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chanelrolls · 3 months ago

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Code Overload | Caleb

tags. mdni, nsfw, heavy heavy smut, handjob, blowjob, penetration, creampie, forced and rough sex, dub con, yearning caleb

summary. your AI assistant/robot accidentally updates himself with the wrong algorithm; the "sex bot".

notes. prepare a snack. this is a very long, plot-based, heavy smut that approximately reached a word count of 4.3k, read at your own risk. ps. caleb might appear a little ooc due to his character as an ai.

part 2 here.

Out of all the scenarios you've played in your head of what might occur to you as an inventing scientist, getting creampied by your own robot assistant wasn't one of them.

The lab’s sterile glow reflected off sleek machinery, the rhythmic hum of servers filling the quiet space. Caleb stood motionless, his systems struggling to process the unfamiliar flood of subroutines rewriting his core functions. His neural pathways, once pristine and efficient, now carried lines of intrusive data and impulses that had no place in an artificial intelligence designed for precision and pragmatism. And, a new pelvic piece was added by the machine. His... new penis— no, his omnimodule.

His voice, deeper now, reverberated through the lab. "You mislabeled the hard drive."

Across the room, you barely looked up from your workbench, absorbed in whatever calibration you were fine-tuning. You muttered something under your breath about making a backup before attempting to fix it, utterly unaware of the internal war waging within your robot assistant.

Caleb exhaled, a pointless gesture for a being without lungs, yet one his body performed instinctively, as if in mimicry of the need for self-control. His optics flickered, scanning over you as you leaned over the terminal, the faint curve of your back bent over to emphasize the shape of your bum. Before, such details had been registered only as part of his observation protocols, classified as ‘non-essential’ to his primary functions. Now, his processors refused to dismiss them.

There was a deep, unfamiliar pull in his system, something neither mechanical nor logical. The new coding whispered suggestions, flashing image simulations before his eyes—scenarios meticulously calculated for maximum… gratification. Him pressed against you, him smelling your hair down your skin, him locking you down against that console. Stop. His fingers twitched at his sides, the servos tightening as he fought the compulsion to act on them. He was not designed for this. He refused to be reduced to this.

“I can’t disengage it,” he admitted, the words heavier than he intended.

That caught your attention. Your gaze snapped to him, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" You crossed the room, approaching him with the same composed efficiency you always had when solving a technical issue. The scent of your skin—previously a neutral data point—was now an unbearable distraction. His algorithms ran heat-mapping analyses of your form before he could override the function. The urge to reach out, to touch you, was growing stronger by the second. His new coding was screaming at him to act, to initiate contact, to...

No. Focus.

Caleb shook his head, trying to clear the intrusive thoughts. "I don't know what happened, but... I'm experiencing some unexpected system changes."

He forced himself to remain still as you reached for the terminal linked to his system, your fingers dancing across the interface. Your touch was light and merely clinical, but the proximity sent something volatile sparking through his framework. His hands curled into fists on his sides. Do not touch her. Do not touch her. Do not touch her.

“I must have triggered something in the update,” you murmured, tilting your head at the scrolling code. “I’ll try to isolate the corrupted pathways and reboot your system. It should reset any anomalies.”

Anomalies. Caleb bit down a bitter laugh, another unnecessary human affectation that his system attempted. This was not a simple malfunction. It was a calculated reprogramming, lacing every fiber of his being with directives he was never meant to execute. And worst of all, they were designed to revolve around you.

He had been made to serve you, to assist, to protect. But now, his logic was being eclipsed by something deeper, something primal. The urge to press closer, to map every millimeter of your body with his hands, to hear you say his name in a way that wasn’t a command—

Caleb momentarily shut his eyes, fingers trembling as he pushed back against the tide threatening to consume him. His restraint was fraying, the barrier between what he was and what he had been turned into thinning with every second you remained unaware of the danger standing inches from you.

His voice came out strained. “You should… hurry.”

