting his head over his shoulder to raise his eyebrows at you challengingly. “I’m sure you’re much prettier that way. Sitting in silence, yeah?”

Your gaze upon him hardened as your already bubbling irritation grew the longer those eyes of his zoned in on you and the brattier his attitude became. As unhappy as you deemed him to be with your parents’ transaction, he was still working hard to make it seem as though you were the only individual making this process of your engagement difficult.

“I’m not the one who has an issue with sitting in silence, blabbermouth,” you shot back.

“Sure you don’t, honey. As if I didn’t just watch your daddy tell you off for complaining.”

“You know what-”

“Enough,” your father’s voice ordered, a resounding boom throughout the space. You rolled your eyes, tossing your head away as Satoru looked up, his amused smile lingering though his eyes whispered a hint of vexation from your father’s interruption. “Whether the two of you like it or not, our family’s our conjoining through your commitment to each other.”

The very sound of the notion made you physically ill. “But dad, can’t we just-”

“(Y/n),” he stopped you. “As I have said numerous times, the decision is final. The papers have been signed.”

You clicked your teeth. “I heard you the first fifty times.”

“Then I do not know what more you wish to dispute about.”

You didn’t miss the swift manner in which Satoru breathed out a puff of amusement beside you, swiping his fingers over his mouth and clearing his throat to pretend as though he had not produced the noise.

His father, however, caught wind of the little action as well and turned his head stiffly to him, a cold admonition wavering over his worn expression. Satoru’s smile faded, his hand remaining over his mouth as he looked off to the side with hardened brows. 

“Clearly the issue of the two of you butting heads remains,” your father continued. “Therefore, I suggest that you find a way to get along, and to do so promptly.”

“Does marriage have to mean that we like each other?” Satoru questioned, raising a brow and lifting his hand from his mouth, elbow propped on the arm of his seat.

You scoffed. “Clearly not in this case,” you mumbled.

“Look, we are not naive enough to believe that the two of you would begin to have feelings for one another,” the Gojo head said, leading you and Satoru to grumble in agreement with the sentiment. “But the very least that you can do, for the decency of our families, is to try to be cordial with one another.”

“Yes. Go out for drinks. Take a drive. Treat one another to dinner,” your father suggested. “Do something to build the slightest bit of rapport with one another. To the public, you must at least appear that you tolerate each other.”

Tolerate? Please, what a joke! Your father could barely even tolerate the man beside him, and yet you were being forced to shake hands with the heir that your family had always despised. 

“You expect me to go out to dinner… with him?” you frowned in displeasure.

“Dinner should be the least of your worries now, sweetheart. We’re getting married,” Satoru reminded you.

“How could I possibly forget,” you exhaled wearily. “How long exactly do we even have until the wedding? If you expect us to be ‘cordial,’ I hate to tell you, but even thinking about doing that with him would take years. If I’m being generous.”

“Awww, do you really think I’m that bad?”

“Yes.”

Satoru’s father made a poor attempt to hide his disapproval of your behavior before your father interceded once more. “You have two weeks.”

You and Satoru bolted upward. “Two weeks?!”

“We have been discussing this cooperation for quite some time now,” Gojo said. “There’s no need to delay any further. The quicker you are married, the quicker we all benefit.”

“But-” you stammered in disbelief. “You’ve been discussing everything without us! What about the preparations? How the hell are we gonna get those done in two weeks?”

“The preparations have already been put in motion.”

“Are you serious? Wh- and my dress? The decorations? The-”

“The Gojo estate will be taking care of it all. You will not need to worry about such things,” Satoru’s father responded. “Though, there is a schedule for those aforementioned tasks that you should be aware of.”

Your chest tightened with discomfort. You couldn’t comprehend the fact that your wedding was being planned for you, an event that was meant to bring joy and the excitement of starting a new life with someone you loved, by your will, by your own heart’s desire. Instead, your father’s rival was orchestrating the things you had dreamed of organizing in your childlike girlhood. 

What was once a notion of devotion and happiness had been soured by the will of your obligation to your father’s legacy. You had always been defined by your own father’s successes, which had made it significantly harder for you to venture out on your own and create a narrative that was undefined by your family, and the moment you had believed yourself to be inching toward independence, this had been sprung onto you. 

It was all so unfair. 

You could never love Satoru Gojo. He was the epitome of all self involvement and false amiability. His goal had always been to tear you down, despite hardly knowing you personally, and you highly doubted that he would suddenly change his ways once he had become married to you. In fact, you believed he would only grow worse. You determined that he would make your life hell, holding this arrangement against you until the very end and making sure to sleep with as many women as he possibly could behind the scenes of your poorly constructed bond. 

You envisioned your marriage with Satoru to be distant interactions, frequent occurrences of mutual adultery, and a cush prison in which you were contained. 

You almost wanted to cry. You felt so trapped, and to know that you are unloved by your partner within a lifelong commitment was going to tear you apart and break you down piece by piece. You knew you didn’t love Satoru either, but the difference was that his tendency to berate you impacted your sense of self more than yours could have ever impacted his. 

You had two weeks to mentally prepare yourself for the rest of your life. Two weeks to undergo fittings, cake tastings, and color samplings that wouldn’t even be picked by your taste, but the taste of the wealthy Gojo estate. You had no control within this marriage. None at all, and it was going to destroy you.

When the room took notice of your silence and the twisted frown upon your face as well as your downcasted gaze, your father elected to shift. “We will give the two of you some time alone to process,” he said, and though his physical expression did not show it, you could tell that he was softening ever so slightly for the sake of your now silent displeasure. It was one thing for you to parade around, chanting about your distaste in something, but the moment you deflated and the words failed to fall from your mouth, your father at least had the sense to attempt to de-escalate, though his idea of de-escalating by leaving you alone with Satoru was a very poor choice all around. 

Satoru snickered rather sourly to himself, shaking his head and leaning it back. His long leg jumped restlessly as he looked agitatedly at the ceiling. 

“Satoru,” his father spoke. The heir didn’t bother meeting his eyes at the address. “Do not disappoint me with your foolishness.”

The silence in the room seemed to strengthen. Satoru clenched his jaw, remaining quiet the longer his father’s presence loomed over him. You had always known the Gojo head to be a rather strict man, so this interaction came as no surprise to you, but what had caught your attention was the fact that Satoru had been clearly bothered by the comment, when you had previously believed him to be unbothered by any and all. 

“We will be downstairs discussing the arrangements further,” your father added. “Make an effort, you two. Please.”

Your father casted you one more knowing look before the two left the room, the door closing gently behind them.

You ran your hands over your face and released a frustrated grunt. “This is such bullshit!”

“You’re telling me,” Satoru mumbled from across the room, his mannerisms still slightly sour. “Marrying you was definitely not in the cards for me.”

You leaned over in your seat to glower at him. “As if it were in mine, either,” you seethed. “Especially not with the god damn Gojo firm’s heir.”

“Please,” Satoru exhaled. “Quit acting as though marrying me isn’t a privilege for you. We’re the wealthiest law firm in Japan.”

“Excuse you, but my father and I never needed you to do us any favors. We’re just as successful.”

“If that were true, then we wouldn’t be here, now would we?” 

He rolled his head over his shoulder to meet your gaze lazily. The moment he caught the anger in your eyes, his bitterness melted into subtle satisfaction, blue eyes lidding over. 

“What the hell is your issue, huh?” you frowned. “Our fathers literally just told us to try to be cordial, and all you can do is shit on me and the very family you're marrying into.”

“You’re acting as though you weren’t just trash mouthing me two seconds ago,” he argued. “I’m not the only one here who has an issue with how things are going. We both have issues with one another, sweetheart, it’s not just on my end. You just tend to let things get to you more easily.”

“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe I don't like you so much because of the way you first started talking about me and my father? All you’ve ever done is gloat like you’re the only damn person on this planet to exist. It’s insufferable.”

“And you have a problem with pretending like you aren’t on the same exact plane as I am.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You literally always make fun of me because you think we’re not on the same level.”

“I’m talking about when it comes to who we are. What we do. How society views us. Whether I’m better or not, we’re both still rich assholes. I’m not any more of a dick than you are.”

“That’s not true. I don’t act the same way you do.”

“Maybe not, but you’re still just as arrogant as I am. You just portray your arrogance in different ways.”

“Quit trying to drag me down to your level.”

“There’s no ‘dragging down’ when I’m the one ahead of you,” he smirked. “And like I said, you’re already just as bad as me.”

You scoffed, unsure of how to even respond to his claims. He toyed with you as he stared, lifting his brows and twirling the corner of those glossy lips upward. “I can’t stand you,” you spat.

“I know, sweetheart.”

“And don’t call me that.”

“Alright, honey.”

You fumed. He got off on this back and forth between you two, feeding into it and swiftly constructing a response that could counter yours before you could even think. “This is not happening,” you grumbled to yourself, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Well, unfortunately, it is. There’s not much either of us can really do about that.”

“And what, you’re just gonna go with whatever your father tells you? You really think this is a good idea?”

He shrugged. “Aren’t you doing the same exact thing? We don’t have a choice.”

“Then how the hell are we supposed to get along in two weeks?”

“They obviously don’t really expect us to do that. They just want us to make a show of it. Then when we’re alone, we don’t have to cling to each other anymore.”

“Who said we’d be clinging to each other in the first place?”

“God, (Y/n), I really thought you were supposed to be smart.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You’ve never acted before? Never had to play something up for the public?”

“Not to this extent, no,” you sighed. “This isn’t just any other publicity stunt. We are literally engaged.”

“It’s all the same to me at this point.” Satoru suddenly stood, lifting his arms into the air and stretching over his head. He placed a hand on his hip and turned to look out the window, past you, before his eyes found your face again. “I can hold your hand and kiss you without it meaning anything. It’s just work.”

You scrunched your face. “Like hell I’d ever let you kiss me.”

“Get over yourself for one second and stop being bratty.”

“Me? Bratty?” you chuckled. “Bit of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?”

“Just listen,” he said firmly. “It’s easier for people to believe that we’re together by choice than by force, because then it would be painfully obvious that we’re only doing this for the sake of our companies.”

“Well, duh, but I feel like that’s painfully obvious already. Our companies have always hated each other.”

“So the better actors we are, the more clients we get.”

“You don’t need to speak to me like I’m an idiot, I already get this gist. I just don’t understand the point. It’s extra work that we’ll have to do for no reason.”

“Obviously you don’t get it, or else you wouldn’t be saying it’s for no reason.”

“Gojo, listen. The more effort we put toward pretending to be in love, the more exhausting this entire thing will be. Being cordial is, you know, fine, but holding your hand for people to see isn’t gonna make this look any different in the public’s eyes.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You’re literally only saying that because you always think you’re right.”

“I am always right. Like I am now.” You rolled your eyes. “Listen, sweetheart-”

“That’s not my name.”

He ignored you. “-I’m more familiar with this territory than you are, being the next head of the firm and all. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen this a hundred times over. I would’ve thought you have too,” he stopped, looking over your stiff posture. “Or, if this is just about you being stubborn and pretending you don’t want to show me affection, then that’s an entirely different thing.”

“I’m not pretending! I don’t want to marry you, let alone kiss you!” you barked. 

“Oh, come onnn,” he drawled, saunting over to you pridefully. You kept your gaze hard on his face as he approached you, his hands tucking into the pockets of his slacks as he leaned over you with a playful glint in his eye. “You haven’t thought about what it would be like just once? You can admit it. I’m no stranger to women falling in love with me.”

You pushed your hand against his forehead, shoving him away harshly. He flailed, stumbling back as he waved his arms about to regain balance. “As if. I don’t want whatever herpes you’re carrying.”

“Herpes?!” he exclaimed, rubbing his forehead dramatically. “I’m as squeaky clean as a bar of soap. I don’t know what kinda men you’ve been around.”

“I don’t go around men in the first place. All of you suck.”

“That would explain a lot then,” he snorted. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you for keeping your attraction to me a secret. After all, you’ve worked so hard to hate me.”

“Never, and I mean never, in a million years would I be attracted to you,” you said flatly, face blank.

“Everyone’s attracted to me. I’m a Gojo.”

“Then congratulations! There’s a first for everything,” you smiled tightly. “One day you’ll learn that being a Gojo isn’t everything in this world. Beneath all of that, you’re still a piece of shit.”

“You wound me,” he sucked his teeth. “How could my wife think so lowly of me?”

“Don’t call me that either. We’re not married yet. Hell, we’ll hardly even be married when we actually are.”

“And that’s exactly why we’re gonna have to pretend.”

You slimmed your eyes, examining his figure, attempting to look past the mask of indifference that he wore, replaced by an irritable playfulness. “This doesn’t bother you?”

He cocked a brow, crossing his arms as he stood before you. “What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just saying,” you started. “I mean… this is our whole lives, and you want to just act the entire time? Have you even really processed any of this?”

The glimmer in his eyes dimmed slightly, a far off look occupying the space in his irises. He looked back out the large window panes that stretched from the floor to the ceiling behind your father’s desk chair, gazing over the city. “This already was my life,” he said, blandly. “I’m gonna be the next head. I always knew I’d have to marry in accordance with the company’s needs.”

You blinked. “Yeah, but-”

“Don’t be naive, sweetheart,” he chuckled. “I’ve got much bigger things to worry about than marrying for love. Whether it bothers me or not doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter to you either.”

Your brows drew together tighter at the sentiment. “How could you think like that? That’s no way to go about living at all.”

“And yet, it’s the life we’re beginning to live, isn’t it?”

You watched him for a few seconds more with your lips clamped together and your eyes sharp. He kept your gaze, unwavering, his smile drifting back onto his face. You caught the snap of his icy eyes over your seated figure before they flew back up to yours in an instance, then shielded themselves behind his lids the moment he closed his eyes. 

“You gotta stop thinking with a heart and think with your brain. Life isn’t a fairytale, and I’m definitely not your Prince Charming. The two of us will probably end up falling in love with other people and getting tangled into a messy affair that inevitably destroys us and this contract years down the line. But hey, our firms will have been making money and I’ll be head by then. I’ll be able to make it all go away with the snap of my fingers. That’s what matters.”

You shook your head in exasperation. “You’re so shallow.”

“As much as I’d love to go in circles about how shitty of a person you think I am,” he tilted his head, peering down at you through strands of white hair. “We’ve got a wedding to plan, and a relationship to build. Or at the very least, some master classes in acting to take.”

You tossed him a strange look. “Are we seriously gonna go hang out in public together now?”

“...You like to bowl?”

“Don’t piss me off.”

“We gotta do something, (Y/n). I mean, is it really a horrible thought to let me take you to dinner?”

“I don’t think you want me to answer that, Gojo.”

Satoru jutted out his bottom lip, looking up to the air as if contemplating. “You know, my father told me about this party that I should attend. I’m sure you’ve heard about it too.”

You paused, looking at him quizzically. “A party?” 

“Mhmmm,” a mischievous glint flickered in his eye. “Friday night.”

You took a moment to think. “Wait…”

“Thrown by the Itadoris,” he posed.

Your eyes widened in realization. “No.”

“Maybeeeee,” he continued.

“No, absolutely not.”

“You and I…?”

“I am not going to the stupid ass, stuffy ass, creepy ass mansion and I sure as hell am not going with you.”

“See, but that’s the issue,” he hissed. “I have to go, and it would practically be a crime not to bring my fiance along with me as my date.”

“For fuck’s sake,” you groaned.

“Soooo…” he grinned, shrugging innocently. “My offer stands. You wanna come?”

“You’re not exactly letting me make a decision!” you barked.

“Because you don’t really get to. Our parents already agreed that we should go together anyway.”

“Oh really?” you frowned. “And why the fuck do you know everything about what our parents plan but I don’t?!”

“Only one of us is going to be the head of the wealthiest law firm, so only one of us really needs to be in the loop. All you need to worry about are your pretty little dress fittings, remember?” he smiled condescendingly.

You gritted your teeth together. “I swear on my life, Gojo-”

“That’s another thing,” he interrupted you. “It’d be a little weird for my future wife to address me the same way she addresses my father. From now on, just call me Satoru.”

“I’d rather die.”

“That’s your prerogative,” he winked. “But seriously. I’m not my dad. My name is Satoru.”

His tone shifted slightly when he uttered the last phrase, as though the idea of being jammed into a box with his dad were the very worst thing he could possibly endure. Your brow twitched slightly at the observation, and while you wanted to argue on the subject more, somehow you felt as though this was not something Satoru was willing to go back and forth with you about.

“Alright, fine,” you huffed. “I’ll call you Satoru, but only if you knock it off with the pet names. You can keep calling me (Y/n), but I dare you to address me as some shit like ‘snugglemuffin’ in public.”

He snorted. “You think I'd do something like that?”

“I know you would. Just to get a rise out of me.”

“Ah, don’t worry. I’ll stick to the basics.”

“Yeah, like hell you will.”

He grinned, presenting you his outstretched hand. You stared at it, unimpressed, before looking back at him boredly. “It’s a date, then?”

You pondered it. His hand remained stuck rather closely before you, failing to provide you any room to turn it away. His hand, in many ways, represented your future, drew you into a promise that you made against your morals and in honor of your family’s legacy. His hand, with soft lines creasing over his palm and long, slender fingers splayed out toward you, was a symbol of the life you were leaving behind and the life you were stepping into against your will. Into the unknown, into the godforsaken misery spent beside the Gojos from now on until forever more. 

Before, you would have never allowed yourself to even be caught dead in the company of Satoru Gojo, but now, as the worlds forced into collision and the very bane of your existence stood before you as your future husband, you swallowed your pride and apologized to your past self for giving in to a fate drawn out for you rather than by your own hand.

Your stomach churned and your hand met his reluctantly. His fingers clasped tightly around your hand, pressing into your skin, and your eyes warned him to relax when his lips curled further to emphasize his dimples. 

“We have a date,” you finalized bitterly, and Satoru laughed as he shook your hand.

“Don’t sound too excited.”

“Please, this is the most enthusiasm you’ll ever hear from me,” you mumbled, tearing your hand away from his after a few seconds passed. You stood to your feet, brushing past Satoru to gather your purse from beside you on the floor. You were frankly entirely too exhausted with this conversation, as well as Satoru’s presence, and you wanted nothing more than to go home and mourn your existence. “What time is this gala anyway?”

He hummed to himself, watching you as you made your way to the door. “I’ll pick you up at 9. How about that?”

Your hand froze over the door handle as you turned over your shoulder to glare at the white haired man. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Not all questions can be answered, can they?” he teased.

The muscles under your eye twitched before you took in a deep breath and closed your eyes. “Just- fine. Okay,” you muttered. “I’ll be ready at 8:59. And don’t you fucking be late, Gojo, or I swear to god, your family will have to find another arranged bride.”

“I’ll be on time when you address me properly.”

You gritted your teeth. “Satoru. Don’t be late, Satoru.”

“Yes ma’am,” he nodded, satisfied. He reached over to grab his jacket from his chair and made his way behind you once you pushed open the door. “I will be there right on the dot.”

-

You didn’t know why you had expected Satoru to actually stay true to his word. By the time 9:00 on Friday night rolled around, you had been waiting by your door for the next thirty minutes, and there had still been absolutely no sight of the bastard.

Conveniently, after having abused his privilege of obtaining your phone number upon your initial meeting with your fathers and blowing up your texts every second he found to himself with nonsensical bullshit, the moment you began to demand to know where he had been was when he had fallen uncharacteristically silent and ignored your texts.

You had spent the past few days attempting to adjust to this newfound closeness to the Gojo family. Your days had been filled with servants taking your measurements, wrapping measuring tape tightly around your waist and your arms to get a rather fitted measurement of your dress size, alongside long lectures given by both your father and Satoru’s, consisting of the two of them advising you of how to behave in the public eye. Satoru’s father had even taken it upon himself to tell you what he expected of a Gojo bride, and how if you failed to meet certain expectations, you would have reflected poorly on not only the public but on hundreds of past Gojo generations. 

You had tried to reason with your father one more time the night after you all had met in his office, but all he did was turn down your concerns.

“Daddy, why won’t you listen to me? You know how awful Gojo is! How could you expect me to marry him?” you whined.

“My dear, I don’t know what more to tell you,” your father had exhaled, shoulders slumped with the weight of exhaustion and stress. You, however, did not care to pay those signs any mind. You were entirely too roped up in your state of distress. “I know the boy is a nuisance, but you’ll have to make do. You and Satoru will marry, and that is final.”

“And what about my career? My life?!”

“Good god, (Y/n), your world isn’t ending. There are much worse fates than marrying a wealthy heir,” he attempted to reason. “Besides, you're my daughter. As much as you wanted to build a life of your own and get your own employment, you never needed to do any of that. I’ve been trying to tell you that forever.”