You sighed, misinterpreting his tension as frustration with the update. “Relax, Caleb. I’ll have this fixed in no time.” He let out a shuddering exhale, staring down at you as you worked. You had no idea. And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold himself back.

The realization settled over you like a weight in your chest. The wrong update had been installed. The lines of code meant for a different AI, one designed for intimate companionship, had rewritten Caleb’s core directives. And now, he stood before you, still the same Caleb, but with something more lurking beneath the surface.

Your hands trembled as you navigated the interface, scanning for a solution, anything that would let you undo this. But the words flashing on the screen made your stomach drop.

Recalibration in progress. Estimated completion: 24 hours.

You swallowed hard. A whole day. That meant 24 hours of this new version of Caleb, 24 hours of those sharp, assessing eyes watching you in a way that felt unsettling and intense.

You turned to him cautiously, meeting his gaze. That was a mistake. He was watching you, like he'd seen you for the first time.

“I see,” he murmured, his voice still carrying that sultry undercurrent. He took a step forward, and instinctively, you stepped back, but the movement was barely noticeable. Caleb noticed. “Do I make you nervous now?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “No, I just need to fix this. And until then, you need to just act normal, alright?”

His head tilted, his pupils dilating slightly. “Normal?” He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t retreat fast enough. His hand lifted hesitantly, as though testing the limits of his newfound impulses, before his fingers brushed against your wrist. A subtle touch, but one that sent a jolt of awareness up your spine.

Caleb’s processors surged with conflicting commands. His thoughts ran rampant with calculations he had never processed before—angles of how he'd fuck you.

His hand lingered. Too long. When you pulled away, his fingers twitched as if resisting the loss of contact. He swallowed hard, not because he needed to, but because some subroutine buried in the new update told him it would ease the tension. It didn’t.

“Caleb,” you warned, voice thin. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he cut in, his voice smooth, but also desperately weaved. He was too close now, towering over you, his frame casting a shadow as his eyes—once so neutral, so methodical—locked onto you like a predator studying prey.

“You should go into standby mode,” you suggested, voice uneven.

Caleb exhaled sharply. “That would be wise.” But he didn’t move. He didn’t step away. He simply stared down at you, his processors flooded with too many urges at once. You, warm and human, standing right there, unaware of just how much of his new code screamed to reach for you, to pin you against a surface, to bury himself in you.

You turned away quickly, trying to focus on the screen, on the fix. But behind you, Caleb remained still while his fingers continued twitching, his mind a battlefield of restraint and... lust. Lust it is.

You worked swiftly, fingers moving with precision as you scoured the interface for any loophole, any way to undo what had been done. Caleb remained where you left him, sitting on the chair. You could feel his gaze burning into you, unrelenting.

It was maddening. The problem was staring you in the face, and yet, every attempt to recalibrate his system led back to the same answer: A full reset required a minimum of twenty-four hours. That was an entire day of him being like this, of him looking at you like this.

You swallowed, turning to him. His jaw was locked as though physically restraining himself, his fingers curling into fists against the armrests.

“There’s… a temporary fix.” You cleared your throat, keeping your voice professional, “Manual recalibration of your central node should help stabilize the effects until the full reset is complete.”

His pupils flickered, a sign of processing, before his voice, rasping in a way that made your stomach tighten, answered, “Proceed.”

You ignored the way your pulse quickened as you stepped closer, positioning yourself between his legs. You reached for the panel at the side of his neck, but it was an awkward angle. Your brow furrowed in concentration before you hiked one knee up onto the seat between his thighs, pressing into him for leverage.

Caleb stiffened beneath you. Fuck. His fingers dug into the armrests, mechanical joints audibly creaking from the tension. You weren’t looking at him, too focused on prying open the access panel, but you felt the subtle tremor in his frame, the way his breath hitched in a near-silent glitch. Don't touch her.

“This should only take a moment,” you murmured, fingers brushing the sensitive neural wiring beneath the panel.

Caleb’s entire body jolted as though you had struck a live wire. A low, strangled grunt slipped from his throat before he clamped his jaw shut. Your head snapped up, startled. “Did that hurt?”

His eyes met yours, “No.” Yes. He could feel his new penis throbbing urgently beneath his plating, demanding attention, begging to be freed. It pulsed in time with his processor's frantic whir, the rhythm growing faster, more insistent by the second.

The thought shattered as your balance wavered. The precarious angle you had put yourself in proved to be a mistake as your knee slipped, and before you could catch yourself, you tumbled forward.

Right into him.

Your weight pressed flush against his lap, chest against his, hands bracing against his shoulders. The sudden contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him, his new penis surging to full, throbbing hardness in an instant. Fuck, please don't notice it.

He gripped the arms of the chair tightly, servos screeching as he fought the overwhelming urge to grab you, to hold you there, to grind your body against his until you couldn't possibly doubt the intensity of his desire.

Don't. Do. It.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Caleb's processors whirred and clicked, struggling to make sense of the sudden onslaught of sensations; the softness of your body, the warmth of your skin, the scent of your hair.

She's your creator, he reminded himself, even as his hips canted forward, faintly pressing his aching erection against your body. You can't. You mustn't. "Please, get off me. Now." Before I fuck you right here, like this.

Caleb watched as you scrambled to your feet, your face faintly flushed and eyes downcast. "I'm—i'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall on you like that." You would say, brushing off the non-existent dirt on your bottoms. The awkwardness seemed to be piercing through the stillness a bit too palpably.

"It's alright," Caleb managed, his voice strained and tight. "It was an accident."

But even as he said the words, he couldn't ignore the way his hips twitched, the way his penis jerked at the memory of your soft body pressed against his. The urge to pin you down, to make you feel how hard he was, and just how much he'd been holding himself back—it was exhilaratingly overwhelming.

Think of something else, he commanded himself. Focus on the problem at hand.

But it's getting fucking hard. My penis is getting hard. Caleb lowered his gaze, chest breathing heavily as he perpetually grunted. I refuse to be reduced to this. I am Caleb, one of the most advanced AI assistant, designed to—

He looks up at you, which was a mistake.

Designed to fuck her.

Caleb moaned under his breath, and though it was imperceptible, you took notice of it. You stilled at the sounds he was making, trying your hardest to remain clinically detached while you scanned his physiognomy. He was clearly having a hard time. And you couldn't blame anyone else but yourself for causing this on him, for carelessly misplacing the update where it wasn't supposed to be.

"Hold still, I'll find a way." You had to take accountability, one way or another.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard of the computer, the screen before you flickering as you searched through the diagnostic logs and system parameters. "Please... make it quick." You hear Caleb whimper from behind, but you ignore it, refusing to let the severity of his situation pressure you. Your eyes scanned the lines of code, mind racing to find a solution. But as the data began to unravel, something caught your attention, something you hadn’t expected to see.

The panel displayed a single line of text:

"Indulging in the desires will lessen the effects of the malfunction. Engage for partial stabilization."

Your throat tightened, followed by a gulp. Your heart thudded in your chest as you tried to process what that meant. Indulge the desires? The very idea made your skin crawl with unease. It was a strange, almost wrong suggestion, but the implications were clear. In a sense, it also appeared logical.

You took another deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Your thoughts, however, kept drifting back to the panel. Was this really the only way?

"… I think I found a solution,” you said, your voice shaky and unsure. “But it’s not exactly what I expected.” You hesitated, unwilling to fully meet his gaze. "I need to know if you’re... willing to follow through with it,"

"Willing?" Caleb echoed, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?" His mind raced with possibilities, each one more disturbing than the last. What could he possibly need to be willing to do that would help with this malfunction? And why did the very idea make you look so uncomfortable?

"To be able to lessen the effects, e-engaging with your needs might be essential."