“Yeah, and at the same time I’ve been trying to tell you that I don’t want to be handed everything all the time!”

“Believe me, if you were born less fortunate, you would not cling to such childish ideals.”

You fumed, body trembling, feeling as though you were preparing to burst at the seams. You wanted to explode, but you had no outlet. You wanted to scream, but there was no tunnel in which your voice could escape freely. You were no longer free, you thought to yourself. You were trapped, stuck, and the feeling tore you to shreds like no other emotion ever had.

You believed that the very worst of the remainder of the week were the rumors that had already begun circling around about you and Satoru. You recalled waking up one morning to a text from your friend Shoko, and narrowing your eyes in shock when you read what she had said.

Sho: Um, girl, please tell me what I hear about you marrying Satoru Gojo isn’t true.

You immediately took to the internet, scouring Twitter, Instagram, and every celebrity news blog possible to find a secret picture of you and the white haired man taken from afar from at least two months back. You remembered the exact occasion, as well. You had been on your way home from a lecture when you ran into the blue eyed freak at the market. He had significantly invaded your personal space, by the looks of the picture and if your memory had served you well, which it always did, and he was leaning over you with a challenging grin, eyes half lidding and hand pressed to the brick wall with his arm blocking your path by your head.

He had made a comment about something you were wearing, or perhaps it was a snippy comment about where you were coming from - you don’t exactly recall all the details, but you could tell by your rigid stance that he was irritating you once again. The paparazzi, however, and the thousands of people soaking up  the gossip, mistook this brief interaction for a romantic rendezvous, a suggestion of a flirtatious exchange, a hint toward a far deeper connection.

The suspicions alone paired with the picture may not have done too much harm on their own, for rumors about wealthy individuals’ personal lives spread all over the internet every single day, but what transformed what could have been an innocent, meaningless encounter into a bigger scandal was a particular tweet that you found with a blank profile and teetering over a million hearts that read: “I heard that the Gojo heir and the (L/n) daughter are getting married…”

This could have also been completely taken out of context, but the uproar from the picture combined with such a drastic piece of gossip only further fueled the internet’s hunger and curiosity.

This had Gojo’s father and his team written all over it. 

And you had no choice but to tell Shoko that the rumor was, in fact, laced with no trace of falsehood. As you expected, she reeled in shock and asked a million questions, considering her knowledge of your long-harbored hatred for the man, but you pleaded with her not to say anything to anyone until you and Satoru yourselves went public with the information. She agreed, and you at least were given the opportunity to rant to your friend about the truth behind the news once she was sworn to secrecy by your undying trust in her. 

You felt such pity for yourself, especially as you studied your reflection in the mirror as Satoru neared the forty-five minute mark with no text, no car, and no arrival. Gold jewelry dripped from your ears and dazzled around your neck above the crease of your cleavage, your satin black gown hugging your body velvety-smooth. You tugged at your gown gloves, eyes boring into your own. You were the very pinnacle of first class wealth and beauty, a gem untouched by the greedy grasp of man, but that would only last until the moment you arrived at the altar with a man you did not love, with a man you rather despised, with a man who couldn’t even keep a promise to pick you up at the time he had set. 

You had such grand dreams for yourself, a life away from a legacy birthed into you, a life christened by your careful planning and your nurtured ambitions, and all of it had been crushed within a matter of seconds. 

You envisioned yourself years down the line, dressed in a similar fashion, awaiting your husband’s arrival for a charity event that the two of you were to attend together. He was late, and time ticked on, and the bags weighed heavily under your eyes as you stared into the empty souls of your eyes, once filled with vibrance yet having been drained by the tireless despair of pretending to be happy within a crystal palace of your own doom.

Was this your life? Was this who you were meant to be all along? Had the years studying in school, traveling, honing in on your own craft though so closely connected to your father even been worth it? Was this worth it?

Your thoughts were interrupted by a loud honk of a car horn from outside your front door. You jumped slightly, then immediately filled with rage at the notion that Satoru had the audacity to not only show up almost an hour late, but to beep his horn as though you were the one who had been delaying the two of you this entire time. He didn’t even have the decency to greet you at your door, and you wondered for a moment if he treated all of his dates like this or if you were the only exception. 

You thought about ignoring him and staying home, but the honking persisted and your patience was wearing thin. With an aggravated grunt, you swiped up your bag in hand and marched out of your door, slamming it closed upon seeing Satoru laze about in the driver’s seat of his benz, parked up in the center of your circular gravel driveway with the engine running. 

You didn’t even bother acknowledging him when he looked up and you were already yanking his door open and shutting it harshly behind you, brows angled and eyes fiery with anger. You sat rigidly in the seat, arms crossed over your chest tightly. 

“...So, I’m a little late-”

“So help me Gojo, drive the fucking car or I’ll kill you right here and make it look like an accident.”

He sucked in a breath, tugging his mouth down as he bared his teeth and shifted the car back into drive. “Someone’s pissy tonight.”

“Oh, and I wonder why!” you exclaimed, whirling your head over at him heatedly. You could barely see his eyes through the dark, round shades that he wore, which complemented the navy velvet tux adorning his figure. “Your ass is too busy being blind wearing fucking sunglasses in the dark instead of getting here on time like I specifically told you to do.”

“What? You don’t like ‘em? I think they look good. And I get held up with work, relax,” he groaned. You threw a hefty punch into his shoulder, leading the man to yelp and clutch the injured area. “What the hell?!”

“You’re an hour late, Gojo!” you yelled. “Not five minutes, not ten, not fifteen, a whole hour.”

“Technically, there’s still a few minutes until it’s an hour-”

“Who the fuck cares?!” you interjected. 

Satoru blinked at you, trying his very hardest to bit back the smile that was creeping onto his face in reaction to your anger. “What do you expect me to do- you want me to apologize, sweetheart?”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

“I’m just getting into character,” he defended. “I’d hate to start off our first date with such negativity.”

“I can not do this with you tonight. Hurry up and drive, Gojo. We’re already late.”

“Mmmm, try again, honey. Remember, what did we agree on?”

“We agreed that you’d get here at 9:00 and that if you were late, you needed to find a new fiance,” you hissed. “But since I can’t exactly make that happen, I’ll settle on not calling you Satoru.”

Satoru clicked his tongue. “You’ll need to switch that up once we’re at the party, (Y/n).”

“I don’t think I will,” you smiled tightly. “I’m not going to make tonight easy for you in the slightest. You want me to come? I’m coming, but I’m not doing so happily.

He gave you an irritated glance. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

You lifted your clenched fist as though to punch him again, and he flinched, leaning away and shielding himself with a hand. “Okay, okay! I’m driving. Sheesh.”

The car ride over to the Itadoris’ was rather silent, save for the radio that Satoru had turned on for the sake of the tension bubbling in the air, inspired solely by you. You kept your body twisted and tensed toward the passenger door, hair blowing about your face as the wind whipped through the open vehicle. You kept your gaze to the dark sky above and the blurry city lights that glazed over your eyes as Satoru sped through traffic.

Eventually, the two of you made it past the excitement of the bustling city to the other side, where tall, bright buildings and flashing billboards were replaced by rural, gran estates, cottages, and temples. The landscape shifted as well, rolling hills cascading amidst tall, flourishing flower trees and ponds guarded by quant bridges. You took in a deep sigh, anticipating the very worst as you entered the vicinity in which the Itadoris lived. 

Lavish, large, and disgustingly rich, Jin Itadori, the head of a well-loved shipping company, housed a luxurious home on the other side of the city, amidst the brush within a secluded section by the edge of the forest. There, the patch of greenery seemed to clear for the very loud residence of the family home, where the entire Itadori lineage lived in one space. 

The Itadoris, while immensely well known, were a rather strange… eccentric crew, to say the very least. While you felt that you could at least attempt to handle one of them at a time, the thought of having to encounter all five of them at once was incredibly unappealing to you. You were already experiencing the displeasure of arriving as Satoru’s date and fiance, therefore, being forced to mingle with the likes of such a chaotic bunch was not something you were looking forward to very much.

There was Jin, of course, who had assumed the role of the head of this company by Wasuke, the former head as well as his father. Wasuke, once a sharp mouthed, spritely, mischievous young man who had gone great lengths to achieve his ambitions of wealth and success, had aged into a sharp mouthed, mischievous old man, bitter with his permanent physical connection to the rest of his family whilst still living amongst them all in his mansion, despite his refusal to move into a nursing home at his elderly age. Wasuke had the terrible habit of delving into lengthy rants about the very expansive list of things he did not care for regarding his family, as well as how the world and its society developed into a gentrified, modernized “pit of doom,” as he would have liked to describe it. With every chance he found, he was souring a moment of joy, tainting happiness with his miserable outlook on life. 

His son remained the more reasonable of the group, attempting to regain composure when chaos inevitably erupted. He served as the anchor, the man of reason with an incredibly strong, though dwindling tolerance for the hell that his family put him through every day. He was currently working toward showing his son, Yuji, a kind hearted sixteen year old boy, the ropes of running a company to prepare him for the day that he succeeded him as the business’ next head. 

Yuji never bothered you much, for he was a kid with a bright future. He always made sure to greet you happily whenever he saw you, asking questions about what you were up to and humoring your desire to branch out on your own. Yuji Itadori may have been the only person in this world you had met who did not immediately judge you by your relation to your father, and for that, you had always admired the kid. You only hoped that the path his family led for him did not hinder his wonderful spirit. 

His half-brother, Choso, was not in any way directly connected to the Itadori legacy, yet he was a member of the family nonetheless after having been estranged for years. He often kept to himself, straying away from the public light unlike the rest of his family. You weren’t entirely sure of what his goals were, however, he wasn’t a terrible guy. He was quiet, reserved. You would have pegged him as a misunderstood artist, or a poet, or something like that - far separated from the world of business that those around him were so heavily involved in. You doubted you would even see him tonight if he weren’t clinging to the wall in the corner with a bored look upon his face.

But then, the very worst of them all and perhaps the main reason why you didn’t want to attend this party, was Sukuna, Jin’s twin brother and Yuji’s uncle. 

You weren’t even sure where to begin with him. Hell, you could barely decide who was the worst of them between him and Satoru, and that certainly was saying something.

Sukuna was an asshole in a far less playful and lighthearted manner than Satoru portrayed himself to be. He was the type of man to get ‘canceled’ by Twitter four times within a month, without providing any form of apology for the rather outlandish things he elected to say. He was often saved by his brother’s mercy, and let’s not fool ourselves, the curse of impeccably good genes that graced his facial and physical features. 

Whenever something went south at the Itadoris’, it was mainly due to his antics and thirst for conflict. He figured that since he was already undeservingly wealthy, and not any successor of the company, he could get away with more than most, only when he behaved out of line, it had an impact on those who were actually involved in keeping the company afloat. 

And oh, Sukuna loved when he threw his family into a scandal then acted as though he was not responsible, fading away back into the noise and watching the entertainment unfold. 

You groaned. You felt it in your gut that something was going to go wrong tonight, especially so if Satoru intended to expose the two of you as a couple at this gala. 

Dread flooded your stomach as the two of you pulled up into the gravel, past the thick ravine that surrounded the entryway just behind the gate. A man in black guided Satoru’s vehicle to a row of expensive cars lined the circle before the Itadori estate.

“Ugh,” you grumbled. “I hate this place.”

“Tell me something you don’t hate, sweetheart,” Satoru quipped, parking his vehicle and turning off the ignition. He turned to you, eyes glinting over his round frames with his hand still gripping the wheel. “Are you done pouting?”

“Are you done getting on my nerves?” you raised a brow, glaring at him. “The answer to that is no.”

“You can’t still be mad about me being late. I told you it was because of work,” he whined. “We have a whole night ahead of us. You need to let it go.”

“What work exactly were you doing to make you an hour late?”

“Does that even really matter right now?” he shifted. He reached an arm back, stretching over the back of your seat and pushing himself upward, invading your space slightly to reach for an item behind you. You leaned away, tightening your lips. Satoru glanced at you once he grabbed whatever he was looking for, seating himself properly back into his spot. “You could stand to not look so disgusted by being close to me, you know.”

“But I am disgusted by being close to you.”

“Then you won’t like what we’ll be doing soon at all,” he laughed slightly to himself, shaking his head. You opened your mouth to retort when he presented a small, velvet box in his hand before you, holding it to you over the console. You examined the box, your mouth falling open in shock. “Here. It’s yours.”

You furrowed your brows, looking at him incredulously. “That is not what I think it is.”

“Open it and find out,” he pushed it further into your lap.

You pushed your hand against his, shoving the box back to him. “I don’t want it.”

“(Y/n),” Satoru began, clearly becoming just as annoyed as you already were. “Neither of us want it, but you need to wear it. Open it and put it on, for god’s sake.”

“No! This will not be how you propose to me, Gojo - not in your car in the middle of the night at the Itadori estate!”

“I’m not proposing, you idiot. We’re already engaged. You need to wear it so people here can know that we’re together.”

“I’m not wearing it,” you argued stubbornly. Satoru’s brows angled, jaw clenching. 

“Yes you are,” he murmured firmly.

“No, I’m not.”

Before you knew it, he was snatching your wrist up in his grasp forcefully. You yelped in retort, attempting to tug yourself away, but the Gojo heir’s strength proved to succeed your own, just as he did in every other aspect of your lives. You faltered slightly, watching with blown eyes as he held you securely with one hand and popped the box open with the other, revealing a breathtaking gold ring encrusted with a shimmering, turquoise gem in the midst of winding, plated vines. 

You admitted that the piece of jewelry was absolutely beautiful, not to mention that it was gold - the color of jewelry you had worn all your life. 

Wordlessly, Satoru pinched the ring between his fingers, lifting it from its velvet bed to slide onto your outstretched ring finger, settling it snugly around your digit. The warmth of his palm was immediately ripped away once you were wearing the ring. He turned to toss the box into the backseat over his shoulder behind him, then swiftly pushed open his car door. 

“Happy?” he growled over his shoulder. You had nothing to say as you stared confoundedly at the ring he had just pulled onto your hand. “Great. Now let’s go.”

In the midst of your surprise by his forcefulness and by the way the ring complimented your hand, you followed his order and dazedly got out of the car, closing the door gently behind you with your gaze casted down to your hand. 

You were too distracted to notice Satoru making his way over to you, and before you knew it, his arm was looping around yours, pulling your hand from your gaze and gluing you to him. You huffed when your side collided with his, your shoulder pressing into his bicep. You flinched and looked up as the blue eyed heir towered over your side. He peered at you out of the corner of his eye, catching the way you stared at him like a lost puppy, and his previous anger diminished slightly. 

“What’s the matter?” his smooth voice slid out. “Getting flustered on me already?”

His comment immediately snapped you out of your trance and your face hardened once more. “Fuck no.”

He laughed, guiding the two of you slowly to the staircase. “But you like the ring, don’t you? I can see it all over your face.”

“It’s a ring, Gojo-”

“Satoru.”

“Whatever. It doesn’t mean I like you.”

“I mean, it could,” he proposed, allowing you to take the first step up as you gather the hem of your gown in your hands. You kept your eyes to your heels, proceeding carefully, and Satoru did the same while your mind was occupied, eyeing the motion of your feet intensely as your dress draped over your exposed angles, dangling from your pinched fingers. “The ring’s a family heirloom. It’s been passed down for generations. So you liking the ring at least means you like us just a little bit.”

“Are you serious?” you asked him. “I didn’t peg you guys for the gold jewelry type.”

“Guess there’s a lot you still don’t know about who I am,” he answered rather swiftly. The two of you finally made it up the stairs and stood before the wide doors of the estate.

“How late exactly are we?” you asked him, shifting uncomfortably on your feet as he tugged you closer into him. You bore a grim expression, looking off to the side.

“Uhhh, not that late,” Satoru responded. “Maybe about two hours.”

“HUH?!” you exclaimed. “Two?! You mean to tell me you were already trying to get me an hour after the party even started?”

“I was busy, and I never arrive at these things on time. I prefer being fashionably late.”

“There’s a difference between fashionably late and just late, dumbass.”

“Either way, we’ll make a big entrance. And that’s what we want, right?” he smirked down at you. “Attention.”

You sighed heavily. “I can’t believe I got talked into this.”

“You’ll be fine,” he drawled. “Just relax and stay with me. And remember, we’re getting married!” he pressed himself down to you, leaning his mouth toward the shell of your ear. “Try to act like it.”

You shuddered, recoiling aggressively. “Don’t do that!” you barked over his symphony of amused laughter. 

The two of you entered the space as servants pulled the doors back for you, the symphony of classical music echoing through the pristine space. You were led past the main spiral staircase to the left, down winding hallways, through spacious corridors, and into the ballroom. The entryway was guarded by two marble, Greek statues on either side, welcoming its visitors regally. 

You felt Satoru’s elbow tighten slightly around yours, catching your attention. His piercing eyes swallowed you whole, glasses tipping down the bridge of his nose as he looked at you. “Smile,” he whispered.

You yanked his arm back just as tightly, tilting your head with a tight jaw. “Don’t tell me what to do,” you grinned, bearing pretty teeth in a threatening, forced manner. 

He smiled, breathing out softly, before entering the large space scattered with well-dressed, familiar faces, the most honored names within the small community of the 1%. You shivered as a cold gust of wind brushed over you, sprouting goosebumps across your bare skin as eyes flickered your way and whispers ignited in accordance to your arrival. Your eyes looked over the people, noting everyone you saw and praying to whatever god above that you wouldn’t run into Wasuke or Sukuna first thing tonight.

Thankfully, the two of you were greeted by Jin mere seconds after you stepped into the space. Hushed murmurs of gossip continued to circle the huge room, and you caught a few glances darting to your linked arms and the ring adorned on your finger. 

The salmon haired heir approached you with a knowing look upon his face, eyes focused on Satoru tiredly with his hands clasped behind his back. Satoru bore a wide beam, nodding toward Jin casually. 

“Jin,” Satoru greeted grandly. “So happy to be here. Thanks for having me.”

“Satoru,” the said man exhaled. “The gala ends in an hour. What the hell are you doing here so late?”

The white haired man shrugged. “Just got caught up in some business. You know how it goes.”

“Oh really? The same business that you often neglect to take care of your own personal needs? Like the time you took my son to the mall instead of signing off on papers?”

Satoru sucked in a gulp of air slowly, his smile remaining as shamefully as it always had been. “Damn, you know about that, huh? I could’ve sworn I bribed Yuji to keep that a secret.”

“There’s no need to bribe him, the kid can’t keep a secret to save his life. An honest one, that boy. Maybe too honest,” Jin murmured. “So what were you really doing?”

“Come on, Jin, don’t make me spell it out,” Satoru said cheekily, his attention suddenly turning to you. You perked up, put on the spot, and looked with confusion between the man at your side and the Itadori family heir. You reeled at the manner in which Satoru gazed at you, his eyes swollen with feigned admiration as his tone dripped with infatuation, albeit rather over the top. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news about (Y/n) and I. You remember the (L/n) daughter, don’t you?”

Your eye twitched while you tried to keep a steady, small smile. Jin turned to you, nodding. “How could I forget? You’re the girl who always manages to rile my brother up.”

You puckered your lips and knitted your brows together. “Uh-” you stopped. “What? You mean Sukuna?” Jin nodded again, a hint of an amused smile gracing his weary face. “I don’t remember ever sharing a conversation with that a- mm- I mean, I’ve– never really had the pleasure of crossing paths with him to even say something that would bother him.”

“Please, save it. I know my brother’s a monster,” he chuckled and you relaxed slightly. “That’s not what I meant anyway.”

“...Then what did you mean?”

Jin paused, shifting his heavy eyes between you and Satoru. “It’s nothing,” he elected to say. “Now, tell me- what is it you were saying about you and (Y/n), Satoru? Are you…?”

Satoru nodded, his smile molding into something rather tense. “Engaged,” he finished quickly. Jin visibly faltered, his rather cool exterior altering when the word fell upon his ears. Your breath hitched in your throat, for you hadn’t expected Satoru to jump right into blabbering your business to the whole world.

You felt his other hand creep over yours, the one attached to your conjoined arm, and he melted his touch into the back of your palm, smoothing gently over the skin and your ring. You tried not to jump, to pull away, to tear yourself far from the man when you felt the unwarranted and rather intimate contact. Your nose twitched slightly and your stance went rigid, eyes blank as your lips curled into what you believed to be something akin to a love stricken grin. 

“...Engaged?” Jin repeated.

“Yep. For quite some time now, actually. We’ve just been keeping it quiet considering how our companies have always been with each other. But that’s all in the past now. I’m late because we just got so caught up in our newly betrothed excitement,” Satoru recited expertly. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

God, you wanted to kill him. You wanted to kill him so bad. If you could have just slapped him straight across his face and left a burning red handprint on his sickeningly perfect skin, you would have been satisfied, but instead, you buried the urge.