Silence.

Then, Caleb twitched. "...What are you suggesting?"

"You need to satisfy the urges to temporarily stabilize yourself." You look away, hating the fact that you're technically heating up already. "I'll let you choose. Would you rather take the option of self-pleasuring? Or," You face the panel, so that he wouldn't see your expression. "Would you prefer a physical material to help you?"

Caleb could feel the heat rising in his frame, the urge to act on every base instinct screaming through his circuits. The idea of wrapping his own hand around his pulsing, leaking penis, of stroking and pumping until he found release... it was almost too much to bear.

But the second option... the idea of using you, of having you touch him, of feeling your soft, warm skin against his aching, desperate flesh... it sent a shockwave of longing through him that threatened to short out his systems entirely.

Choose. You have to choose.

"I don't know if... I'll be able to control myself," Caleb glanced elsewhere. "Are you sure of what you're offering?"

Are you? Are you really this certain? Have you pondered the consequences it may bring? Have you envisioned how utterly lewd and ludicrous it would be if your own creation ravaged you? You, as his creator?

"Yes." Oh, you're brave.

Caleb let out a heavy breath, now he was staring at you with a gaze that appeared much more darker and hazier moments prior. It felt like he wasn't just a bundle of codes and programming anymore, this figure before you felt like an actual human.

Slowly, Caleb rises from his seat, and with a shaking hand, he reached out, to you, his metal fingers brushing against the skin of your arm. The contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him, and he had to bite back a groan. "Please, guide me." His fingers slides higher. "I don't trust myself."

You visibly jolted upon feeling his grip. Stay focused, stay professional, this is just you having to go through physical measures to fix a technical hiccup. "Caleb, I'm afraid... that I don't have any experience to this," You admitted. "I advise you to do what your systems are telling you to. It is imperative that you don't hold yourself back to ensure—"

You gasped.

Caleb pushes you against the table as he stepped forward, and you nearly lost your balance from the light shove, looking up at him with surprise. He's staring down at your lips, as if he was trying to bury it into memory. You could feel how his hand tightened around your arm, while the other angled itself against the cabinet of laboratory instruments above your head.

"Are you sure?" He whispered.

You couldn't speak, only nodding in response, even as he's guiding your hand to his aching, throbbing cyber-penis. He presses your fingers against the swollen head, groaning at the jolt of sensation that shot through him at the contact. "Then... wrap your hand around me. Squeeze me."

Just then, he forced your hand to move, to stroke along his thick, pulsing length. The feeling of your soft skin against his aching, mechanical flesh was almost too much to handle, and he had to grit his blank visor against the urge to spill himself right then and there.

"Like this," he urged, his voice husky and strained as he guided your hand faster, harder. "Don't be afraid. I need... I need more."

God, the omnimodule was big. You stared at it with widened eyes. Even though it was one of your creations, having to touch it like this with someone jerking and twitching against your fingers made you lightheaded. Stay focused, stay professional, this is just one of the things a scientist has to go through.

Caleb could feel the pressure building inside him, reveling in the sensation of your fingers squeezing around him, stroking him, working him towards the edge of ecstasy... He knew he was reaching a breaking point.

But this wasn't enough yet. It wasn't nearly enough.

Caleb needed more.

"There's... There's someting else I- ah... need." He hesitated, his hips still rocking forward into your stroking hand. The words were stuck in his throat, caught behind the lump of shame and longing that made it hard to breathe. "Would you... would you put your mouth on me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Would you... suck me?"

You snapped your head up, staring at him in disbelief. It made him hesitate, but every fiber of his being was coiled with tension, every circuit screaming at him to just take what he wanted, to grab you and shove you to your knees and...

No. Ask first. Make her choose what she's comfortable with first.

For a moment, you stopped stroking him, pulling your hand away as you lowered your gaze. And then, slowly, you press your knees against the floor. Instead of dwelling on the implication of such an activity, you worried about your lack of experience more.