“That’s right,” you nodded, refusing to make eye contact with Satoru as you did. 

Jin cleared his throat. “Well, congratulations. I would have truly never expected something like this.”

“Yeah, neither did I,” you giggled kindly, feeling the way Satoru physically reacted to the comment as subtly as possible when his fingers pressed into your knuckles. 

“What she means is that we hadn’t expected to fall for each other so easily,” he clarified. “Who would have thought that I would settle down with someone like her?”

You sensed the backhandedness of his statement and swiftly bounced back. “It’s funny, I certainly wouldn’t have guessed I’d settle for someone like him either. Not in a million years,” you grinned, finding his eyes when you tilted your head back up to him. The two of you communicated through your tense gazes, exchanging sentiments of aggravation nonverbally, momentarily forgetting that Jin still stood before you.

The said main puffed a laugh, raising his brows. “Hey, as long as the two of you are happy.”

You and Satoru turned your heads back to him at the same time. “Very,” you unified.

“And what about your parents? What do they think?”

“You know, it took some adjusting, but they’re actually taking quite well to it now,” Satoru said.

“Surprisingly, right?”

“I bet,” Jin said. “Alright then. I’ll be sure to ask (L/n) and Gojo for the details. The family and I will be happy to make it.”

“Better clear your calendar soon,” you hissed quietly under your breath, Satoru tugging you in warning though Jin did not hear.

“Trust me, you guys will be the first on the list,” Satoru grinned.

“We appreciate it,” Jin said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make sure my brother hasn’t harassed any more of our guests. Enjoy the evening. Or whatever’s left of it at least.”

You smiled and waved as Jin bid you farewell, watching him turn and leave. “Care to knock it off?” Satoru growled from beside you.

Your smile dropped as you looked at him heatedly. You turned to stand before him, unlinking your arms and prying his fingers away from your hand. “I told you that I don’t wanna be here, and you pissed me off. I’m not in the mood to play nice.”

“That’s your issue, (Y/n), you never are,” he grumbled. “You act like a spoiled brat. You can’t get everything you want in this life and pout because of it.”

“Watch your mouth, Gojo. Don’t pretend to know who I am or why I act the way I do.”

“But you can do the same to me without consequence?” he challenged. “You’re a hypocrite above everything else, too. And for the last time, my name is not Gojo.”

“And I told you I don’t care,” you leaned in, pursing your lips together stubbornly as Satoru returned your hard glare. You had failed to notice the proximity in which the two of you had closed into one another, your faces mere centimeters away as your mutual frustration fueled your minds. 

Fortunately for the two of you, from the outside perspective, you appeared as though you were cosying up to one another, keeping close in the bliss of your personal bubble. You clicked your teeth and pulled away eventually. 

“I’m going to get a drink.”

Satoru seemed to oppose the idea, stepping forward to reach for you, but you dodged him. “We need to be seen together more-”

“Then have your dad take another secret picture of us and plaster it all over Tokyo for all I care. That’ll last longer than any second we spend with each other in person,” you said sternly before turning off to the organized array of drinks on the other side of the room. Satoru stood and watched you march away tensely, hands clenching into fists and unclenching at your sides as your heels clicked loudly against the floor. You disappeared into the crowd, gown fluttering at your feet, and he sighed. He truly didn’t understand how you could behave in such a complicated manner. He didn’t understand you at all, and it was gnawing away at him minute by minute. 

The night drifted on rather slowly, despite the fact that only an hour had remained when the two of you got to the estate. You had successfully shaken Satoru off of your back for the time being while you occupied yourself with speaking to Yuji and a few other people you had stolen the time to catch up with. Each person you spoke to asked the same question of whether you and Satoru were together, which you reluctantly affirmed each time with the flash of your ring before greedy eyes. Gasps of delight ensued and you masked yourself with an expression of giddiness, soaking in everyone’s reactions. Yuji himself had been rather confused to hear the news, considering how well he knew you and Satoru, but congratulated you happily nonetheless. Wasuke, however, who you inevitably ran into, held you captive by a ten minute tangent about the horrors of marriage, which you honestly couldn’t find yourself to disagree much with in this case scenario.

Satoru kept a sneaking eye on you the entire time you were parted, watching the way you lifted the rim of a glass to your painted lips daintily, glassy eyes moving over the room with contempt as you feigned politeness. His lips flattened into a firm line as he watched you, studying with simmering annoyance. Despite your constant complaining, you managed a room very well with your false exclamations of joy. You had a presence about you, certainly so in the dress you wore, though he had always known you to be a woman of great beauty. He could recognize that from a general standpoint.

Still, the way you behaved irked him to his very core. He didn’t understand how you so easily blasphemed his character and everything he stood for when you paraded about with the same riches and privilege. You thought too highly of yourself, withholding this image of righteousness and uniqueness that deluded you into the fantasy of going to law school and trying to branch out from under your father’s firm. You looked at Satoru as if you were insulted by his very existence, as though he reminded you of the worst parts of yourself, and you took this insecurity of yours out on him. Granted, Satoru knew that he could be a handful. He had heard so from plenty, watched the many different ways people reacted to his carefree, audacious personality, but he didn’t care. He knew who he was and wore his pride on his sleeve unapologetically, but you didn’t seem to know who you were at all and you made it his problem.

Satoru never wanted to marry you, despite his fascination with pushing your buttons. He couldn’t say that he hated you though. What he felt for you was more so a form of befuddlement by your sheer naivety and your quickness to turn the blame of your own doing to anyone but yourself. He found you vexing, at times, because you couldn’t own up to your truest self. He thought you were bratty, mouthy, and prissy, but he didn’t hate you. Not the way you hated him.

He wasn’t ecstatic when his father first presented the news of the two of you marrying because he knew how things would go with you. You were impossible to work with, and yes, Satoru knew that his teasing didn’t make your tolerance of him any more plausible, but even in putting that aside, you refused to meet him halfway or see him eye to eye. It drove him crazy.

You couldn’t even fathom standing by his side for more than five minutes at a party. You were too caught up in yourself and your hatred for him, or more so the effect he had on you, that it interfered with your social abilities and therefore Satoru’s goals. 

God, you were a pain. A gorgeous, stubborn, spoiled pain that Satoru had the misfortune of marrying. Utahime’s words faded off into white noise as she yammered on to the white haired man before him, his mind stuck to you and the very meticulous ways you aggravated his entire being. 

You were heading over to find another drink presented by a waiter when your path was suddenly blocked. You halted, looking up past the broad suited chest before you to find the second face you dreaded craning over you with a sly grin. You failed to hide your disdain, your face dropping and your shoulders slumping the second your eyes met the crimson ones before you.

“Sukuna,” you groaned. “What a lovely surprise.”

“Is it?” his smirk widened, hands tucked into his slack pockets, voice dripping with malice. “It doesn’t seem like you’re very happy to see me.”

“What. No, I’m thrilled,” you said flatly with no emotion, and Sukuna hummed.

“Clearly,” he jumped his brows. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you tonight.”

“Well, I was praying you wouldn’t.”

He tutted lightly, dragging his brows together as if to scold you with his expression. “Come now, don’t be so rude. You are a guest in my home, after all.”

“Technically, this is your brother’s home.”

“Technically, it’s Wasuke’s but that’s besides the point. We all live here, so the details of whose house it was in the first place are of no importance.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure.”

“So, let’s cut to the chase,” the burly man began. He took a step close to you, moving to your side as his eyes wandered the area, then back to your face deviously. “I saw you come in with Gojo.”

Great. Another interrogation. “Yeah. So?”

“Jin says you’re dating, now. That true?”

You shook your head, twisting your mouth up. “If it is, why do you care?”

“Everybody cares, doll. You’re the talk of the town these days. I’m just trying to get my facts straight.” His body turned into you, and you shuffled back slightly. “Is it true?”

“You know, people used to have this thing called privacy. You ever heard of that?”

A low chuckle rumbled through Sukuna’s chest. “What’s the use of privacy when you live like this?” he questioned. “The notion’s practically nonexistent.”

“Then it’s out of the question to tell you to mind your own business?”

His smirk widened, blood red eyes simmering into you. “You’re always so feisty.”

“And you’re always a creep.”

“Am I now?” he mused. “You’re avoiding my question.”

“Because I obviously don’t want to talk to you about my love life, Sukuna.”

“Then I was right. You are together.”

You were about to reply when a body pressed into you from behind, pushing into the space between you and Sukuna and settling itself close to you at once. You knew it was Satoru when the scent of his signature cologne invaded your nostrils and the familiar rigidness of his buff, lanky form collided into your own. Sukuna was forced to step back slightly when Satoru invaded, and you jumped when a hand snaked itself around your waist and rested snugly.

You glanced down at the sight, the way Satoru’s hand clutched at your side and pulled you into him almost possessively. When you caught the look on his face, you noticed a bitterness swimming in his eyes and biting at his jaw. Though his glossed lips pressed into a smile he had worn all night, this one appeared blatantly exaggerated.

“Isn’t it clear by the ring on her finger?” Satoru grinned, blinking at the salmon haired rogue. “Or maybe your sense of sight is starting to fail you after all these years. You gettin’ old, Ryomen?”

“What? I can’t ask the woman a question myself?” Sukuna crossed his arms, eyes slimming when he registered the sight of Satoru before him. “I hate to jump to conclusions. I don’t like to believe everything I hear without going to the source first.”

“If you’ve heard our names circulating, then you’ve heard that we’re getting married.”

Sukuna made an unimpressed scoffing noise, lifting his painted fingers to scratch the side of his jaw as he eyed you suspiciously. “Like I said, I don’t believe everything I hear,” he muttered lowly. “How long exactly has this been going on?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you countered. Ryomen flashed an enticed grin your way, and Satoru’s fingers instinctively dug further into your side. You could tell by his body language and the way his grip tightened around you that he and Sukuna did not exactly enjoy each other’s company. You assumed by the way he had swooped in that there was something he felt he needed to prove to Jin’s twin, and whether it was his superiority as a businessman or as your ‘fiance’ you weren’t sure, but what you did know, or believe, was that it was still all for show. 

“Honey, the man’s asking, so there’s no need to keep any details from him, hm?” Satoru proposed sweetly, his eyes still burning into Sukuna’s face as he spoke to you. You remained hesitant to play into his behavior, though Sukuna’s interference admittedly made you want to fit into the role more than you had when he wasn’t pestering you. Nevertheless, hearing Satoru address you as ‘sweetheart’ and ‘honey’ proceeded to rub you the wrong way. You chalked it up to disgust at first, but the pit in your stomach that was forming due to discomfort was attempting to sway you. 

Maybe it was because he was calling you such cute names while his arm was wrapped around you. The contact was rather foreign to the both of you, yet Satoru did so as though he had done it a hundred times over. 

It felt… odd, in the sense that it didn’t feel terribly out of place. 

Your underlying bitterness still peeked through and impacted the shift of your opinions. As strangely natural as Satoru’s touch abruptly felt, your disapproval of the evening and the overall ordeal remained. Satoru was your fiance, not your friend or lover.

“Seems like she doesn’t have much to say,” Sukuna jumped in. “Possibly because… it’s not true,” Sukuna posed, rolling his head to the side as he surveyed Satoru’s reaction devilishly. In many ways, you noticed the similarities between the two men like this. They both sought to bring a rise out of others, though Sukuna aimed to do so with as much ill-willed intent as possible and a very obvious lack of subtlety. In comparison, Satoru seemed like a saint when Sukuna uttered the most foul things he could think of to piss someone off. You could tell he was simply charging up to do so in this case scenario.

“How could it not be true when the goddamn ring is on her finger,” Satoru shot back slyly, eyes narrowing. “If you really want, I could bring the signed papers for you to see too. Would that be real enough for you?”

“I just find it hard to believe that miss ‘hard-to-get’ here managed to settle down within the span of a month,” Sukuna shrugged. He looked back down at you. “Could’ve sworn you told me you were never gonna entertain another man, much less get married to one.”

“I’m sure she was only saying that about you,” Satoru chuckled. “Since you couldn’t take a hint if a meteor was hurtling toward the earth and (Y/n) shoved you into its path.”

“You really think she wouldn’t do the same to you once she gets tired of pretending?” Sukuna’s brow raised. “I can see right through you. I know what this is really about.”

“I do too. It’s about my future wife preferring to marry me over having two seconds of regrettable sex with you.”

“Ha!” Sukuna bursted out, leaning forward slightly with the release of his aggressive amusement. “Regrettable? I may be a lot of things, but my dick is anything but that.”

“OKAY!” you exclaimed, pushing your hands at the both of their chests, shoving them away from each other. Satoru’s hand failed to leave your waist as you moved, his eyes holding a coldness to them that made his smile appear rather daunting as he stared at Sukuna. “Whatever the fuck is going on with you guys, knock it off right now. This is not the time or place to have a dick measuring contest. Alright?” you lectured, looking wildly between the two men. Sukuna watched you with lazy hilarity as Satoru tugged you back to him.

“I’d win one anyway,” he grumbled, your back colliding with his chest.

You turned to give him an exasperated glare. “I doubt it,” Sukuna pushed.

“Enough,” you hissed. “The fuck is wrong with you two?”

“Wh- he started it!” Satoru accused, looking down at you from over your shoulder.

“And you entertained it,” you growled.

“Uh oh,” Sukuna snickered. “Trouble in paradise? All because of me?”

“Jesus Christ, Sukuna, find a hobby.”

“I’ve got plenty of hobbies, doll.”

“Don’t call my wife ‘doll,’” Satoru frowned.

“Sorry, does she prefer ‘baby?’”

Satoru hummed lightly. “You know what I’d prefer?” he simpered, holding you close. “Taking this outside.”

“Must you always resort to violence?” Sukuna exhaled as though he weren’t practically known for his tendency to get involved in unnecessary brawls at bars. “And at my family home of all places. Tch, some heir to the Gojo firm you are. I bet your father’s real disappointed in how you’re turning out, but it seems he doesn’t have much of a choice but to trust you against his better judgment.”

“What the fuck did you just say?” 

Satoru’s smile widened into something almost sadistic, his grip on you finally slacking to inch toward a confidently still Ryomen. You butted in again, wedging yourself directly in between the two of them, trying your best to handle the situation without drawing much attention. 

You pressed yourself into Satoru, urging him back. “Stop it,” you demanded.

Your fiance didn’t even look like he had heard you, though he allowed your touch to guide him back despite his overwhelming strength in comparison to yours. He stumbled about with a wicked expression, eyes locked in a murderous haze. You had never seen Satoru look so riled up before, on the brink of insanity. It had all happened so fast as well, and you weren’t exactly sure how to handle the situation.

“No, let him swing,” Sukuna urged. “I’m sure his father will love to see the headline in the morning. ‘Gojo Successor Throws Punch at Itadori Twin on a Generously Extended Invitation to Family Gala.’ It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Sure does. I wonder how the headline would change if I stomped your face in,” Satoru mused, moving to approach once more, but you pushed him back with all your might.

“Satoru!” you seethed through gritted teeth, voice dropping with intensity. He blinked, flickering his eyes down at you hesitantly, caught suddenly between your objective and his own. Sukuna puckered his lips as though to make a silent ‘ooo’ sound, taunting Satoru from behind you. The blue eyed man eventually ripped his gaze completely from Sukuna and met your eyes. “Cut it out,” you mouthed carefully, pupils shrunken and hand pressed firmly to the space in which his heart beated rapidly amid his chest, your other hand firm on his shoulder.

Gojo’s chest rose and fell slowly, deeply, eyes searching your own as he slowly allowed his resolve to crumble under the severity of your gaze and the press of your palms to him. He had never seen you so serious before, so dominant with intensity when you normally took to whining and pouting around. Not only that, but you were trying to protect him from his own behavior, or perhaps you were protecting yourself, which was the real reason why you looked so sincere. Either way, it succeeded in convincing him to back off when he normally would not have bothered to stop and think about what he was doing. 

“I’ll be damned,” Sukuna snorted, catching your attention. His eyes hardened, clearly disappointed in his failure to push Satoru to the edge. 

“What?” you grimaced.

He breathed out heavily, closing his eyes. “Looks like you’re together after all.”

You furrowed your brows. “What does that mean?”

“Just that not even Satoru’s father can bring him down the way you just did. And we all know how Satoru’s father is,” he responded, suddenly disinterested. Your brain stuttered, unsure exactly of what Sukuna was implying by the notion. “Just don’t go off staining any of the couches in the house. They’re more expensive than all of our lives combined.”

Sukuna turned to leave when he stopped himself, looking back at you. “And if you ever get bored, you know where to find me.”

“Fuck off,” you snapped, leading him to chuckle and walk away.

The moment Sukuna disappeared, you grew hyperware of your hands still placed on Satoru’s chest. You turned back to him and swiftly let your hands fall, clearing your throat as Satoru followed Ryomen’s fading figure with his eye. “What a tool,” Satoru snarled. “Imagine if we were a real couple and he said that stuff. He’d have gotten his windpipe crushed.”

“I don’t know,” you started, eying Satoru questioningly. “You looked pretty ready to kill him anyway. Wanna tell me what that was about?”

The white haired man scratched the back of his head, looking off to the side with an exhale. “Not really,” he told you. “He and I have always hated each other’s guts.”

“I can see that,” you shook your head. “Seriously, what were you thinking? You were just gonna fight him in the middle of his ballroom? With all these people watching?”

“Calm down, jeez. You get worked up so easily.”

“Me? You just threatened to beat his ass!”

“For show, (Y/n). For show,” he smiled. “And I’m pretty sure it worked. He was convinced that we’re together by the time he left, wasn’t he?”

“Not to pretend like I know you very well, but I’ve seen the way you are when you act. That wasn’t acting. You looked pissed. For real.”

“Aw, thanks,” he beamed. “Must mean my practicing is paying off.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Hey, I was doing you a favor,” the blue eyed man defended, his hands finding his hips. “You weren’t exactly enjoying your conversation with him. I helped you get out of it.”

“Which, by the way, you did not have to do by grabbing my waist!” you pointed out, recalling the touch that swarmed your lower half. “You need to learn more about personal space.”

“How many times do we have to go over the fact that I need to be handsy with you to convince people we’re together,” he craned his neck to ask you, looking down at your stubborn expression.

“Not the way you did it. That was way too intimate.”

“And what’s so wrong about that? Husbands and wives are intimate with each other all the time.”

“Yeah, but we’re not an ordinary husband and wife- we’re not even husband and wife yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever,” Satoru blabbered, leaning back to stand up straight. 

“I’m serious, Satoru. We need to talk about what just happened.”

The Gojo paused the wandering of his eyes, looking down at you as a grin spread over his face, his eyes twinkling. You looked at him oddly in return. 

“What are you looking at?”

“You’re calling me Satoru now.”

“I-” you stopped yourself, realizing that you had let his first name slip when you were trying to regulate his argument, or whatever the hell that was, with Sukuna. You clamped your mouth shut, having subconsciously gone against your own promise to yourself. Satoru only continued smiling smugly at you, awaiting a response. “…Shit. I did.”

Satoru’s chest jumped with laughter. “All on your own, too. Isn’t that something.”

“Look, I had to get your attention somehow. It just slipped out,” you rubbed your brow. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

“It is a big deal~” he sang, stepping closer to you.

You held your hand out. “What did we say about personal space?”

“You’re warming up to meeee.”

“No, no,” you pointed out your index finger, tilting your chin downward. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

Gojo pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, keeping his grin contained.“At least just a little bit.”

Against your better judgment, you felt the corners of your lips twitch slightly, his rather contagious pestering at long last impacting your mood. The moment you caught wind of yourself almost smiling, you forced the feeling away, looking everywhere but at Satoru and doing your damndest to look as though you were unmoved. You blamed the slip on the two glasses of champagne you had welcomed yourself to.

“I’m still mad at you for being late,” you reminded him. “And for even dragging me to this hellhole in the first place - two hours into the event.”

Bright hues of crystal blue held the vision of you for a bit longer, as though the heir were thinking, until he finally spoke again. “I’m kinda hungry.”

You were puzzled momentarily. “Okay…? They’ve got… like… horderves here.”

“No, I’m hungry for real food,” Satoru clarified. “Like a burger or something.”

You still weren’t sure which direction he was taking this declaration into. “Alright. And you’re telling me this because…?”

“You wanna get out of here?”

You stilled. “For a burger?”

“Why not?” he grinned.

“...You’re not asking me on a date, are you?”

“I’m asking you if you’re hungry and want to leave, because either way, I’m dipping in the next two minutes and you’d have to come anyway. Besides, you’ve been going on and on about how badly you wanna get out of here.”