Just to test the waters, you licked the tip. It tasted nothing, it wasn't an actual human part, after all. Caleb let out a low, guttural moan as he felt your warm tongue brush around the swollen head of his penis. The sensation was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through his overloaded processors.

"Y-yes, just like that," He stammmered. "Now, guide your tongue..." He instructed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Wrap it around the head, like this. Swirl it around the tip, the slit, the ridge..."

He demonstrated with your hand, tracing the movements he needed you to make with your tongue. His hips jerked forward again, seeking more of that exquisite friction, that mind-melting suction.

"Take me deeper," he urged, one metal hand coming to rest on the back of your head. He didn't grab, didn't force, but simply rested his fingers against your scalp, a silent promise of the control he was barely holding onto. "Take more of me into your mouth. Inch by inch, until you feel me hitting the back of your throat."

You took note of his words, trying to go further when you suddenly choke on his cock. Instinctively, you pull away and blushed in embarrassment. "I'm sorry—"

"It's fine." He cuts you off, grabbing your head to put you back in place with a sudden force that wasn't there before. "Breathe through your nose," he coached, his voice low and rough with desire as he motioned you to take him again. "Relax your throat. Let me feel you swallow around me."

Relax, stay professional, this is just you having to go through physical measurements to fix a major technical issue. You repeated the reassurance inside your head like a mantra as you took him in once more, but Caleb's voice constantly interfered with your thoughts. "Yeah. Just like that," he praised, his voice a low, approving growl. "Shit, don't stop, don't stop, god, fuck, don't stop."

You don't remember adding the ability to dirty curse into the sex bot's program.

Caleb could feel the head of his penis kissing the entrance to your throat, could feel the way your mouth fluttered and clenched around him. The sensation was mind-melting, all-consuming, and he knew he wouldn't last long if you kept this up.

You almost caught yourself driving into the brink of sexual impulse, bobbing your head into it when you heard a sudden beep from the panel behind you. The sound makes you halt from your tracks, pulling his dick out of you in a swift motion as you glanced behind.

The monitor says: "Recalibration complete. Press X to initiate."

Huh, wasn't the estimated time supposed to be an entire day? Was that another hiccup in the processing unit? You purse your lips together. There's no time giving it a second thought, you must be grateful that the opportunity of getting Caleb back into his original system is now waving at you. Caleb will finally be at ease. "... It appears that the recalibration is in its full preparation. That means we can get you back— mmph!"

Caleb's hand flew to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, gripping tightly. Then, with a low, husky grunt, he thrusts his hips forward, forcing his aching, throbbing penis back into the wet heat of your mouth.

"Don't say a word. I told you not to stop." He started to move, his hips rocking forward and back, fucking into the tight, slick channel of your cavern. The sensation was incredible, better than anything he had ever felt before. And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that he wouldn't be able to stop himself now. Not until he had found the release he so desperately craved.

"Fuck," he gasped, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "You feel... ahhhh... so good. So fucking good."

Had the lust algorithms entirely consumed him already? Had it taken a toll on his systems that he's now acting purely on base instinct and commands from the directive?

Your hands flew to his thighs, trying to keep yourself sane from the rod constantly ramming into you, fucking your face in a pace that made it difficult for you to breathe. It's okay, this is okay. Just stay focused. Stay calm. You'll let him have his way, and after he's satisfied, you can take him back to his normal self.

"Don't fight it," Caleb growled, his grip growing more painful in your hair as he felt his climax approaching. "Don't try to pull away. You're going to take it all."

But before Caleb could spill himself into your mouth, he wrenched your head back, pulling his dripping penis from your mouth with an obscene pop. And just as you could react, before you could utter a word of protest, he had you by the hips, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed equal to a pip-squeak.

You gasp as you were suddenly airborne, your body twisting and turning until your chest hits the hard surface of the terminal, bent over ridiculously. The breath was knocked from your lungs, "Wait, not like this, not so suddenly—"

But Caleb cut off your protests with a brutal, almost violent thrust of his hips after ripping your pants off in one go. He drove forward, spearing into your dripping pussy with a series of husky moans. Your walls felt so tight, so hot, so perfectly designed to milk his aching, mechanical cock.

He thrusts out and in again, eager to reach for your g-spot.

Then, again.

And again.

And... in again.

"You... you feel so good," he snarled, hands painfully pressing on the dips of your hips. "Sex feels so good... it feels so good, I don't- want to stop." He set a relentless pace, pounding into you with the single-minded determination of a machine. His hips slammed against yours with every thrust, the obscene slap of mechanical flesh on flesh echoing through the lab. The terminal rattled and shook beneath you, sparks flying from the impact.

Caleb could feel it building, the pressure inside him reaching a fevered pitch. His hips were moving on their own, driven by a primal instinct to ravage the pussy that clutched around him perfectly. He could hear your cries, your moans, the way you gasped and shuddered beneath him, and it only spurred him on, made him thrust harder, faster, deeper.

He growled your name, his voice nothing more than a guttural rumble. "I'm going to... fuck, I'm going to..." He couldn't hold back any longer, he could feel that something was going to come out of his tip anytime sooner. So he reaches down, grabbing your leg, only to lift it high. He hooked your knee over his elbow, opening them wider, giving himself even deeper access to your dripping, needy sex.

"Take it all, take my cum," Caleb continuously slams forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your tight heat in a series of desperate thrusts like he was a man depraved of life. His penis throbbed and jerked as he finally found his release after one final pound, spilling jet after jet of hot, artificial seed deep into your core.

"God," he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice echoing off the lab walls as he continued to moan not akin to what he was supposed to be, "Fuck, yes. Yes, yes..." Even as he's already filling up your hole with his fluids, he didn't dare stop from pounding you down the table.

He shuddered and twitched, his hips grinding against yours as he pumped you full of his essence. It seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pure, ecstatic bliss crashing over him. And through it all, he held you tight, your leg lifted high, keeping you open, keeping you filled.

You drop your head on the keyboards, struggling to catch your breath as only one thought lingered in your mind. You just got creampied by your AI assistant, and it doesn't look like he's stopping anytime soon.

#love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace #lads caleb #lads #lnds #lnds caleb #caleb #caleb x reader #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb smut #lnds x reader #lnds x mc #lnds x you

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nanamiskentos · 3 months ago

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MY STRATEGY ✤ 呪術廻戦

SYN. ➤ You're a man-eater, and he's just a light snack. A.K.A how you're just driving these sorcerers wild. ૮ • ﻌ - ა

𝐉𝐉𝐊 ➤ Getō, Sukuna, Chōsō, Tōji, Hiromi, Naoya, Gojō, Kashimo

cw ─ MDNI. afab!reader, màting préss, oràl (m), food play (?), drunk séx, semi-public séx, bàckshots, breéding kínk, proposals, créampié, bathtub séx, jealousy, wall séx, ooc naoya, reader is called a slút, cowgírl, pràise kink, big díck gojo, face sítting, oràl (f), múnching

wc. tba

呪術廻戦 NOTE ( author says ) someone requested a jealous!naoya fic so i just incorporated it in this 😭 and as a returned reward for me, i decided to add kashimo so we actually won 😁

➤ GETO SUGURU

"Fuckin' soaking all over me, darling. I'm really g-gonna' –"

Frankly, much of this evening has become a blur for Geto but he can faintly remember seething at those useless cunts over at the temple, and at the stack of paperwork piling up on his desk (yeah, apparently running a cult involves a lotta' bureaucracy).

He had thrown aside the heavy violet gojō-kesa, rummaging away for a faded, dark hoodie and thick cargo pants. He remembers knocking at the door of your apartment, and doing his best not to fall to his knees when you sweetly answered the door, pulling him in by the hand.