You were torn. On the one hand, you were absolutely working up and appetite and itching to run as far away from this stuffy scene as possible though you had only been present for about forty-five minutes, but on the other hand, you weren’t sure if you could handle spending any more one on one time with Satoru.

Even so, you only dreaded so because for some reason, you weren’t entirely opposed to the idea at the moment. It had felt like such a long night already, and you were already out and about… you figured another hour or so with the Gojo wouldn’t kill you. You admitted that he somewhat defended your honor tonight with Sukuna, whether it was for his own gain or not, and you couldn’t deny the fact that you would have killed for a burger at this late hour. 

You didn’t feel very suffocated by Satoru as you stood before him, though you had felt so up until this very moment. That alone frightened you, confounded you, sparked the gears to turn in your head over what about this gala had you softening to accept your fate just a little bit, succumbing to the will of your father and playing the tiniest bit nice. 

Hell, you didn’t know, but you truthfully hoped that you would snap back to reality the following morning. For now, however, a meal was on your mind. 

“Well?” Satoru urged and you huffed in defeat.

“You’re lucky I’m starving,” you said. “And I wanna get the hell out of here.”

“I can’t believe for once in our lives we’re on the same page.”

“Don’t get used to it. And I’m only coming if you’re paying.”

-

The two of you shamelessly conducted an irish goodbye when departing, and half an hour later found yourselves in the parking lot of a rather deserted fast food drive through at the other edge of the city, the distant sound of horns honking and tires screeching drifting off into the background. You leaned your head back in Satoru’s passenger seat, fingers graciously clutching the cheeseburger in your hand as you stared up at the starry night sky peacefully, chewing quietly.

Satoru sat with his seat reclined and his legs propped over the dash, his tie undone and dress shirt unbuttoned, blazer tossed carelessly in the back. He sipped the straw of his soda as he held what had to be his second or third burger in his other hand, keeping his gaze on the same sky above as his bluetooth transitioned into the next queued up song. 

You found this moment reluctantly tranquil, your energies to bicker occupied by the satiation of your hunger and your building exhaustion. After a night of shallow interactions and little food, the greasy meals within your grasps tasted like heaven had melted onto your tongues and jolted your senses back to life, therefore, you ate in peaceful seclusion. 

“Can I ask you a question?”

You turned to look at Satoru, mouth full and cheeks round with food. A spec of ketchup dotted the corner of your mouth and the white haired man laughed lightly at the sight before you swallowed and swiped the back of your hand over your lips. 

“Why do you always wanna ask questions?” you mumbled, distracted by your next bite.

Satoru peeled back the wrapper of his burger, the paper crinkling loudly over his music. “I’m a curious guy,” he said simply, looking down at the food in his hands. “What was going on with you and Sukuna back there?”

You hummed in retort, bringing your burger to your mouth to take another bite. “Y’mean- with how he was talkin t’me?” you asked, voice muffled as you shielded your mouth to chew and talk at the same time.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It was kinda weird.”

“Dunno,” you shrugged. “He’s always been like that with me.”

“But you told Jin that you’ve never had any interaction with him. Why lie?”

You swallowed, angling your brows. “I didn’t lie. I misunderstood. I’ve never had an interaction that warranted Sukuna being angry with me, which was what I thought Jin was trying to say earlier, but I guess not.”

“Oh,” Satoru nodded, proceeding to eat again himself. He tucked his soda cup back into his cup holder and tilted his head back, eyes searching the black sheet above as he charged up his next question.  “So, he basically just wants to fuck you and you’ve always rejected him?”

Your mouth twisted upward at his words. “I mean- I guess, but you don’t have to be so vulgar about it,” you responded. “Plenty of men behave that way with me, which is why I don’t pay them any mind.”

“Sure, but Sukuna’s in a league of his own.”

“Yeah, a league of belligerent douchiness,” you quipped, causing Satoru to chuckle. “He just likes to push my buttons. Like someone else I know.”

You eyed the blue eyed twenty-six year old, and he rolled his eyes. “Hey, don’t lump me in a box with that prick. What he does is borderline sexual harassment.”

“Oh please, like you’ve never consistently hit on a girl who hasn’t been interested in you.”

“Can’t say I have, ‘cause women are always interested in me.” You scoffed.

“Whatever. You two have your resemblances.”

Satoru lowered his burger to his lap, looking at you in astonishment as though you had offended him. “Like what?”

You pressed your lips together, suppressing a smirk. “You both get on my nerves.”

“That’s not grounds enough to compare us like that!” Satoru exclaimed. “Only one of us has something actually going for his life while the other wreaks havoc because he’s bored. Not to mention, I’m more likable, more popular, more handsome, funnier, more charming- I could go on.”

“Please don’t,” you begged. “You obviously have more of a problem with him than I do.”

“I’ve just never liked him,” Satoru sighed. “He thinks he has the authority to knock me down, but he doesn’t. Yet he keeps trying and trying. It’s like he wants to see me fail for some reason.”

“You think he’s jealous?”

“Ryomen doesn’t get jealous. He just gets competitive.”

You looked down, crumbling up your wrapper into the balls of your hands once you had finished your burger. You avoided eye contact with Satoru as you prepared to speak. “And that stuff he was saying about your father?”

Satoru fell quiet for a second, his playlist filling in for his silence. “What about it?” he finally asked, his voice deflating. You could tell that this was a sore topic. 

“That was what set you off in the first place. After he was targeting me, he went for your dad and you let him get to your head.”

“That’s…” Satoru took in a breath, turning his head away from you. “Something entirely different.”

“Is it?” you said slowly. “Is there… something I should know? Considering I’ll be a part of the family.”

“No,” he answered quickly. “I mean- nothing that concerns you. My father is…” he trailed off, searching for the words to say. He must have noticed that he was trekking further into uncomfortable, foreign territory, and his eyes got that distant look in them again. It wasn’t like him to be so occupied mentally by something. Examining his reaction to your gentle prying about his father was surreal, for you had never pegged Satoru to be an emotional or swayed person. Yet here he was, struggling to describe how he felt about his own flesh and blood.

You knew the Gojo head to be a stern man, and a rather dislikeable one, but you had never stopped to think about how his personality clashed with Satoru's, who harbored such a free spirit. There was never any mention of a mother in the picture, for as long as you’d known about the Gojos, it had always just been Satoru and his dad as well as their predecessors, but perhaps there was more. Perhaps there was an underlying reason behind Satoru’s attitude welded within the burden of his family name shoved onto his shoulders by a cold and calculating father who had prioritized business training over emotional connection with his son.

It was second nature to ponder over it now, but you had never bothered to before, having been so blinded by your hatred for them. 

And for someone who was always so quick to give you replies, Satoru was surely taking his time to answer.

“My father’s a tough guy,” he eventually elected to say. 

You leaned a hand over to grab hold of your fries, jutting your brows in agreement. “I can see that,” you said. “He must get on your ass a lot since you’re his successor.”

“You have no idea,” he mumbled, picking at his wrapper. Your gaze lingered curiously as he looked down, yet the moment he looked up again, you turned away. “Anyway,” he tried to lighten the mood and change the subject. “Again, not your issue.”

“If you say so… but the man will be my father in law, so I figure I should know at least a little bit.”

“I’m sure you’ve already noticed everything you need to know about my family.”

You thought back to the robotic servant hands gripping at your body and the inhospitable words of Satoru’s father as he privately guided you through his expectations. “You’ve got a point,” you admitted. “I will say, you seem to stand out in that setting.”

“Hm?” he bit and chewed. “How so?”

“You seem a little more lighthearted than the rest of them when you’re being an arrogant dick.”

He snickered. “Do I, now?”

“Yeah, but take that as you will.”

“Are you trying to say I’m more tolerable than the rest of my family?”

“No- stop putting words into my mouth,” you pinched a fry between your fingers. “I’m just saying, even though you’re still bad, you’re a little warmer than the people I’ve met at your estate. Psh, especially your dad. That man could make hell freeze over.”

You stopped yourself when you lifted a fry to your lips, believing you had possibly crossed a line when mentioning his father in such a way.

“Sorry,” you murmured, shoving the fry into your mouth to shut yourself up.

Satoru sported a humorous grin, dimples popping as he gazed at you in surprise. “Don’t apologize on my account,” he said, lifting a free hand to nudge your arm playfully. You shot him a weary look. “That actually makes me feel better.”

“Hearing me shit talk your dad makes you feel better?”

“Believe me, I’m surrounded by plenty of people who ride his ass out of fear or greed without knowing the worst of it behind closed doors,” he confessed bitterly. “It’s a good change of pace, your disapproval of him. Which, obviously, I know goes hand in hand with your disapproval of me,” he was quick to add.

He reached his hand over and stole a fry from your bag, and you quickly turned your food away and tucked it under your arm. “Hey! Eat your own food, fat ass!”

“I paid, so it’s all fair game,” he smirked, making a show of eating your fry before your eyes very slowly.

“You’re wicked,” you frowned.

“I know, sweetheart, I’m terrible,” he played along, his comment earning him a swat to his shoulder that he took like a champ by laughing at. “Enough about my father, though. What about your dad?”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “Do we have to talk about our families?”

“You’re who one who started this conversation…” Satoru kicked back further, tilting his head completely to you to show that you had his full focus. “What’s he really like?”

“You seem to have your own opinions of him already,” you said, referring to all the times Satoru had delivered conniving comments about your dad and his practice for you to hear.

“I have my business opinions of him,” he modified. “I don’t know what the man is actually like  beyond that.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, he’s my dad,” you quickly said, not entirely desiring to indulge this topic. “He works hard. He tries his best to make the right decisions.”

“You seem pretty close to him.”

You looked at him. “What makes you say that?”

“In comparison to how my dad and I are. I don’t know, I can just see it in the way you talk.”

“...Has anyone ever told you you’re nosy?”

“Yeah.”

You scoffed a laugh, lowering your head with a soft smile. Satoru studied the sight closely, unfamiliar with such a sign of contentedness portrayed by you in his company. 

“I guess you could say we’re close, sure,” you mumbled. “It’s just me and him, too.”

Satoru shifted, turning his upper body to face you as he lounged. “No mom?”

You exhaled. “No.”

“...She’s not dead, is she?”

“No, no,” you shook your head. “Well, actually, I don’t know. She ran off when I was five. I never really knew her.”

“Oh,” Satoru deflated. A stiff moment of silence settled between you as the man tried to figure out how to respond. “That’s… sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you assured him strangely, for you had never heard Satoru apologize to you. “Like I said, I didn’t know her.” You paused. “What about yours?”

“Ah,” he scratched the back of his neck, a hesitant, awkward smile befalling him. “Dead.”

Your eyes widened and your heart dropped. You hadn’t expected him to admit such a thing, and to do so in such a casual way. “Wh-? She…?” you stammered. “I- I had no clue.”

“How could you have? She’s the one thing my father doesn’t talk about or share with the whole world. Only a few people know that. The rest of the world probably just thinks it’s always been my dad and I, which I guess, it always has,” he explained.

You turned your body, sympathy overtaking you as you faced Satoru with severity. “How old were you?”

“Younger than you were. Probably four,” he said calmly. “I didn’t really know my mom either. I do remember how she felt, though,” he began, eyes glazing over as he looked past you, daydreaming. “I only know because she was the only source of warmth I ever felt in that house. Then it was gone so fast.”

Your brows drew together, heart hammering with empathy. “That must have been hard.”

Satoru noticed the glint in your eye, one of sadness rather than pity, and he cleared his throat. “I was a tough kid. It wasn’t so bad.”

“Still… I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t kill her, (Y/n).”

“I know, but-” you stopped, pursing your lips. “I know…”

Satoru smiled. “Don’t look so sad. Sweet of you to care, but it’s a little weird seeing you all choked up because of me. Where’d that fire of yours go?”

“I’m not a monster, Satoru,” you clicked your tongue. “Besides, I know what it’s like to grow up without a mom.”

“...I guess we have at least that in common.”

You tapped your fingers against your bag restlessly, nodding slowly. “I think my dad and I are close because of it,” you eventually said.

Satoru looked over your face. “Yeah?”

“We have our moments, of course. We don’t see eye to eye on everything, including this whole… arranged marriage thing, but I can see he’s just trying to do what’s best for us. I think I give him a hard time for it.”

“All kids do that to their parents,” Satoru chuckled. “Especially daughters with their fathers. You guys get away with everything.”

You smiled to yourself. “He tells me the same thing… I wanted so badly to make my own life, but he never saw the purpose in me doing that.”

“I can’t say I see the purpose in it either, if I’m being honest.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“Look at me, (Y/n). My whole life has already been planned out for me, and I've got no reason to stray elsewhere. Not a lot of men in this world get to say that they were born into a wealthy home and have had a successful career on lock since the day they were born.”

“Okay, but haven’t you ever wanted something different? Haven’t you ever wanted to create your own path?”

“Of course I have, I’m a human being,” he said obviously. “But this is my legacy, and that also doesn’t mean that I have to take everything on the same way my father did. He calls me a disappointment because I like to have fun and not be cooped up in an office every hour of the day. I get my work done and I do what I have to do, but I’m gonna still be different nonetheless, which is the only path of freedom I take.

“People say I’m irresponsible and childish, but I don’t know anyone on this planet who lives happily as an emotionless slave to labor. If I’m gonna work for the rest of my life, I can at least do so with personality- in my own way. My dad may not agree, and he may call me a disappointment, and it may suck, but I don’t care. Either way, I’ll still be rich and I’ll have my dignity intact, which isn’t something a lot of people like me can say.”

You stared at Satoru blankly, taking in his words carefully. He caught the way you looked at him and sighed once more, smiling gently. “Look. I get how you feel. I really do. We’re both in this together, but you have to take a second sometimes and realize just how good you have it by even having the choice of not working for the rest of your life. You turn your nose up at everyone else like you because you’ve got this idea in your head about what life should be, but I don’t even think you’ve seen life through the eyes of the ordinary people who actually live it. You think you know, but you don’t.

“You and I may never agree on anything. We may never like each other. We may very well be miserable for the rest of our lives, but you will be secure and I will take care of you because that’s my responsibility. Yours is to just trust that I’ll do just that, whether you want to or not. I don’t blame you for wanting to build yourself up. I don’t blame you for going to law school, and I don’t even blame you for resenting the world we live in, but you need to have more of an open mind. I’m not here to trap you, I’m here to help you.”

Your eyes searched for him, his honesty entrapping you in the isolation of his overwhelming regard. You wanted to argue, to tell him off for even thinking to lecture you so similarly to how your father would have and even had in the past, but you felt no anger. You felt no agitation or aggrievance. For the first time in your life, you saw Satoru Gojo rather clearly before you, untouched by the bias of your judgment or your father’s, untampered by your headstrong displeasure and resentment. He wasn’t trying to irritate you, he was trying to connect with you.

Even so, you couldn’t agree with him.

“All my life, people have been telling me not to work,” you started. “Nobody understood why I wanted to push myself, or why I got so passionate about steering away from the title of my father’s daughter. I know you think I’m spoiled and naive. The whole of Japan thinks the same thing. I’m not surprised, and I can’t even really tell you how you should think of me. Because you don’t know me. Not really.”

You looked back up to the sky, examining its vastness.

“It may have been stupid to go to school. It may have been stupid to fight with my dad so much about it, and it may have been stupid to dream so far out of my reach… but I don’t care. You’re not a woman, Satoru. You’re an heir and you’re a man. I don’t get to take on my father’s business, because even with all my knowledge about his work and having been raised within it, he doesn’t trust me as a woman to handle it. I either have to live as an extension of him or as myself, and it’s damn near impossible to do the latter. I know that. I’ve always known that, but I couldn’t just hold myself back because of what society expects me to do. I couldn’t just stop dreaming and wanting for myself. I couldn’t give up on me, and yes, it’s a naive way of thinking, but as long as I had a mind and an ambition, it was enough for me to try.

“Men look at me and see a little girl with a head full of fantasies, but I’m more than that. I’m me. I know what the world is like, and I don't negate that, but that doesn’t mean I have to push down my desires in accordance with how other people live. I’m my own person. I never asked to be stripped of my privilege, I just asked to be independent. To be addressed as (Y/n) and not my father’s daughter. As a woman in this world, I’m supposed to just sit back, look pretty, and not think. I’m supposed to be content, to marry and serve as a trophy or a piece of arm candy, but that’s not me. It never has been, and the more I speak my mind about it, the stupider people think I am. That’s not something any man can understand from a woman’s point of view.”

Something unreadable flashed in Satoru’s eyes as he listened to you. When you found his gaze again, you weren’t entirely sure what it was. He had mellowed out, his breathing steady and tranquil as he took you in, really took you in after having judged you so harshly, and you him. 

His glasses, having been removed for quite some time now, sat on the dash beside his feet and his brilliant gem-like eyes pieced you apart wordlessly, dug into your soul and into your mind. 

His snowy lashes fluttered delicately over his orbs, and you weren’t sure if the man was simply tired or captured by your conversation. 

He watched the ways your eyes shined as you spoke, and how they proceeded to once you were awaiting his reply. You looked so true to your word, so humbly outspoken. Your gentle words had guided a light of maturity onto you, one that Satoru was a complete stranger to in your wake, and it left him unsure of how to go on. 

His eyes danced down to the ring still on your finger as you clutched your empty fry bag. You followed his gaze, glancing. Your eyes bounced back up to his face inquisitively.

“What?” you mumbled softly. 

Satoru was shaking his head before he could speak, eyes failing to leave the sight of your ring. “I just think I’m starting to understand you,” he said lowly, his voice no louder than a whisper.

When your eyes met again, you felt something within you twitch, struggle, churn under him. You shuffled your feet, busying yourself with tucking your trash back into the empty bag on the floor. “I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.”

“Me neither.” 

You felt his eyes stay on you, and your patience wore thin. “What?” you demanded again, turning to glare at him as though you were mad.

He smirked, eyes shining. “You’re not so bad like this.”

“Like what?”

“Not snapping at me. Just talking,” he said. “Black looks good on you too.”

Your body released an involuntary reaction, your cheeks pinching and tingling with heat as his honey like voice droned out to compliment you. You panicked, for you had never reacted in such a way to Satoru’s taunting before.

“Uh uh,” you immediately shut him down. “Don’t start with me.”

“Start what?” laughter bubbled into his words.

“You know what,” you growled. “I’m not falling in love with you any time soon, so quit the flirting.”

“Oh, you’re afraid of falling in love with me?” he teased, pushing himself up to sit upright.

You flustered, tossing the fast food bag about angrily. “No, because that’s not happening! This is strictly business, like you said.”

“Right,” he rested his elbow upon the middle compartment, leaning his head to look up at you. “Of course. Business.”

“So stop looking at me.”

“There’s never been any harm in looking, sweetheart.”

You gnawed on the inside of your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of revealing your flustered state. You pushed yourself back into the seat, tightening your posture and holding your arms to yourself, your gown suddenly growing uncomfortable the longer you sat in it. “It’s late.”

“It’s been late, (Y/n). You’re all of a sudden noticing that now?”

“I’m just- I’m tired,” you excused. “And I wanna get out of this dress. Take me home.”

Satoru smiled, taking his own trash and piling it into the back along with whatever else he had thrown back there. He readjusted his seat, lowering his feet from the dash. “Looks like someone’s back,” he snickered. “I guess you can only be easy to talk to for so long.”

“I should be saying the same thing about you!” you fumed.

“Uh huh,” he dismissed you, now having seen a raw side to your frequent antagonization of him. He was hardly affected by your attitude now that he knew how your mind worked a little better. “I’ll take you home, don’t worry. But what do we say for treating you to food and for telling of Sukuna at the party…?”

He leaned his head toward you expectantly, and you were quick to nudge him away stubbornly, your chin propped in your hand as you looked harshly out the window. “I’m not thanking you for picking me up late, moron.”

Satoru grumbled dramatically. “Seriously?! You’re still stuck on that? I thought I had made up for it.”

“You’ll be trying to make up for that for the rest of your life.”

“It’s a little impressive how long you can hold a grudge.”

“I only hold onto them when you’re involved.”

When Satoru dropped you off at home and watched you head into your house safely, the gnawing feeling that something had shifted between the two of you prevailed in both of your minds. The blue eyed man studied you intensely as your figure ascended your steps, your figure moving gracefully snug in the magnificent dress you wore, your ring still twinkling in his sights even from afar. 

He thought about shouting something out to you before you stepped into your front door, something that would leave you festering with annoyance, that would leave you thinking about just how much he grinded your gears, but nothing came to him. He had no more words for you, nothing left to say. He was silent, dumbstruck.

Meanwhile, you worked your very hardest not to turn around as you walked away to sneak another glance at the white haired man, for your entire body was trembling with the betrayal of your own heart. You didn’t know what it was about tonight that allowed you to see Satoru in a slightly different light, that gave you insight into how he behaved and what life was like to inspire him to pester you so much. 

You thought back to the way he held you at the gala, how he had dragged you along and blabbered to practically the entire space that the two of you were together. You recalled the darkness in his eyes when he cut into Sukuna’s harassment of you, his easy retraction when you called him by his name and pressed yourself before him. 

You slapped a hand over your face, mulling over it all, upset with yourself. You lifted your hand to look at your ring once more behind the safety of your front door, lips turning up with confliction. 

You didn’t want to think of yourself as someone who could fall for Satoru Gojo. You knew you were better than that, but you were his fiancé now. You were to be married in less than two weeks, and it was dawning on you with such heaviness all of a sudden. 

You hated Satoru Gojo. You did, but something about him tonight had admittedly gotten to you. Whether it was the way he looked in his suit or how he had opened up to you about his mother, you weren’t sure, but you were impacted nonetheless, and it was driving you insane. 

You only prayed that you were not stupid enough to step further into the dangerous territory of warming up to your previous competitor.

[sillysowa]

It’s already been a year omg - 🧎‍♀️

Omg ik it’s insane!! 😭 Ty for sticking around 🧎‍♀️anon! Hopefully i’m more active at some point :,)

[sillysowa]

crying

pairing: gojo satoru x reader | 1.2k words summary: shoko-centric, as in it’s written from her pov, based on yesterday’s leaks bc i finally have some hope, simple bittersweet angst to fluff !! he’s coming back trust <3

shoko’s eyes are focused as she works, but they can’t help but drift towards you, taking in your expression—half hopeful and half terrified as you watch her hands critically.

your teeth are digging into your bottom lip— worrying the flesh with bites and nips that are sure to eventually draw blood.

she wants to click her tongue and rub your shoulder in the hopes that you’ll stop looking so stressed. but she understands—after all, her hands are occupied with the most important thing in your world.

satoru’s body has begun regenerating on its own—as shoko had expected when he was brought back to her. her body had clicked into autopilot when that blue haired kid handed him off to her, her brain choosing to ignoring the overwhelming sense of relief that washed over her when she saw him pulled away from that death field.

so she could only imagine your feelings in this moment—scared, angry, and yet so hopeful.

because that’s what gojo satoru was to everyone—an embodiment of hope. he had been as such for so many years. she has no doubt that even in death he would be the same.

but despite all that, she wants the blue eyed idiot to wake up already—wants to see his lopsided grin and your relieved face when the two of you look at each other. so all she does is continue to work, because that’s what she’s good at—what she’s always been good at.

working in the shadows.

you don’t say anything to her—you’ve known her long enough not to. shoko thinks back to the thousands of times she’s healed you up after missions, thinks of your sheepish grin when she scolded you for being careless out there. you’ve always been careless about yourself.

she thinks you’ve only ever been truly concerned when satoru was the one who was in trouble.

the two of you were idiots—because while the two of you may not give a shit about your own safety, shoko constantly worried about you both.

so she inhales through her nose, keeping her eyes trained on satoru’s body. “he’ll be fine,” she says, voice steadily echoing around the room. she can feel your eyes on her, feel the studying gaze of them, and oddly enough she relaxes under it.

something so familiar about this all.

she hears you sigh, a nod to her statement, and shoko takes it as a sign of agreement.

it has always been this way with the three of you—too many words unnecessary. at one point in time, it used to be that way among the four of you too.

shoko doesn’t know how much time passes. all she can focus on is the energy flowing from her hands to satoru’s battered body and your rapidly steadying breaths. the silence is not unwelcoming—an odd comfort in the midst of the chaos raging not so far away.

something tilts on its axis when his eyes finally open.

shoko feels like her breath has gone cold, settling low in her chest as she watches him sit up. there’s a brief moment of confusion in his face—eyes hazy as he looks at her. she gives him a pointed stare, not trying to betray her emotions, but the expression is enough for satoru to understand that he wasn’t supposed to be here. the haziness in his eyes clear, and shoko thinks she might be hallucinating because he looks almost apologetic.

and then, his gaze travels past her, to the back corner, and when they land on you shoko can see the puzzle pieces click together. his pupils dilate, lips parting in a sharp inhale as everything finally comes back to him.

you choke back a sob—a sound so pained and shoko almost feels as though it’s cut through her flesh. satoru’s eyes are wild, arms reaching for you before his brain can even catch up. he pulls you against him with reckless abandon, your body folding into his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

which, shoko understands, it is.

your arms are tight around satoru’s midsection, head buried into his chest—as though if you let him go he’ll slip away all over again. shoko doesn’t blame you—she doesn’t take her eyes off of him for the exact same reason.

satoru’s fingers remain tangled in your hair—a tremor to them that only the most observant eyes can pick up.

your shoulders shake with the effort of holding back a plethora of emotions that shoko both understands and doesn’t. satoru’s hands smooth down your hair, chest heaving as he shuts his eyes and presses his nose to your temple.

it’s an embrace that shoko is almost proud to see—a reunion that she’s grateful to be privy to.

satoru pulls back a little, hands cupping your face as his eyes dart over your features—wild and bright with life.

“‘m sorry—” he’s saying, voice oddly steady for the way his fingertips are trembling against your skin. “i didn’t—i thought—fuck, ‘m so sorry, sweets—”

“you came back.” you’re whispering, voice unsteady and thick with unfiltered longing. you pull him back into a hug. “thank god. you came back.”

satoru’s arms tighten around you imperceptibly. a featherlight kiss dusts your forehead—barely a touch but there all the same.

shoko smothers an amused huff. it’s about time.

your voice is shaking even with your cheek pressed against his chest. “i thought that you—”

satoru nods against your temple. “i did,” he answers, licking at his dry lips. “i mean—”

a sharp inhale. you pull back to study his face. satoru’s voice becomes imperceptibly softer. “i saw…”

shoko doesn’t need to ask what he saw—she knows it automatically. you seem to know it too.

“it’s fine.” he’s shaking his head, lips quirking upward—his thumb brushes over the slope of your cheek with the utmost care. “it doesn’t matter.”

you give him a rueful smile, eyes uncharacteristically dewy, and shoko thanks her lucky stars that the expression seems to bother satoru just as much as it bothers her. she watches him cup your face, leaning his forehead against yours with an oddly somber sigh. your fingers come up to press against his knuckles, and satoru smiles, eyes fluttering at the touch.

shoko sees the color slowly start seeping back into his skin, an all familiar flush dusting his cheeks as he looks down at you, and her shoulders drop—a weight lifting.

she takes a step back.

satoru makes eyes contact with her over your head. there’s something there, deep within cerulean blue, that has shoko’s body finally relaxing. he studies her, eyes wide and open, and for the first time in a long time, she sees the message in them clearly.

his lips curl upward at her, an expression so nostalgic it makes shoko think she can hear the sound of teenage laughter—a gentle voice whispering about the good and bad of their lives. she shuts her eyes—helpless.

satoru watches her expression, somehow understanding, and he smiles to himself. his chin tips down at her, an acknowledgment of sorts, that has her feeling oddly emotional.

shoko shoves her hands in her pockets, and for the first time in a while, she allows herself to smile.

[sillysowa]

I’m punching holes in my ass

" TWO FOR THE PRICE OF ONE "

໒ content ; polyamory, satosugu x reader, nsfw, fluff, headcannons, smut, suggestiveness, etc. ໒ synopsis ; poly satosugu hc's !!

!poly satosugu where geto is the fatherly and tender boyfriend, and you and gojo are childish and silly !!

!poly satosugu where when gojo wants something he asks one of you and you or geto have an inside joke to always say "go ask y/n/geto"

!poly satosugu where you were already dating geto but he admitted he had feelings for you and gojo, and gojo happened to be interested in the both of you

!poly satosugu where you and gojo are cuddling on the couch, watching some silly christmas movie in the middle of june while geto contently watches you, but both of you are to immersed in the movie to notice

!poly satosugu going shopping for a bathtub that you can all fit in (which is basically impossible)

!poly satosugu where they kiss each other while you're tied up, making you whine and whimper against the cloth covering your mouth

!poly satosugu where you kiss gojo as geto strokes his cock, making him whine into your mouth

!poly satosugu where you guys get into an argument so you dress into your most beautifully seductive lingerie and lay sprawled out on the bed. when satoru and suguru come in and see you, their minds can only think about ripping the lace off of you.

[sillysowa]

Screamed a bit

༊*·˚ D!CK OFF LIMITS !?

bad ☆ summary. why won’t he let you suck his dīck?

warnings. explicit content. 18+. foul language. cunningulus. fīngerīng. premature ejacūlatīon. semi public sēx. usage of toys. facials. mirror sēx. dom/sub undertones. preestablished relationships. reader is a fiend for his dick. afab!reader. could be angsty at some point ? fwb to . . . lovers ? 7.4k words (kill me now).

rena's ☆ note. this idea came to me while i was drunk.

you wonder if gojo thinks you have gingivitis.

that thought was unlikely, as he was always eager to shove his tongue down your mouth, tongues sloshing and secreting saliva as his hands roamed between your thighs, knuckles deep into your cunt.

then maybe he assumed you were a biter— which would be highly hypocritical of him, as he’s known to get on his knees in the nearest bathroom stall and flip your skirt up, push your panties to the side and plunge his canines into the flesh of your ass before tongue fucking you.

well, maybe he simply didn’t get off on pleasing you— yeah you knew it wasn’t that one, if the way he thrusted his bulge in the air whenever your thighs wrapped around his head for relief every time he ate you out said anything.

you simply didn’t understand— what man would refuse receiving head after giving the nastiest of it?

your fingers clawed at a snowy pile of hair, back arched as you ground your hips into his mouth. he ate your pussy like a starved man, sloppy and coordinated, as his lips latched onto yours as if he’d die without your taste in his mouth

his tongue swiped up your juices as he lapped at your folds, dragging the top of his wet muscles against your core, nibbling at your puffy clit. gojo was on his knees, moaning like a slut in between your thighs as you used him to chase your orgasm.

“ngh, fuck— right there baby,” you mewled, toes curling as your back hit the cold wall of the bathroom stall. his hands gripped at your ass, caressing and squeezing the mounds to pull you in tighter than you’d already been. your mind felt hazy, so overcome with lust that you were ready to burst your dam down his throat. “oh m’ goddd, so fuckin’ close toruuu!”

“give it all t’me pretty baby,” his words come out muffled, only pulling away just slightly. his rosy lips are glossed your arousal and his saliva, a consistency so thick it connects a strand of fluid from your bottom lips to his own. his skin is blotched in lust, cerulean eyes dazed in awe. “cum in my mouth princess, needa taste you.”

your orgasm washes over you before you can even register it, a sensation so powerful you cry out as your dam erupts. splurges of your essence shoots from your cunt down to his mouth, and as you roll your eyes to the back of your skull, you notice so does he. his fingernails dig into the flesh of your skin, pinning you down as he humbly welcomes your cum.

“s’gooddd, shit toru!” you feel your bottom lip quivering, limbs twitching from overstimulation as he continues to ravish you. your groin tingles in heat, body weak as it succumbs to the pleasure gojo gives it. you feel weak, a feeling you’re never able to adapt to no matter how much he attempts to prepare you for it. “uhn uhn— too much, can’t take it!” your head shakes from side to side, nails clawing at his scalp as you attempt to push him away.

the pad of his fingers slip from your ass to snake in between your legs, spanking your wet pussy thrice to keep you in check, and your knees crumbles. gojo latches his lips at your clit once more, and you feel the world blackout. “stop that— fuckin’ take it baby. i know my good girl can take it.”

he leaves you no choice, eyes trailing upwards to land on your figure, the dip in your back so sinful that you feel as though both your bodies have merged into one. his tongue works so deep into you, it feels as though you’re both puzzle pieces that were made to connect to one another. your thighs are quivering around his head, and you feel your back slipping against the wall. shit.

“mmhm, nooo, ‘m gonna cum again!” you pout, tears built at your lash line now streaking down your cheeks. it’s all too much— the sensation so raw that you look for an escape. you want to push him off, to take a breather and regain your composure. but he’s looking at you with such expectations, eyes shimmering with eagerness as he lifts both your legs onto his shoulder for support.

he manhandles your body like it’s nothing— like you weigh nothing. your limp body now slides upwards, higher up in the air than you’d been a second ago. gojo rises to his full height and motorboats into your dripping cunt.

you wail out, head throw back against the stall as a desperate mouth gnaws at your folds. you’re sure he’s dripping from his mouth to his chin, a mixture of fluids so prominent that it dribbles down to the marble floor. “haaah, oh shit— baby, i can’t— fuck, y’eat my pussy sooo fuckin’ good!” the praises flow past your tongue so naturally, hands torn between pushing and pulling away from the painful pleasure. “nghhh, i— ‘m gonna— holy shit!”

your back hits the wall in waves of full body twitches, your cunt clamping down on his tongue as you weakly splurts drops of more cum. fat tears stain your cheeks, blood rushing hotly from head to toe, spraying gojo’s face in your essence.

“atta fuckin’ girl.” he groans into your pussy, almost more drunk on the taste of you than you are. he flicks his tongue up and down, dragging your orgasm as far as he can, completely enthralled by the desperate thrusts of your hips into his face. you’re smearing his face with your fluids, and from the fucked out look on your face— eyes crossed and tongue lolled out, he decides this might be the best way to go. “there we go— yeah baby, jus’ like that, mhmm.”

the timeline from your coming down to actually coming down to the floor is all blurry, but you’re barely able to stand on your two feet when you feel his hand cup at your chin tightly. his index finger raises your face to stare up at his, all moist from fluids and humidity but you don’t think he’s ever looked prettier.

his lips meet yours desperately, lips sloshing over one another as the taste of your cum now sits atop your taste pallets. his free hand snakes around your waist, holding you still as you lazily loop your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.

he’s so good at it all— the nibbles of his teeth at your bottom lip making your legs go weak, stomach churning in more lust. he smells like a mixture of you and his expensive cologne— so satoru like, that you’re positive if this keeps going, you may blackout on the cold floor of this bathroom stall in the club.

he kisses you like he’s got something to prove, and eventually your lungs are filled with his provided oxygen, and you truly believe you’re going to pass out. you pull just slightly away, much to his disdain. he whines, tip of your noses just barely an inch away as you pant over his cupid’s bow. “fuck.”

“mmhm, that good?” gojo teases, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk you’re too familiar with. you don’t have it in you to flick his forehead.

instead, you opt with sighing. “that good.” your hands trail down his nape, nails grazing at the sensitive skin beneath his undercut, scratching and lightly pulling at his locks. he shudders at your touch, leaning forward to rest his sweat forehead against yours.

your touches lower from his shoulders down to his chest, grazing your fingers over his perky buds, teasing his nipples. he’s so touch starved, jaw slackened as he moans— breath warm as it fans your face. your hands begins to lower down to his hips, seductive touches that has him biting his lips, hips instinctively jerking to meet with your light grazing.

you keep steady eye contact with him as your hands finally land at his raging bulge. the material over his hard-on is damp in his pre cum, and it feels hot beneath your touch. with a slight tilt of your head, “lemme take care of you, toru.”

you can see him battling his own thoughts. his pupils widen in lust, orbs swimming in excitement as you palm his erection more precisely. he’s twitching beneath your cupped hand, humping against your palm as his throat erupts a desperate pant.

you wonder if today’s the day he’s finally going to let you see his dick— to let you swallow him whole and please him just as he does with you. you want to get on your knees and take him so far down your throat that tears build and you force gags back down. you’re sure he’s all pretty and pink, a length to match his abnormally tall height and girth ready to stretch your throat muscles.

but as always, just like the night before, he chuckles and shakes his head. he’s refusing you again, hands gripping at your waist to push you away from him.

“you know i can’t do that baby,” he sighs, a small smile appearing on his wet lips. you can tell he’s frustrated with himself, so unsure as the pad of his thumbs rub the bare skin of your waist. you jut your bottom lip in annoyance, although expecting his refusal. “maybe next time, yeah?”

you’re annoyed as you push him away, pushing your skirt back down so it falls down your ass. and you’re sure he notices too. you don’t object when he grabs the toilet paper from the stall to clean the left over mess between your thighs— though your arms do cross over the flimsy material of your tight top over your chest.

“mhm, sure.”

☆ ☆

about a week later, you’re on all fours on his annoyingly large king-sized bed, hands clawing at his sheets as you push your hips back into his fingers. he’s scissoring your cunt open, knuckles-deep in and every precise thrusts has you seeing stars.

“yesyesyes!” you nod your head feverishly, babbles slipping past your tongue and dribbling down the damp sheets beneath you. “oh m’god, feels sooo fuckin’ good, ngh!” there you sat naked and exposed, getting the life fucked out of you by his fingers alone, a length so impossible that you’re convinced his index and middle finger eventually bump your cervix with how deep he works himself into you.

gojo lands a few kisses at the back of your thighs, kneeled down at the edge of his bed as he twists his fingers into your cunt. he’s enamoured by the sloppiness of your tight pussy gripping at his digits so desperately, a squelching sound so harmonious it has him rubbing his own thighs against one another.

“face down, baby.” gojo commands, his free hand coming up to press at your lower back. you obey his order, pressing your cheek down against his sheets, arms silently thanking the man for the break of supporting your body up. you mewl when you feel him plunging his teeth into the soft skin of your ass, before running a wet tongue over the stinging pain. “there’s my good girl. heh, such an obedient lil’ thing.”

you lay pressed against his bed as you take his ruthless pounding, the tip of his fingers reaching the gummy spot that has stars dancing at the back of your eyelids. god, he always knew how to make a mess out of you— your body his temple, a book he’s dead over a million times and has learned to memorize.

“cute lil hole jus’ seems sooo enticing,” you feel the warmth of his breath fanning against your twitching rim, waves of warm air tickling the muscle. it doesn’t surprise you when you feel his wet tongue caressing your tight hole with light touches, just pushing slightly past unspoken boundaries. your stomach tightens the more relaxed he becomes, lapping from the bottom of your cunt up to your asshole, savouring you whole as he works himself into your clingy pussy.

“t-toru, oh yes baby— ‘m gonna cummm!” you whine, sobbing when your orgasm finally does catch up to you— as if he hadn’t already known. you walls clamp down on his fingers for dear life, folds twitching as they secrete your honeyed essence all over his hand and down to his sheets.

gojo never lets up, stringing along as he encourages you even further, “that’s it babyyyy, there we go.” drool slips past his kiss-bitten lips and down to your sopping wet cunt, tongue still working its way at the tightness of your forbidden hole. you look so fucking cute all shaken up, barely keeping yourself together as your moans echoes off his walls and fade into the stillness of the night.

he’s so fucking hard it hurts, but he’d take seeing you wrecked and ruined by his hands alone over the selfish tendencies of asking you to take care of him back. and he knew you’d known that already, if the way your body immediately lurches forward to melt into the sloth ess of silk sheets beneath you said anything.

you feel large hands grip at your thighs, trailing up before landing on your ass. he spreads apart your cheeks, sticky residue spreading your pussy lips with a sinful sound. you shiver, the cold breeze hitting your cunt a mix of overstimulated senses hitting at once.

he collects your liquids at the pad of his fingers, before wrapping his tongue around the digits. he nearly cums at your taste alone, “fuckkk, y’taste so fuckin’ sweet, princess.” and he pushes forward to drag his tongue along the evidence of your orgasm on your thighs, trailing up to the cleft of your ass and to your cunt, cleaning up after his mess.

you know better, and yet you still try anyway. with a shy tilt of your head, you look back to the starved man between your thighs and offer the prettiest smile you can, cheeks flushed in heat and lips glossed in saliva. “y’gonna let me take care of you yet?”

it doesn’t surprise you when he chuckles, releasing the fat of your cunt from his mouth with a nasty pop! to rise up to his full height, bending over your body to entrap yours within his arms. your back arches as you tilt your head backwards to meet his gaze, boobs pressed up together.

he stares at you with an unreadable expression, though the prominent dimple sitting in his cheek pops. “this was more than enough for me, ya little minx.”

☆ ☆

“if we get c-caught, i’ll fucking kill you.” you whisper, hands curling at the edge of his office desk. your eyes repeatedly darted towards the unlocked door, right before you, where anybody could walk into his office and see their boss on his knees for you during his lunch break, eating you out.

he pulls away with a dreamy sigh, a firm grip on your ass jiggling the cheek. “a man can’t enjoy his lunch in peace? not my fault ‘m starving.” there’s a filthy string of your essence and his saliva that connects from his lips to your lower ones.