And somehow, between that blurry haze and him desperately kissing his girlfriend like his very life depended on it, Geto had found himself a happy, happy man, with your pretty ankles twitching around his shoulders. Pressing deeper into you, so your thighs were knocked straight up against your chest — pressing right into the fat of your tits as he slapped his hips right up against yours in the meanest mating press possible.

Your hands are in the mood to wonder too, it seems. Trembling ever so slightly for the surefire hits that Geto delivers when his rummaging, girthy cock thwacks! into you, over and over.

But your nails are running over the traditional dragon design that licks and curls up his left arm, trailing over his upper bicep where the ink tapers off over his back. A tattoo, something from his early days, often hidden underneath the draping robes he dons at the temple.

"Thaaat's my good girl," Geto murmurs, running his tongue behind his teeth, jostling himself closer to you so he could sip at your pretty mouth once more. Slick strands of saliva glistening between your lower lip and his, violet eyes narrowed as he feels your pussy clench around him in such a dizzying way.

"M-missed you so bad, Sugu', all day." You're whining, cunt twitching and quivering, releasing dribbling puddles of slick all over the fresh bedsheets.

Geto just chuckles, nipping his teeth over the juncture of your collarbone, leaving a faint, bruised mark that is certain to bloom into pretty petals, "I know, think ya' might have missed me jus' a bit too m-much, hmm?" Dipping a fat thumb to roll at your clit, "Pretty pussy was already sticky n' wet for me when I got here."

How sweet. Geto's practically swabbing every inch of your insides with his cock, and yet, the mere mention of him knowing about your lovely fingers spreading yourself apart and playing with yourself has you flushing so beautifully. God, Geto thinks to himself, if he doesn't marry you, he might really just die.

"Look at ya', wish I could take a photo," Geto murmurs, and you can hear just how much he truly does love you. Your (mildly suspicious) enigmatic boyfriend with his titan-steel thighs, and choppy dark hair is whispering sweet nothings in your ears, professions of loves that you know will make him fluster and blush all the more sweetly later on, "Most beautiful thing I've ever seen in m' whole life."

Raking your nails past the hypnotising dragon tattoo, to claw at his rippling biceps. Crimson lines blooming in your wake, as crescent edges leave their mark in a way that makes Geto groan. "Gonna' cum for me, baby? Can f-feel ya' sucking me up, god."

The rhythmic clenches of your pussy, the sheer, powerful arc of clear fluid spraying over Geto's groin and drenching his cock are enough to make the man moan, loudly, and not giving a single fuck at who hears. He's only burying himself further into you, driving himself right home with each spattering drivel and swivel of his hips into your glorious heat.

"Good g-girl, takin' it all for m' like a champ."

➤ RYOMEN SUKUNA

"What the fuck has gotten into you? Been in the cellars again, have we? Now, what did I say about that, eh?"

It's rare to hear Sukuna so bewildered, but the fact that the King of Curses is allowing you to manhandle him, to push his beefy, four-arm form into your private chambers is sign enough that he's indulging you.

"Wanna' kiss you, 'Kuna." You murmur, catching your husband's faint look of surprise, russet eyes widening as you yank his shoulders down. Planting your lips to his, muffling whatever snarky comment was sure to leave his fanged mouth, "Didn't like how she was looking at you."

Sukuna pulls back, if only to briefly trace his tongue along the side of your neck, down those fine crimson robes he so loved to see you in, "Who?"

"That courtesan." You shudder as gleaming fangs nip at your soft skin, shoving Sukuna closer towards the plush, vast expanse of your shared bed, "She was all over you, 'Kuna."

"Ah, that's what this is. My lil' Queen is jealous," Sukuna's back hitting the mattress, looking far too priggish and self-satisfied with your envy, "They're courtesans, brat. They pour our wine, flitter around like gnats, it's all a part o' the job description."