“get real!” you hiss at him, despite the familiar feeling of heat licking at your limbs. “you asked me to bring your lunch and— ohhh!” your words soon die in your throat as your head rolls forward, and your bottom lip now tucked beneath your teeth. the warmth slide of his tongue at your clit has your nails scratching the surface of his desk, and your back curves into him.

“you worry too much,��� gojo mumbles, before pressing a kiss to your pussy. he feels it throb against him, as he hums and runs the pad of his fingers against your messy folds. you shudder at the stimulation, your hips subconsciously grinding down on his fingers to follow his wavelength. with a smug smile, “see? at least yer pussy’s honest wimme— just lemme take care of her.”

“f-fucking bastard.” you grit through your teeth, though you make no objections. you could act high and mighty all you wanted, you never pushed him away whenever he offered to please you. it was almost like he solely got off on it— your pleasure alone. “i h-hate you.”

“love you too, princess.” he smirks, and you decide to brush off the tight squeeze at your heart at his words.

his tongue fucked into your hole yet again, and your eyes roll to the back of your skull. you really couldn’t get enough of this— of him. you’d repay him your gratitudes if he’d let you. you’d push him back, lay him down and suck his dick eagerly if only he’d let you. you wonder the length of his cock, if it curves, how flushed his tip must get or how much pre leaks from his slit. you want it so bad, and fuck if only he’d let you. but,

he doesn’t.

he gives and gives but never takes. he’ll call you and tells you he’s in dire need of eating you out— of making you cum, and the minute you return the same energy, he finds an excuse to walk away. you’re slowly losing your mind— you crave the taste of him on your tongue, to hear how whiney he sounds once his tip hits the back of your throat, or how pretty he’d look with his eyes rolled to the back of his skull and hips thrusting uncontrollably into your mouth.

“toruuu,” you whine, tilting your head back. tears build in your eyes as they accumulate at your lash line. your bottom lip juts, a soft pout resting on your lips as you flutter your lashes at the man behind you. even with a mouth full of your pussy, his eyes never lie. “c’mon, lemme return the— ngh, favour,” you feel a beat of a pause at your words, and you egg it on further. “i know you’re rock hard. . . you c-can put it in, i won’t, mmhm—mind.”

he swears he cums. he swears he feels his balls tighten and release hot and thick strings of cum in his slacks, briefs tainted white with shame. you were going to be the death of him— you and your doe eyes, glossy lips and perky ass. it grows sticky between his thighs, but his hips twitch as his throat erupts a guttural groan.

“you can’t just fucking say that,” gojo whines, nuzzling his nose into the cleft of your ass. he’s whimpering against your skin, breath warm and moist as his panting grows heavier by the second. you shake your hips against his face, batting your full lashes, and he groans even louder. “you have no idea what you do to me—fucking hell.”

“enlighten me then.” you reach your hand out to fluff his pile of damp hair. he instinctively leans into your touch, peppering kisses all over your skin. you’d never thought you’d have the gojo satoru on his knees for you, demanding you let him please you. “let me suck your dick toru, ‘m real good at it.”

his breath hitches in his throat and you’re positive you’ve finally got him. he’s going to cave in and sit on his office chair, pull his pants down and let you handle his mess. he’s going to realize he’s wasted plenty of time pushing the idea away the second you swallow his length whole and—

“i’m sure you are,” gojo speaks, but you can tell there’s a but following. you sigh, and he offers a sheepish smile in return. “but you know ‘m good here. just wanna make you feel good— your pleasure is mine, i promise. trust me on that, yeah?”

all arguments are thrown out the window the instant his lips latch back onto your sloppy ones.

☆ ☆

“uhn uhn. . . ‘s too muchhh!” you whine, squirming in his lap in attempts to run away. your clit ached almost painfully, repeatedly abused by the vibrations of the toy gojo had stimulating. the soft hums of the vibrator echoed in the room in harmony with your pleads, but gojo was a sadist and unfortunately you might’ve been a masochist. “c-can’t cum anymore!”

“aweee, but of course you can!” he kisses the sensitive skin on your neck, before nuzzling his nose into the crook. his legs spread wider to further open your shaky ones, and his free hand cups at your breast. “you pussying out on me, baby?”

no, you were not. “of c-course not,” you muster to glare at him through the reflection of the mirror before you both. piercing blue eyes never left your body for a second, drinking up every reaction you had to offer him. you nearly felt . . . shy at his gaze. “just hurts a little, fuckkk, you mean b-bitch.”

“mmhm.” gojo nods, fingers tweaking at the buds of your stiff nipples. he rolls the bud between his knuckles, drawing out broken moans out of you as the consistent buzz of the vibrator at your pussy doesn’t let up. he presses another kiss, at your temple, “you’re my good girl, i don’t expect otherwise.”

you bite your lip, cheeks flushing in what feels like embarrassment. him and his damn praises. he knows what he’s doing to you, rosy lips tugging into that smirk as his facial expression scream smug. you wish you could punch the bastard right in the face, but that thought is quickly gone when he pinches hard at your tits.

“shittt,” you mewl, grinding your hips down on his. you feel his bulge poking at your ass— so hard and prominent, proof of his arousal. his lap is drenched in your juices, evidence of multiple rounds seeping into the material of his sweatpants. “so fuckin’ good, hnng, you’re sooo fuckin’ good to me.” you raise an arm to grab at the base of his neck, threading your fingers through his soft locks.

you ooze sex appeal, everything you do and say so erotic, and gojo is easily your slave. “yeah?” he mumbles into your skin, though he looks at your reflection through snowy lashes. your back arches sinfully, ass pressed so snuggly against his lap and your pussy leaking buckets worth of cum. “tell me, what else am i?”

the vibrator attacking your clit has your left leg shaking uncontrollably, the knot in your stomach quickly tightening. you chew on your bottom lip, eyelids resting shut as you focus on spewing your next words, carefully selecting them. you can’t help the chuckle that reaches your mouth instead of a moan, “a bitch.”

“oh?” gojo cocks an eyebrow, another chuckle now audible despite it not coming from you. he drags the vibrator down your slippery folds and all the way back up to your clit, and you tighten your hold on his hair. “those weren’t supposed to be your next words, sweetheart.”

“y-you’re a bitch,” you continue regardless, and gojo can’t deny he’s attracted to you for your sheer audacity. he’s always been a fiend for a good challenge. “won’t even let me give you head— ngh, thought i was the one with a pussy.”

“you’re wounding my ego here,” gojo slides his hand from your tits and trail it all the way up to your mouth. he spreads your lips with two fingers, before hooking them at the corner of your mouth. “callin’ me a pussy? that’s a low blow, baby.”

you squint at him through the foggy mirror, applying pressure to the bulge poking at your ass. you smile when he groans into your ear, “you got a small dick or somethin’? gotta say— fuck, s-sure doesn’t feel like you do.” you throw your head back onto his shoulder, lips grazing over the shell of his ear, “should i check for myself? hnng, see if satoru owns a pussy?”

there’s a click in the air and suddenly the humming of the vibrator stops. finally. had you finally blown his fuse? ironically, your clit secretes more liquid as the idea of him finally pulling his pants off and dicking you down comes to mind. once his pride deflates, he does whatever he can to prove otherwise.

you’re sure you’ve got him.

“heh, you’ve got some nerve.” gojo snorts, and you don’t register how he’s manhandle you to the floor, hands holding your entire upper body steady as your thighs now wrap around his shoulders. the position has your back arched like a cat, and you raise your head up to watch him confusedly through the glass mirror.

two firm hands grip at your ass cheeks, spreading them apart as he licks his lips hungrily, “it’s lookin’ like you’ll never know.” he bares his fangs at you, and you sigh before he feasts again.

☆ ☆

it doesn’t feel right. none of it does. it’s nowhere remotely near cheating, and yet, as this man litters your neck and chest with loving kisses, you feel your stomach churning in guilt.

here he is, offering himself to you, willing to give you what you’d been deprived off since you’d started your arrangement with gojo— willing to rock your world, bump hips and coax an penetrative orgasm out of you— but all you could think about was how wrong this all felt.

though a pleasant smell, these sheets don’t smell like him. they don’t feel like him either. instead of wide cerulean eyes and untamed white hair is stern brown eyes and kept blonde hair. where should be blotches of red on flawless skin is stress lines infused skin.

you felt awful, burning touches trailing between your thighs instead of that electricity that had your stomach twisting with butterflies.

“is everything alright?” the man pulls away from your legs, and questions. he’s so kind, willing to ask how you’re feeling in the midst of it all, and all you can think about is gojo.

no, nothing’s fine. “yeah, i’m good.” you lie, offering a smile. you’re a good liar, and it seems he falls for your words as he proceeds, pushing your panties to the side and works his tongue into you.

his movements are calculated and measured, paying attention to all areas of your cunt. he eats you out good, there’s no denying so, has your toes curling and back arching off his mattress. you lower your hand to tighten his locks, but even that feels wrong— it’s not as fluffy as gojo’s. you think you feel hair gel between your knuckles.

your mind runs a mile an second, overwhelmed by the sole idea that you were offering your body to another man. gojo wasn’t yours— not in the slightest, and yet, as he sucked on your clit and gripped at your thighs, your chest felt unreasonably tight.

you couldn’t do this any longer.

“wait— wait, please stop.” you push his head away, bottom lip quivering. he pulls away instantly, a string of saliva connecting from his lips to your cunt. you feel sick at the confused look on his face. “i can’t— i can’t do this. i’m so sorry.”

the man stares at you for a moment, though never maliciously, and you feel like wanting to crawl into a hole. he nods his head, before pushing your panties back to where they belong, and pushes himself up. silence fills the air for a while, and you’re holding back tears. you’re not sure why, though.

“it’s gojo, isn’t it?” he asks, though he’s not posing a question. he knows, surely everybody knows that you belong to him in both body and soul, but this has only been a recently found discovery for you.

your silence speaks volumes, and the man nods once more.

“yeah, that’s what i thought too.”

☆ ☆

to say he was surprised was definitely an understatement. he wasn’t expecting you to show up at his place, despite already having given you a key to his apartment.

you barged through his bedroom door, a location you were already too familiar with and unknowingly had become so accustomed to. your chest is heaving as if you’d ran a marathon before showing up here, and he wants to kiss the pout off your lips. “pants off, now.”

gojo rises from his bed to stand at his full height, a surprised smile stretching onto his face. “woah, at least take me out on a date first! i’m not just some whore.” his hands comically rise up in surrender, and your frown deepens.

“why won’t you let me give you head?” you ask him before you can even process your choice of wording. when his brows jump to his hairline at your boldness, you feel your face warm in embarrassment. “i mean seriously— am i the problem?”

“what?” gojo blinks, taking quick strides towards your fuming self. he shakes his head feverishly, “no, that’s not it at all—”

“then why do you keep rejecting me?” you cut him off, crossing your arms over your chest. you probably look and sound desperate, but the truth is you were. the first few times could be deemed funny, but there’s so much rejection a girl can take before it starts to become an insecurity. “why do you keep pushing me away? am i that unattractive to you?”

you’d never seen him look so panicked in his life. had it been under any other circumstance, you woulda laughed at the way his pupils blew widely and how his hands started waving all over the place, “no! jesus, are you kidding me— have you seen yourself? what sane man would think that—”

“what sane man wouldn’t want sex?” you bite back, and he’s taken aback. you see it in the way the words in his mouth die down, the way his body stills just slightly, the way his arms drop to his sides. you continue, “what sane man wouldn’t want head? what sane man solely focuses on pleasing a woman and not himself—”

“hey,” gojo frowns. “any sane man would aim to please his partner first and foremost.”

“well usually sane men accept the favour when offered back to them!” you counter, and once more, gojo was cornered into the wall. he remained quiet, an ideaology uncharacteristic to a man like himself, and waited for you to get it off your chest.

“it’s just. . .” you sigh, licking your lips. and he watches you, intently. you’re almost too embarrassed to say it, but enough was enough. “i just don’t get it! i’m thinking it’s because i’m unattractive to you but—”

“i’ve literally came in my pants from eating you out.” he interrupts, raising an eyebrow. your face deadpans as does his. he’s dead serious too. oh that bastard, “multiple times, may i add. try again.”

“then it has to be you think i’m dirty.” you assume, and he tilts his head to the side with an expression that screams ‘seriously’. your annoyance builds up the more he looks at you like you’re crazy for him denying you of his pleasure. “i can assure you i’m clean— i’m not some fucking whore.”

“and i can assure you that thought has never once crossed my mind.” gojo snorts, body language now looser. his hands sit in the pockets of his sweats, a taunting smile on his lips. “what’s the next excuse?”

“oh that’s rich coming from you,” you sneer, poking your finger at his chest. he snorts again, and you feel like you’re about to lose your mind. “what else could it possibly be? you’re so fucking confusing, toru, i have no idea what goes on in your mind!”

“you, all the time.” gojo shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing. he says it as if you asked him if the sky was blue or if grass was green. “you go through my mind all the time. it’s that simple, really.”

“stop the bullshit, satoru.” you frown, pinching the bridge of your nose. your head was starting to ache, and you’d come for closure on this torment, but of course he had to stretch it out.

“but i’m being so serious?” he tilts his head. “it really is just you. you don’t think i want your lips wrapped around my cock? to feel how tight your pussy would be around me? seriously?”

“then why don’t you let me?!” you sigh exasperatedly, throwing your arms in the air. you didn’t understand this at all— you were both on the same page here, so why didn’t he let you? was he ashamed or something?

he goes quiet again, and you’re contemplating on storming out of his room. you give him a few seconds to collect his thoughts, to decide on whether he wants to finally tell you the truth or find another plausible excuse that would have you drive back home.

there’s this look of embarrassment all over his face, his eyes unable to look at you. he scratches the corner of his mouth, lips tugging into a sheepish smile. “i’m. . . scared. kinda.”

you blink at him. “wait— are you a virgin?”

“no!” he immediately defends himself, and you raise an eyebrow at his sudden eagerness. he waves his hands around again to affirm his statement, “i’m not!”

“so. . . you’re a slut?” you ask instead, and he face palms himself. the nerve he had, to face palm himself when he’s giving you the faintest of clues. what were you supposed to understand from that alone?

“y/nnnn!” he drags out your name childishly, the skin of his cheeks flushed a bright pink. he hides his face in the palms of his hands, as if to cower himself away from this discussion. you think the sight is cute actually— a grown man shy about his sex life. how ironic.

“just spit it out.” you tut and he peels his hands away from his face. your eyes narrow as you wait on his answer, watching him fidget with his fingers and shy his gaze away from you. the wall at your side had to be so damn interesting if he couldn’t hold eye contact with you.

you sigh, “i promise i won’t make fun of you.”

your word alone seems to offer some sort of comfort. his lips part to speak, but it feels like an eternity and a half before words finally come out. “i. . . i don’t wanna embarrass myself in front of you.”

now you’re confused. “whadya mean?”

he grumbles, lips falling into that pout he does whenever he doesn’t get something done his way. there’s a crease in his brows, a frown so deep you’re worried you said something wrong.

“i didn’t want to give you the ick, okay?” gojo finally sputters, the blush on his cheeks now spreading down the base of his neck. he can feel his heartbeat thudding excessively loud against his rib cage, and his hands are starting to get moist.

woah, he must be really embarrassed. but about what? was he insecure about his penis?

“why would you give me the ick, toru?” you speak slowly, not wanting to scare him off. you take a step closer to him when you notice he took one back, resting a gentle hand on his bicep. your thumb rubs at his skin in what you hope is a soothing manner.

his eyes shift from the wall to your gentle touch. his bottom lip quivers and he takes in a big breath, before redirecting his gaze on you.

“because you’re you and i’m me!” he starts off, as if ready to confess everything. you take it as a good sign however. “it’s you we’re talking about— god, you’re so pretty and sexy and kind, and so attractive it fucking hurts— i’ve literally busted to your taste alone! i’m so fucking whipped it’s embarrassing. i literally think about you all the time— in bed, in the car, in the shower— i think about how good you smell and how sweet you taste and how addictive your smile is! all i have to do is think about you and i’m instantly hard— i’m like a fucking dog you trained!”

for once today, you’re left speechless.

“and- and,” he continues, “i had to master self-control. me, satoru gojo, had to learn to hold myself back. do you know how many times i’ve nearly folded? hm? how many times i almost caved in and damn near ripped your clothes off with my teeth? you’ve turned me into an animal! i’ve wanted you for an eternity, but i know myself— i wouldn’t last a second with my dick in your mouth! that’s what i’m scared of, i’m scared of embarrassing myself to you and you’ll run off or something and i’ll end up rotting and dying alone from embarrassment and—”

“okay, okay.” you hold a hand up to cut off his rant. he was starting to babble, and soon he would flow into an inescapable hole of self-wallowing. “i think i get it now.”

he’s breathing heavy, pupils blown wide. his lips are quivering and you can tell he’s really anxious of your answer. you’d never seen him so shaken, as if your next words would make or break his entire world.

well, here goes nothing. “i hooked up with another man.” you think you heart his heart shatter in his chest. his face goes slack as does his body, and he immediately reverts his eyes away from yours.

“oh.”

you realize you could’ve started a bit differently. “it didn’t really go far, because i was so preoccupied thinking about you.” you sigh shakily. “everything felt wrong, even when i tried convincing myself it wasn’t, but i couldn’t help but think of you, even with another man around.”

gojo remains quiet, and you’re not even sure where you’re going with this. what are these feelings you’re feeling?

“listen, i don’t know what that guilt was but i know i never want to feel it again.” your hand proceeds to run at his skin. he hasn’t pushed you off yet, so you’re hoping it’s working. “this whole time i was thinking i was unappealing to you, and you’re afraid of flattering me?”

gojo shoots his head up at that, “flattering you?”

you snort, loving the dumb look on his face. he didn’t have a fucking clue, did he? “do you have any idea what that would do to my ego? knowing i was able to make you nut off of head alone?”

“heyyy, don’t go using it against me!” he whines, pouting. “’s your fault anyway— how is somebody that perfect? i don’t get it, you’re genuinely unreal. i almost don’t like it.”

well he surely knew a way around with his words. you giggle, sliding the hand around his bicep up to the back of his neck. your other arm mimics, as your fingers card through his undercut. you can feel him shuddering beneath your touch, and he instinctively cups at your waist.

“now that i know your reasoning, i’m not gonna pressure you into anything you don’t wanna do.” you stare him up through your lashes. you weren’t sure how you didn’t see it before, but now they everything is clear, you swear you see hearts swimming in his orbs. cute. “but, you wouldn’t scare me off, toru. i can’t believe i’m saying this but i might be stuck with you— you say you’re a trained dog, then what does that make me? thought about you while another man ate me out.”

he frowns at that. oops. “he wasn’t better than me. . . was he?”

“never.” you shake your head, and feel the way his shoulders sag in relief. “and if it makes you feel better, we didn’t kiss and i never gave him a blowjob.”

he’s still pouting, but his nose scrunches in the way he does when he wants you to drown him with attention. when had you start noticing these details? “it does. . . i guess.”

“toruuu, you have to forgive me.” it’s your turn to pout, nails scraping at his scalp as your lashes flutter. you rise to the tip of your toes to plant a soft kiss on his lips— lustless. there’s a soft smack that separates both your pair of mouths, and you see the corner of his mouth threaten to twitch into a smile. his hold on your waist tightens and pulls you in closer. “want me to show you just how sorry am i?”

“mhm,” he mumbles, eyes stuck on the plumpness of your lips. he wants them back on his, and that’s exactly what he does, leaning forward to seal another chaste kiss. when he does pull away, it’s just slightly, tips of your noses still grazing one another. he bumps noses with yours, “prove it t’me.”

your cheeks feel like they’ll split with how widely you’re smiling, but that ends as soon as it came, when he lunges forward to kiss you again.

his jaw slacks as he ravishes your lips, tongues sloshing as he releases pretty moans into your mouth. you fed him everywhere— his tongue dancing at the roof of your mouth, his hands caressing your ass, the rhythm of his heartbeat through his chest vibrating against your own.

you walk forwards, lips never leaving his, as his steps move backwards. he tastes as sweet as always, a faint cherry flavour resting on his taste buds. soon enough he’s laid on his back on his own bed with you hovering him, your thighs resting at his sides. his hands grip at the meat on your legs.

“‘m gonna make you feel so good,” you pull away from his lips and trail your hand down his torso, all the way to his briefs’ waistband. “you’ve never had anything like it.” surely enough, he’s harder than he’s ever been, the outline of his cock seeping through the material of his pants. your hand slides lower to cup at the bulge, feeling up on his dick through your fingers, and he whines into your mouth, hips thrusting up into your touch.

“p-please, i’m— oh fuckkk,” he begs, moans croaking out of his throat as you slip your hand into his underwear. your touches are light, wanting to tease him as you collect endless beads of pre cum at the tip of your fingers. his hips never cease to buck into your palm, desperate for more.

“enough waiting, hm?” you tug down at his undergarments, and immediately get slapped in the face. his dick is nothing to scoff at— you’d only seen and felt it through the material of his pants, but now that it was bare and right before your eyes? his length had nothing on your imagination. with a pretty pink mushroom tip, vein throbbing on the underside, heavy balls and a cute curve to the left, his dick undoubtedly had your mouth watering.

he’s twitching sans cease, as if it had a mind of its own.

“can’t believe you were holding out me, toru,” you lick your lips, laying flat on your own stomach, between his legs. he’s pushed up on his elbows, watching as you stroke his cock languidly. “you’re so mean.” your fists tightens at the top of his cock, thumb rubbing at his oozing slit, before loosening your hold as you lower to the base.

he gulps, hands scrunching at the duvets beneath him. you’re giving him these eyes, and your fleeting touches on his dick will surely have him lose his mind. “stop teasing meee, i’ll—nghh!” you kiss the tip of his cock,

and in the blink of an eye, he cums. your eyes shut as ropes of hot, white cum shoot at your face, from all different kinds of directions. he cums, and it’s a lot. it almost feels never ending, as does his cries. his back arches and his hips hump the air, cock twitching uncontrollably as it erupts.

“oh nooo— shit, ngh, fuck— can’t help it!” veins bulge in his forearm with how intensely he’s gripping onto the covers. you think it’s rather adorable, how easily overwhelmed he gets.

it takes a lifetime for his high to come down. and through it all, you’re pumping at his cock, milking him for what he has to offer. silently of course, you’re not even sure he’d be able to hear anything you have to say with how vocal he is.

when it all becomes too much, he starts shivering from oversensitivity, and his cock jumps weakly. you pull your hand away, and his dick falls onto his lower stomach. he’s breathing heavily, head thrown back as you clean the cum off your face. you pop a finger in your mouth, he tastes sweet. “hm.”

“just,” gojo pauses, taking another deep breath in. the ceiling must be real interesting for him. “just go on with it. but don’t say i didn’t tell you so.”

you smirk, now popping the finger out of your mouth with a wet plop! “you really weren’t kidding.”

hmm can anybody guess who the “mystery man” you hooked up with is ? 🌚

[sillysowa]

IF YOU STOP NOW, I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU

Pairing: Satoru Gojo X Fem!Reader

Genre: Smut with plot, fluff and light angst snuck into the end

Word Count: 8.2K

Warnings: Inappropriate use of a cursed technique, bondage with Gojo's blindfold, semi-public sex(?), oral (fem receiving), penetrative sex, reader tastes their own cum

Synopsis: You've known Gojo since high school, and he's always enjoyed getting on your nerves, so of course he wouldn't pass up an opportunity to train you now that you're both teachers at Jujutsu High. How can he keep his composure when you show him your cursed technique? The one that allows him to feel everything he does to you? You feel too good to quit, not like Satoru could dream of stopping anyway

Reblogs are sooo appreciated!!<3

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Your spine slammed against the hard floor for what you hoped would be the last time that night, and the groan that tore from your throat made your haughty counterpart laugh. You gave in and went limp, but Gojo kept up, his strong arms locked onto your frame to keep you restrained, to train you the best he could. Recently, you had been incredibly eager to learn, and Satoru was equally as keen to teach you because he just loved your spunk. It was nice to have someone he went to high school with come back into his life, even though you were a lot more of a bitch in training than he remembered. However, he allowed all your sass because he couldn’t let you go out in the world saying you’ve learned from 'the one and only, the best, Satoru Gojo!' only to perform in any way that didn’t meet his standards, so he trained you, even when it disrupted his sleep. 

“You giving up, sweetheart?” Gojo sneered, staring down at you with his captivating blue eyes that you could’ve sworn were glowing in the low light. You didn’t like to look too hard, worried his six eyes ability might have some side-effect on you, but he seems to relish in this subtlety. Your body language tells him more than your words ever do. He shifts his head to maintain eye contact and his hair falls loosely around his eyes. You on the other hand attempt to hide your face against your own neck. 

“No.” You huff, blowing your hair out of your eyes with an exhale as your hands are currently out of commission, Gojo’s strong grip securing them down. he cracks a cocky smile at your body language, eyeing you up and down while he keeps your wrists crossed and pinned at your torso, both of your legs under one of his. You may say you haven’t given up, but your resolve is cracking. When you started hours ago, you were calm, and collected, and you could keep up with Gojo well enough, but now? Something shifted, and you seemed…nervous. 

Satoru Gojo was pretty sure he knew exactly what had made you so hot and bothered. He suspected it had something to do with the lingering touches throughout the night — when he had clasped both of your hands behind your back and bent you over his knee, when you pinned him down with your legs spread on either side of his waist, and probably most of all when he pulled your hair so you couldn’t escape him, putting you in the position you were currently in.

“Really? Sure looks like you are — wanna show me, or are you all bark and no bite?” Gojo grins, and when he does this, he’s close enough for you to see the amused squint of one of his eyes when he tilts his head to emphasize his point. It’s sheer maniacal joy at the expense of his precious shadow. You blink and suddenly he’s standing a good six feet away from you, and you’re lying on the floor like an idiot, starting to massage your wrists as you stand. 

You let the silence linger for a moment while you readjust your casual attire that’s starting to stick to your skin, and Gojo watches intently, his posture wide and taking up space in the small room.

“Why don’t you quit talking and find out?” You rasp out and anyone who walked by would assume you hadn’t spoken in weeks based on the gravelly delivery of your words, but no one would be walking by as it was just the two of you who were crazy enough to train at this hour. 

Gojo’s face lit up in delight, and he stepped closer, “Are you taunting me? That's exciting.” You saw him for only a moment and had no time to react before your hands were held tightly behind your back and his large frame was pressing hard against your back, his warm breath fanning over your neck and making your hair prick up. 

“You've got this, come on.” This time, Gojo’s not trying to provoke you, instead he aims to teach and encourage you — however, when sparring with someone like him, any motivation feels like mockery. 

You twisted against him and pulled his arm over your back, flipping him over you, but he grabbed onto your arm in the fall and brought you down with him. You’re face to face once more, those wild blue eyes squinted in a smile like this is just mere child’s play. You know what needs to happen, what Gojo’s been expecting this entire time. 

You clap your hands together, fingers interlocking in patterns only you know,

“Mirror technique: reflective chamber.”

And a visible wave of cursed energy flows over Gojo, blue rippling waves cascading down his form. Now, anything Gojo deals to you, he deals to himself also. For a moment, you both just huff and glare at each other, trying to catch your breaths through the summer night’s air. He scoffs and then laughs, but it’s a little different than the others of the night. Gojo’s laughing in excitement,

“Oh!” His tone fluctuates mockingly, “Don’t know if I should be congratulating you for finally figuring this out or if I should be worried! What do you think, hm? Should I be scared?-“

“I think you should quit this mind game you keep playing, I know what you’re trying to do — now come at me.” You sneer. Typically, you’re not this brash with Gojo, but the combination of the lack of sleep and his antics is starting to wear on your moral compass. Besides, you know he can handle it, having put up with your attitude throughout highschool. Satoru has always made it his goal to crack your shell and get a feel of your soft side, and he couldn't think of a better opportunity than these intimate late nights together,  

“If you wish.” Gojo smirks, eyeing you with fake concern before coming at you and landing a kick to your ankles that sweeps you right off your feet. You both know you let it happen out of sheer curiosity, and you barely notice the pain because you’re carefully watching Gojo’s expression as you fall, praying to see a change. You catch on quickly and grunt as your tailbone hits the floor,

“What the hell?” You groan, realizing that Gojo’s infinity prevents your technique from having any effects on him,

“Gojo, make this a real fucking fight, and stop using your infinity shit!” You hiss at the man who’s standing above you now, and when you go to grab at his ankle your whole body stills from his technique. You struggle and he watches with amusement before he deactivates it to watch you fall forward like a fool tugging on a rubber band, wounding themselves from the released elastic.

“Ah, alright, alright, I’ll humor you. but just this once, ‘kay?” Satoru’s silk voice comes from behind you as you pant on all fours, turning to face him as he slowly walks closer. 

You’re a little taken aback at the sight of Gojo dropping to his knees in front of you. It’s slow and cautious, unlike anything he’s done in your training, and you feel your whole face starting to burn as he puts his hands up defensively while coming closer — with anger or embarrassment you’re not quite sure, but it makes you feel like a lab rat rather than a human being, especially with the way his height cages you in,

“Gojo-“

“Ah-ah-ah! You wanted to practice your technique, correct? well,” He moves until your knees are at his chest, and even though his infinity isn’t activated, you feel as though you can’t move. 

“Let’s practice…” Satoru looks down at your arms that you’re using to prop yourself up, and you don’t follow his gaze, instead, you’re distracted by his long eyelashes and the small amounts of sweat that cling to his face, and how this close, for this long, you can smell him, and fuck, he smells sweet. Delicious even — you feel like you could take a bite out of him. Amid your thinking, you’re cut off by a slender finger tracing down your arm and forcing you to meet his gaze at the point of contact,

Gojo hums, one hand up to his chin, fingers gently rubbing and eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and his other hand steadily traces up and down your forearm, his ocean eyes watch as your skin pricks up and reacts to the touch, his skin following soon after.

“Hmm…it’s faint, but I can feel it too.” He gently hums. His demeanor is so relaxed it’s almost got you in a trance, lost in the moment completely. The wind whistles through the trees, the moon glows into the room through the open door, and your mentor, Satoru Gojo, is practically on top of you just tracing your skin.

You feel a sudden sharp pinch on your wrist, and you suck in a quick breath, tugging away from Gojo before his hand seizes you in place, long fingers grappling onto you.

Gojo’s own eyes twitch momentarily from the small sting, but he cracks a grin, 

“So sensitive — that was nothing!” Satoru taunts you, but there isn’t much malice behind it. You watch him with steady eyes, looking down at the small red mark that he now gently runs his thumb over. What an absurd place to be in. You have no idea how you got here and you have no training that’s prepared you for what’s happening right now.

What the hell is going through his mind?

Frankly, Satoru couldn’t answer that question himself. One moment you’re sparring and the next, you’re catching your breath under him while he plays with your reflective technique. He felt this rush in his blood, but he wasn’t sure if it was from your power or his own wild feelings. All he knew was that he wanted to touch you, and this ability of yours made things just so much more exciting. To touch you, and to feel not just his touch mirrored on his skin, but also the way your body reacts to it is something he can’t imagine not indulging in. 

Gojo looks up at you, and his heart forgets its function when he sees you’re already looking at him. It’s almost painful, feeling not only the jump of his own nerves but yours too, and he lets out a small groan from the feeling, 

“This is quite the technique you’ve got…” Gojo thinks aloud, swallowing his arousal and trying to keep calm and collected. This situation makes him feel like a horny teenager again; Gojo’s barely even touched you and yet he can’t ignore the twitching in his pants. He can’t handle the confused look you’re giving him, either. Who knew all he had to do was manhandle you and touch your bare skin to flip your switch? You’re suddenly so shy, and visibly nervous, but above all, he can sense a strong, carnal, need, just burning you up — can feel it every time you get chills or butterflies, and he wants to laugh at how frequently that is.

It’s a heightened sense of being alive that Satoru has never experienced, and he can’t risk messing up.

Not now.

He huffs, running a hand through his hair and letting a laugh out to try and alleviate some of the tension he built up. You look up at him, and he holds eye contact as his hands abandon your arm to slide up your ankles and onto the backs of your knees, a shiver racing up your spine from it. Gojo tilts his head and catches his lower lip in his teeth as he presses, spreading your legs. The movement makes you realize how sweaty you’ve become, the chill but humid breeze gently rushing in to cool your sweat to your skin and rouse the tall man’s hair. He looks like a cat of sorts, eyes fixed wide as he analyzes your reactions, and your body feels like it’s on fire under his cruel gaze. You struggle for words in the silent moment, but at last, they come to you,

“You don’t look so good, Satoru…I’m starting to think you’re the one who was all bark and no bi-“ You don’t get to finish your bratty sentence, instead, a small gasp leaves you and your hands rush to meet the back of Gojo’s neck after he moved his grip to your waist to gain the leverage to grind his throbbing dick against the heat in between your legs.

Oh. 

Oh, fuck.

Your clit throbs under your now tight pants, and that feeling, the dangerous one Gojo’s giving to you, affects him as well. Satoru’s cock jumps, and when it’s up against your cunt like this you’re both forced to crave the feeling again. 

Gojo looks down at you and he nearly cums in his pants at the sight. Your eyes are locked on his, your hair is sticking to your sweaty skin, your breaths are flowing quickly, quiet little moans and hums, and your loose shirt has exposed your gorgeous neck. Satoru finds that he can’t look away — that spot, that untouched area, it’s beckoning him. 

Satoru’s head moves before his eyes do to make eye contact with you as one of his hands comes to the back of your head, cradling it in his large palm, while his other hand trails up your arm, and his fingers intertwine with yours. He feels the pulsing heartbeat sensation of your arousal and he’s doing everything in his power to not fuck you like a rabid animal.  

“Gojo…” Your voice centers him, and his eyes focus on you, 

“Are we really doing this?” You whisper like you’re completely innocent, yet your legs wrap around his back, pulling him impossibly closer. Satoru’s eyes go wide, capturing you like a prisoner of his gaze, and when he looks down at you he can feel the thrashing of your heart against your rib cage. He considers your position, and he knows you both understand that this position isn’t…appropriate for two jujutsu sorcerers. If he keeps touching you like this, your dynamic will be forever changed. 

“Only if it’s what you want…do you want this?“ Satoru asks you with a tilt of his head, and with the way his neon eyes glow under the shadows of his hair, you can’t imagine a single soul who would deny themselves of this euphoria,

You nod, but that isn’t enough for him. Gojo starts to pull away,

“Words.”

“Yes!” You whisper-yell frantically, your hands chasing after him and finding themselves taking purchase around his head — one slipped into his silky hair and the other rested at the base of his neck, gently bouncing from his pulse,

“I need you,” You groan, “And if you stop now I swear I’ll kill you.” You punctuate every syllable, hammering in that you meant it, and the words hit Gojo square in his face, they sweep their way through his blood, and they stroke his dick just the way he likes it. 

“…Fuck…” Gojo moans. He was going to make sure you remembered those words. 

In that instant, his eyes lock onto your neck again, and he dips down to indulge in you. You catch the moment his eyelids flutter closed and then…then you feel him. 

Satoru’s nose and lips brush messily against your skin as he breathes you in, groaning against your neck and the sensation of it, fuck, the sensation makes your back arch off of the ground. His hair tickles, and his teeth ghost over your skin, tempting you just as much as he tempts himself,

“Fuck, you like this, huh? I can feel everything…the sensation’s grown from dull to just searing.” Gojo whines and the gravel in his voice makes you clench up down there, his warm breath on your neck causing the throbbing in your clit, which you now know he feels.

“Everything?” You whisper against his hair.

“Everything.” He grinds against you, and he finally sinks his teeth into your sweet skin. The moan that tears from your throat makes his eyes roll into the back of his head. One of his hands cradles the back of your head and holds it firmly, and the other meets your raised lower back, slipping under your shirt to grip at your skin. He can feel the impression of his bites against his own neck, and it’s irresistibly overwhelming.

You feel like you’re on cloud nine. Your eyes fight to stay open and your hips buck absentmindedly as Satoru’s tongue laps across the side of your neck. He’s humming and moaning in satisfaction, and it’s so perverse you could cry. He’s sucking and biting all over your neck, and the thought of having discolored marks in the shape of Satoru Gojo’s desire all over you in a matter of hours has you seeing stars. The groans he lets out right into your ear have you grinding against him hard, and he wants to give you some satisfaction, so Satoru moves one of his legs right in between yours, his thigh right up against your clit, and oh, god.

“Ah! Gojo!” You cry out, and he softly sinks his teeth into your neck, almost growling, 

“Satoru,” he whispers against your ear with his lips grazing your skin so gently,

“Call me Satoru when I touch you like this, doll.” He purrs, leaving one more wet kiss against your skin before pulling away from your neck to admire his work. You, sprawled out and needy with wet skin and soon-to-be hickeys,

“Wow. You look an absolute mess.” He smiles, and rubs his knuckles over the many bite marks he left,

“You’re one to talk…” You whine, squinting from the way your nerves are reacting to his every touch,

“You’re covered too.” You reach out and Satoru humors you for a moment, watching you with cautious eyes in preparation for whatever moves you may have up your sleeve when your hand dips down to the bottom of his loose black shirt, starting to tug on it. He catches your hand in one of his and reacts quicker than you could ever dream of, tearing your shirt down the middle with his free hand as a wide smile coats his face. The gasp that leaves you is too loud and too erotic for comfort, and Gojo presses his palm over your lips with his eyes blown wide,

“Shhh, shhh! You wouldn’t want someone to come in and see you like this now, would you? Stay quiet, you little brat.” He spits the name out to get under your skin, and he eats up your facial expression.

Oh, you could just hit him, but you’re more concerned with the way your nipples are hardening right now. It’s not cold enough for them to perk up from the air, and you and Gojo both know that, explaining his smugness. 

“How hard are they to be poking through your bra like this?” He rubs his chin in mock concern, and his harsh gaze is seemingly making them grow even tenser. 

You bring your hands up to cover yourself and Satoru moves them.

“I had no idea I got you that hot and bothered!” He lies through a shit-eating-grin and pulls his blindfold out from his sweatpants pockets, and the unspoken acknowledgment of what he plans to use it for makes your heart drop, and Gojo feels it all — fuck does that stroke his ego,

“Shit baby, I’m learning so much about you right now — correct me if I’m wrong, but your body’s telling me you just love being controlled like this.” Satoru brings the smooth slip up to your face, dragging it over your cheek and feeling the burn of your heated face against his knuckles,

“The element of surprise gets you so wet-“

“God!” you whine dangerously loud and slap the blindfold from his hands, flinging it above your head.

“You’re dragging this out on purpose! just-just, fuck me please…” Your voice trails off and your sentence becomes nearly unintelligible at the end, clouded by your pride. the only reason he heard you was because he was close enough to practically breathe your words in, but you didn’t have to know that,

“Didn’t catch that baby, wanna repeat yourself?”

“Like hell, you didn’t-”

“Honest, babe! Repeat it for me.”

“…Fuck me.” You whisper.

“Hm?” He leans in even closer,

You just couldn’t believe you were begging for Satoru Gojo’s dick against the floor of a lamp-lit training room in the middle of the night. This was doomed from the start.

“Fuck me.” You grit out, tensing against your restraints.

“Begging looks so good on you, y’know,” Gojo whispers, lips ghosting over your own,

“Shut up, Toru.”

“Why don't you make me?”

And finally, you get to taste that cocky bitch against your tongue. Your lips meet, and you skip the formalities, mixing spit and groaning into each other’s mouths in the most uncouth manner. You’re fucking frenching Satoru and it’s so much better than you could’ve ever imagined. He’s noisy, whining against you and grinding his dick down as if it’ll somehow slip in. There’s a million bratty things you could say, but the power dynamic of someone overpowering you like this is a guilty pleasure you’re willing to indulge in because Satoru Gojo makes you feel so fucking good. His lips work well with yours, and you start to feel as though he’s trying to eat you alive. He deepens the kiss, causing your eyes to roll behind your closed eyelids. Your eyelids flutter open for a moment, and the sight you’re met with looks crafted by divine hands.

Gojo’s beautiful blue eyes bore into yours and hold you prisoner. Your breath hitches, and he roughly grabs your hands, sliding them up above your head and pinning them with one of his much larger ones, all while holding eye contact. What a fucking man.

He breaks the kiss with a grunt and the blindfold has made its way back into his hands. Gojo goes to work on your wrists with the silk, fastening the knot in a matter of seconds while panting over you. Your heart rate is so high Gojo looks down at you with genuine concern, a large hand holding your shoulder,

“Too much?”

You gulp with your back arched and your mouth glossy from the previous events. You know you can’t lie to him in this position,

“No…” You mewl after forcing yourself to spit out the embarrassing acknowledgment that you’re enjoying being tied up. 

“Of course, it isn’t.” He chuckles, throwing his head back and raking his fingers through his hair,

“I mean, cantle to me when your pussy’s throbbing against my thigh.” He feels your burning embarrassment before seeing your attempt to make a smart-mouthed quip back at him and he beats you to it,

“It’s weird, I can feel the tension of being bound around my wrists, but unlike you, I can still move! It seems I’ve found a flaw in your technique, baby. Now, back to these…” Satoru looks below, eyes drifting to your chest to see your sports bra holding your breasts tight to your chest. There’s a valley of sweat gradually cooling in the breeze on your chest, and Gojo’s patience runs thin at the idea of what’s underneath.

“There’s…there’s no clasp…” You mumble, looking up at Gojo with what he can only describe as pleading eyes, begging him to do something about it. Who would he be if he didn’t oblige?

He grips the top of the bra and tears it down the middle like it’s a piece of lined paper. You gasp and Gojo looks at your face with pure shock,

“Please don’t tell me you’ll morn that thing — that may be the cheapest bra I’ve ever laid my eyes on!”

You scoff,

“What the hell? Do you think I was going to wear lingerie to spar with you?” You spit out from pure self-consciousness, and Gojo’s face lights up,

“Oh quit your whining. I’ll buy you a new one, yeah? Maybe a few, as long as I get to take them off you later.” After getting the satisfaction of your bashful face, Satoru returns his attention to your now naked chest and feels his saliva pooling. 

He simply takes it in for a moment, leaving you wildly nervous. Does he like them? After a while, he uses his left hand to palm your right breast, kneading it, squeezing it, and brushing his thumb over your nipple just to feel the way it lights your nerves up. It’s so fascinating to him how sensitive your smaller body is, and how he would have never known if it wasn’t for tonight. The way making eye contact with him stalls your heartbeats, the way his breath against your ear can make an entire side of your body burn alive with a tingling sensation, and now, his cold fingers against your warm chest and the way its effects spread through your entire nervous system — it’s art.

Gojo knows you’d never admit how good it feels, and even if you did it would never paint the picture as clearly as him just feeling it like this. 

He looks up at you through sex-crazed, half-lidded eyes, and his words drag with lust,

“I need you to keep very quiet, okay? Can you do that for me, baby?” He whispers. Gojo’s left hand continues to palm one of your tits, while his other hand reaches to play with your hair and holds your head to maintain eye contact.

“Y-Yes, yes.” The words come out strangled from the sensations, and you barely register what’s been asked of you, only knowing you don’t want any of this to stop and you’ll do whatever he wants.

Suddenly, his fingers clamp down on your nipple, squeezing for a quick second before sweet release. 

“Ah! Ahh, fuck!” You choke, writhing and groaning. Who knew Satoru Gojo was such a fucking sadist? And, god, who knew you were such a masochist? Though the sensation confused him biologically, Gojo could somehow feel you getting wetter and wetter down there. You were so sensitive he questioned if you were a virgin,

“Fuck, how long has it been since anyone’s seen you this way, pretty girl? Has anyone ever?” He teases, flicking your nipple, and deciding he shouldn’t neglect your left tit for much longer, divvying up his attention with both of his hands. Now, he leans down and captures one in his mouth and you swear you could cum in that very instant. His warm, soft, tongue laps at your nipple like a cat drinks milk, and he looks up at you the entire time. 

“Satoru, o-oh my god, Toru, please!” Your voice cracks in arousal and your head spins from the pleasure. He moans against your skin, and when he feels the vibrations of it, and the sensation of being tasted like this mirrored on his skin, he thanks his lucky stars for your technique. Satoru’s cock throbs painfully, cramped in his sweatpants as he kneels on top of you like this, but he’ll deal with it later. Through his daze, Gojo suddenly becomes aware you’re calling for him,

“—Satoru!”

He pops off of your nipple, 

“Yeah, baby?”

“I want you to eat me…please, Toru, I can’t take it anymore...wanna see your pretty face down there.” You pleaded through pained whispers. The words would have embarrassed you if you hadn’t been working up the courage to externalize them for so long. Now all they did was make you impossibly hornier, and Gojo could tell. 

You didn’t have to ask him twice. 

He shifted down, and the sight of him so close to your pussy made you overthink your request, but the need was too strong for you to be self-conscious now. The view made your knees spread further, making space for the man — Satoru, the strongest jujutsu sorcerer the world has known, on his knees just dying to get his mouth on your cunt. You could’ve sworn he was drooling. His hands worked like lighting on your sweatpants before he slipped his fingers under the waistband of your pants and underwear before he looked up at you, making eye contact while yanking them down agonizingly slowly. As he breathes out his nose, the hot air fans over your sweat-slicked skin. 

You kick gently to aid him in removing your clothes, and now you’re fully naked for him. It felt a little unfair that he was seeing you so vulnerable, and the most you had seen all night was a glimpse of his chest down his shirt as he tied your hands together. 

“F-fuck…” 

Satoru’s cursing brings you back to reality, and you can’t help it when you instinctively close your legs. He rushes forward,

“No, no, none of that. Let me see you.” Gojo’s hands rest on your knees and he rubs his thumbs over your skin. You clench your teeth in apprehension, worried he might not like what he sees, but you decide you’ve already come this far, and you can’t get in your own way any longer, so you oblige and slowly spread your legs open for him. 

It’s hypnotic, Satoru thinks, the way your body just beckons him and he craves you like a moth to a flame. His large hands grip your waist and crawl up your back, lifting you and making you let out a small yelp. Satoru’s large hands grip you, and with his sheer strength alone he pulls you up so you’re sitting on top of him and he’s laying back, your bound hands resting right over your cunt. You felt so exposed, but the position was new and exciting. And then it dawned on you,

“W-wait-“

Satoru looks up at you innocently, his hands kneading your hips. The way his hair falls around his face, exposing his forehead, the crazed look in his eyes, and the way his hands twitch atop your skin — you try to etch it into your memory forever. 

“Trust me, yeah?” And then Gojo moves.

He brings you to his mouth and presses a hot, open-mouthed, kiss to your closed lower lips. You let out a shaky breath, watching him. With your hands bound, you struggle to keep yourself upright, when you decide to tangle your hands in his hair and hold on. The groan he releases shocks you, and it goes straight to your twitching clit. Gojo uses his large hands to spread your legs and almost immediately buries his face against your pussy. You watch as his eyes roll into the back of his head, and the warm wetness of his saliva, paired with his stiff and skilled tongue has you melting,

“Hah- ah- ohh, fuck! Toru, Toru…” you moan and cry, hips bucking against his face. Every time you do so, your clit smashes against his nose, and you chase the feeling he’s so eagerly giving you. gojo eats you like he’s gone rabid, sucking you like a hard candy. His hands find their way to your ass, holding you steady while he makes out with your cunt, slurping in the most obscene ways — it’s enough to make you question if your face is on fire. You look outside for a brief moment and remember that if anyone just happened to be awake at the moment, you’d surely both be in trouble beyond your comprehension. The thought has you tensing up, and Gojo feels it too. He murmurs against your pussy,

“Hey, eyes on me.” 

Without a second wasted, you look back down, and the face you’re met with has you on the very brink of orgasm. Gojo’s eyebrows are pinched together in a needy way, and he’s struggling to keep his eyes open, eating you alive. You grind against him, slotted against his face like a puzzle piece. His sinful tongue laps at your clit with precision, and just like that Satoru knows he’s got you in checkmate. He sucks hard, moaning the way you like, and due to your technique, Gojo knows you’re close. In the next breath,

“Wh-what the fuck? Why did you stop?”

Satoru’s removed his face from your pussy, and strings of saliva connect it to his open mouth. His expression makes it look like he’s the one who just got eaten out, reminding you that he’s feeling everything you’re feeling right now.

“You were about to cum, right? I’ve never felt like that before, it was this swelling that just gradually got more and more intense — you didn’t cum, but you were so close.” 

“Yes, I was…I was right there, so why did you stop?” You sneer through clenched teeth, using your leverage in Gojo’s hair to pull his head back, causing him to hiss and moan from the pain. 

Your heart freezes over from the wild glint in his eyes.

“Oh, you brat.” He grins,

Gojo holds eye contact while he reaches up, tearing the blindfold around your wrist in half and detangling your hands from his hair. He aids you to the floor as he gets up, keeping you on your knees,

“Why?” He refrains, standing in front of you, 

You watch in awe as he slips his black shirt off of his head, jaw going slack while you behold the sight of his chiseled form. You barely have the time to process him as his pants follow suit, and his dick, which looks unbearably hard, springs up once freed from its confines. Satoru’s hand wraps around the base, giving slow but rough strokes with his head thrown back. He looks down at you through white lashes,

“Because I want to feel you cum like that when it’s on my dick.” 

As he finishes his sentence, his tip spurts a little precum, and you flinch as it lands on your face, he moves too quickly for you to react, and before you know it, Gojo’s pulling you onto back with a firm grip around your ankle, before flipping you onto your stomach. You moan loudly, and Gojo’s hand comes up to your lips, palm pressing down as he pulls your back smoothly against his chest, positioning you like a rag doll.

“Shit, you just love being manhandled. I never would’ve guessed all this perversion from my mouthiest shadow. You just want to be used like a fuck toy, hm?” Gojo whispers in your ear, hand moving from your mouth to your neck,

You pant, eyes fluttering in need, desperately seeking his touch with your arching and moans,

“I guess the cat’s out the bag” You grunt, smaller hands reaching up to rest on top of his large fingers that rest around your throat. 

“Put it in, god damnit, I can’t wait much longer.” You drag out your words in desperation.

“Alright, alright,” He whispers, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. You feel his tip slide up and down your slit, and he slaps it against you a few times before lining it up. He whispers after a shaky breath,

“Try to stay quiet for me, baby.” 

A long, broken mewl tears from your throat as he slides his dick in up to the base. You struggle to keep quiet more than you thought you would, and Gojo’s hand tightens around your throat. However, you’re not the only one struggling,

“F-fuck, fuck-” Gojo almost cries the string of curses in your ear, and you remember what he’s feeling. Your mouth waters at the realization that Satoru is simultaneously feeling his dick inside you, and himself. Gojo’s eyebrows twitch and his knees weaken, but he keeps his composure,

“How you feeling, Toru?”

You both whine as he fucks up into you slowly, trying to test the feeling. He thrusts with purpose, and each time he bottoms out you see stars. So this is what Gojo’s cock feels like. He laughs cooly, clearing his throat,

“I had a feeling my dick was the best one out there, but now I’m positive.” And Satoru thrusts back in harder, making you jump and yelp. He groans into your ear, and you’d clap back if you weren’t busy wailing from the sudden increase in speed and depth of his thrusts, the sound of wet skin slapping making your ears run hot,

“Ah! Ah! I can’t! I’m- ngh!- I can’t!” You tremble in your mentor’s hold, flailing from the pleasure and the impact of his body against yours. 

“Yeah, you can. Shit, fuck!- take it, take it all.”

His dick is hammering in and out of you and building up a sudden unfamiliar pressure,

“Satoru-“

“I know, I know, doll.” His voice cracks as he moans, “This greedy pussy’s just too sensitive, gonna squirt already. You’re gonna give me all of it, right baby? Can you be good and do that for me?” The hand around your neck trails up and pulls your hair back, Satoru’s lips now against your neck as he fucks you like an animal and his voice tilts hypnotically, echoing in your skull,

“Yeah, I know you can, dirty girl. Come on, cum for me.”

It doesn’t take much long after Gojo’s lewd speech for you to soak his dick. His speed keeps up, causing an endless flow of warm squirt that trails down his thighs and yours and drips onto the cold floor. You moan like you can’t breathe, and for a prolonged amount of time, you genuinely can’t. The initial feeling of squirting so much and so soon has you just about astral projecting, and Gojo’s struggling to keep himself from doubling over from the amplified pleasure. 

“Fuck, baby, look at the mess you’ve made.” 

One of Satoru’s toned arms wraps around your middle to support you as the other arm extends to the puddle below, coating his fingers and examining them in the lamp-light. 

You frown at the unashamed perversion of it, watching his hand right in front of your face. 

“Open up,” Demands Satoru, and you’re not sure why, but you do — almost no hesitation.

He laughs, and it gently shakes your body along with his,

“Atta girl! Oh, you’re so damn obedient like this, and all for me. You naughty girl, so dirty.“ He rasps, all kinds of amused with this unusual behavior from you. He slips his middle and index fingers into your mouth, letting you taste yourself. You swirl your tongue around his uncomfortably long fingers, eyes rolling back and sweaty skin sticking to his as you both breathe heavily. 

Gojo removes his fingers from your mouth before maneuvering you with a large palm on your lower back. He presses you down, your cheek against the floor and your ass in the air with an arm crossed over your back, held in place by his hand. He had you completely powerless, and the feeling in your gut from the revelation made you feel like a whore. His whore.

“Fuck, this pussy just loves me — mmh- sucking me in so fucking good.” Gojo dirty talks, his hips ramming against your ass like a machine as the sounds of sex bounce off of the walls. He was right about that; you were seemingly dripping for him non-stop. There was truly no need for lube when your partner was this good at turning you on. You had never acted this slutty a day in your life. The arch, the deep and guttural moans, the way you lean back to meet him with each thrust, it was deplorable, but somehow Gojo brought it out of you without a second thought,

“She does, doesn't she? I need to hear you say it, babe.” Gojos hands rest on both of your cheeks, pulling you against him and sheathing himself fully inside you for deeper thrusts. You cry out and quickly bite your lip to conceal it, shuddering breaths coming out of your nose,

“Y-yes…yes…loves you!” All you can do is pant through quick responses. You can’t keep up with him. How could he possibly have this much stamina after sparring with you for hours? It’s non-stop — the drag of his long, hard, dick in your soaking cunt, pulsing inside you and filling you up so deliciously.

Gojo can’t bite back his smile, and he can’t keep his eyes off of you. You; cocky, mouthy, bratty, little you, bent over taking his dick and just savoring every inch. He fucks you harder, if that was even possible, and opts to no longer silence you in favor of etching your every moan into his memory. They’re so fluid. Sometimes you whimper, and it’s high pitched, and it’s sickeningly submissive. Others are more hoarse, and pained, similar to the noises you made when you were sparring earlier. He loves every single sound.

“These filthy moans of yours are- ngh, so perfect, baby. Ah- I-I want more, need more.” Satoru pleads breathily, pulling out to hastily pick you up into his arms. Though he moves quickly, his grip on you is like a vice, never dreaming of dropping you. Still, you’re startled, holding onto him for dear life with your chin against his shoulder. He backs you up against the wall, right by the open door. 

You slam against it, hot and heavy, and the low-lidded look your mentor gives you has you gasping in need, your hands holding him roughly. Satoru doesn’t wait, instantly he meshes his lips against yours, groaning into you and he holds delirious eye contact while he slips himself back inside. You both feel the way your body reacts from the relief of Gojo’s length, moment while your eyes roll into the back of your heads. He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against yours, the rhythm of his thrusts knocking you up, and down, and up, and down. The pleasure is too much, all-consuming, and overwhelming. It’s no surprise that you start to lose your strength to hold on, Gojo finding himself holding you to keep up his pace,

“F-fuck don’t tell me you’re- ngh- too weak already? You poor, pathetic, baby.” Satoru coos, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth hung for the endless stream of moans he can’t hold back,

“My cock feels that good, huh?” He rams into you faster, holding your waist and keeping you spread wide to take every inch. You gasp, and your nails claw at his back. Satoru grunts like the masochist he is from the feeling,

“Oh-oh my god, oh my god, oh my god- Ah!- Faster, faster, Satoru, faster!” The pace he’s set is unreal, and your hands can’t find purchase anywhere. You drag them down his back until it’s raw, slam them against the wall behind you, and at last, you dig them into his soft hair. His dick hits every tingling nerve inside you, and every time you’re able to make eye contact with him he’s already staring you down like prey, making your insides clench. 

“Satoru, m’gonna cum!” An airy yelp follows your warning, and Gojo smiles sinisterly, his pace unrelenting,

“I know, can feel it.” And he’s telling the truth. As you’ve gradually gotten closer, your technique has become stronger and stronger, nearly giving Gojo a hard time staying on his feet. With each thrust he feels your every nerve alive with need, begging him, screaming out to him, don’t stop.

He stills like a bullet train suddenly slamming to a stop. You snap out of your daze, looking at him with agony and hanging on to whatever explanation he has for you,

“Say my name.” 

Your head lolls back as a bratty groan rips from your throat. 

“Huh?” 

Gojo seizes your chin, making you face him. His eyes are blown wide with lust and he looks like he’s run a marathon from the sheer pain and struggle smeared all over his face. He thrusts his hips up into you, pushing you up the wall. The pressure inside your cunt makes you wince and your eyes roll back,

“F-fuck!”

“Say my name.”

“…Satoru.” 

He pulls out completely and slams deep inside, eyes trained on your pretty face to watch you come apart. You’re such a good pet for him, learning so quickly,

“Good girl, now was that so hard?” Gojo huffs in degrading annoyance. When you think this little game is over, he groans,

“Again.”

“Satoru- Agh!-“ 

“Don’t stop doll, who’s fucking you like this?” His thrusts pick back up,

“You, Satoru! S- Ah!- Satoru! Satoru!” You wail as he pounds you to a pulp against the wall. 

Gojo feels his dick pulsing inside you, his blood rushing like a stampede inside him. 

“Damn right.” He moans, grabbing your waist and suspending your limp body in the air to fuck you like you weigh nothing. You gasp and claw at him, and he nods feverishly, 

“Toru!”

“I know- hah- I know, doll. Come on, cum for me.” 

It’s like jumping off a cliff into the ocean or watching fireworks burst, or finishing a race. Your whole body buzzes with the fluttering feeling of the orgasm Satoru Gojo grants you so generously, and you gasp for a spare breath in the warm air that sticks to itself. Your whole body tingles like static, and your muscles tense as you come down. You’ve almost forgotten about the sight outside your eyelids, opening your eyes to watch Gojo come undone. 

He moans weakly, and it’s enough to make your clit twitch. His thrusts grow desperate and needy, and his grip on you tightens. Satoru’s dick feels warm and alive inside you, and your chest fills with racing butterflies as he suddenly pulls you close, arms encircling you when he cums deep inside. His body is pressed right up against yours, his dick fully inside you just filling you up, and his heart beats hard enough for you to feel it against your chest. It’s desperate, and it’s intimate. His breaths fan over your shoulder and he gulps, hands sliding over your sweaty skin to pull out and gently set you down. You can’t sit up, flopping down and curling in on yourself, breathing hard and heavy with your cheek pressed against the floor. 

“Hold on, sweetheart, hold on.” He rasps. Satoru retrieves his shirt from the floor and walks over to you, spreading your legs and wiping at the release that costs your inner thighs. He presses a soft kiss to your inner thing that makes you suck in a breath and shiver, your hands seeking him out. You must have finally turned off your technique, too worn out to keep it up, because he could no longer feel your nerves. Gojo knew it wouldn’t be long for him to miss that intimacy. 

“Come here,” He hums in that deep melodic voice that makes you melt, and he holds your wrists to pull you closer. The feeling of his large hand cupping your head and holding you against his bare skin had your breaths evening out in no time, and you felt yourself slipping into a vulnerable place you’d never have pictured showing Satoru.

“You did so, so, so, good, baby.” He slurs his words,

“Nice to see all that endurance training’s paid off.” 

“I’m tired.” You murmur almost inaudibly, your words muffled from exhaustion. 

“I bet you are. Let’s go to bed, come on.” Gojo chuckles softly, bracing you against him as he stands, holding you to his strong and bare chest.

The glow of the moon vanishes outside your closed eyes and before you can think too hard about it you feel your head hit a soft silk pillowcase on Gojo’s bed. He holds a black shirt in his hand, lifting your arms to slip it over your head and scooping you up gently to pull it down your back. He’s so attentive you worry you’re dreaming, but you could never even dream of one’s touch feeling this heavenly. While slipping in and out of consciousness, you missed the part when he dressed himself lightly and crawled into his bed, keeping his distance from you.

As a child ponders their next move when a deer stills in their path, you hesitate to act in this silent moment where Satoru shares his bed with you but denies you the view of his face.

You stare at the dark outline of his back as he breathes slowly, his white hair falling gracefully against his pillow, and your heart aches in your chest. Eventually, you whisper and reach out to ghost your fingertips over his back,

“Satoru?” 

And he turns to face you, humming. His blue eyes are swirling in thought and he looks like he’s hung on your every word. But you have nothing to say to him, only reaching for his hand and pulling him close, slotting yourself against him without a care for what it means. Satoru feels an invisible weight lift from his shoulders and wonders if you’ve freed him from some curse. As he looks down at you, he sighs and nuzzles his chin atop your head, allowing himself this moment. 

Satoru decides to hold you tonight.

-

[sillysowa]

it has been a fat mf minute, but i’m planning on posting some jujutsu kaisen content soon! hope yall are into that!

[sillysowa]

death to the usa in general and because of this specifically