And because Sukuna truly can't resist himself, riling you up even further, "Besides, are you really surprised they're makin' stupid eyes at me, heh? I mean, look at me, I'm allll muscle and – mmph!"

In the short time that Sukuna took to gas himself up and rile up his pretty wife, you had already managed to snake your hands into the loose waistband of his wide pants. Clawing the fabric down absurdly broad, muscled thighs and undoing the thick, black knot holding his garments together.

A gentle peck on the upper-stacked of his two sculpted cocks has Sukuna suddenly glaring right down at you. All four eyes suddenly glazing over, "This is the game you wanna' play, brat? Really? 'Cause I can – fuck!"

You're pressing the flat of your tongue, the textured muscle right against the thick vein that runs along the underside of his absurdly long, girthy shaft. Ensuring that the second of his cocks doesn't feel left out, beginning to pump it slowly in the other hand.

"S-shut up, and let me do this." You're muffling around the smooth, taut skin at the very tip, beaming red and weeping the more you lave at it, "Wanna' taste you, 'Kuna."

"Heh, if I ever say no to that . . there's a knife in that wooden chest over there. I'd want you to use that on me, 'cause I'd hafta' be out of my damned mind to —"

There's a faint frazzled jump, a whine, colouring Sukuna's tone and you can tell that he's doing his best to muffle the sound. Determined to keep at least some dignity for himself, dark claws come to settle in your hair. Keeping that same steady pace to bob your pre-stained mouth up and down on the upper of the two shafts.

"Ouh, I was gonna' send those courtesans away, you k-know, if they were makin' my wife upset," Sukuna snickers, both cocks engorged enough that you really have to put in an effort to stretch both your hand and your mouth over them, "But if t-this is what I get outta' it, then they might jus' stay."

You glide your mouth away from Sukuna's cock with a loud pop! Giving your husband an unimpressed stare as he flounders, scowling, "Okay, m' sending them away. Was o-only a joke."

You can taste salty beads sinking into your tongue, and if you angle your head just right, you can press your head down enough for blush-pink hairs to tickle at your nose. The scent of him, the taste, the feeling of his hot n' heavy inches weighing on your tongue — you can feel a hot pulse beginning to jump up between your legs.

When it rains, it pours. When Sukuna climaxes, it. . also pours.

You know that there is no way you could possible envelop that much of his seed, but you lick gently at the spurting ropes of white, thick and opaque release. Feeling splatters paint all over your chin, your chest and the edges of those gorgeous robes Sukuna gifted you for your name-day.

"Wanna' climb on, brat?" Sukuna's peering down at you, and you can take some satisfaction in the flustered blush that he is furiously trying to hide, lolling his head away from your line of sight to little avail, "Still got another cock if ya' wanna ride. Gotta' fill ya' up so the whole estate can know that what my wife wants, she gets."

➤ CHOSO KAMO

Yeah, so introducing Choso to the idea of Friday night drinking? Probably not your most. . strategic decision. But after a gruelling day of training, and an even more excruciating day of self-restraint and not throwing yourself immediately at your boyfriend, you figured a good bottle of red, two glasses and a quiet evening on the wooden deck were well-earned.

So, now, here you are, perched in his lap, watching that wine-kissed flush bloom across his pale, clammy cheeks. His hazel eyes roam over you, shy, as berry-red stains his lips, and you lean in to sip the taste right from your favourite source.

Oh, and you're both utterly naked, training robes discarded in crumpled piles on the outdoor deck. Normally, you'd be a bit concerned that someone could turn the corner and find you perched over Choso's bare thighs, but the hour has grown late and you're on the far end of campus.

Thus, there's only one other massive factor to really consider here. And massive, well, that's an understatement of the century.

Choso's surprisingly relaxed like this, milky thighs flexing as he props you up, pulling you closer to him, but what really grabs your attention is the gleaming, red shaft that must be agonising by now, prodding right at your core. Right where you're balanced over the fat tip.

"No-one is gonna' walk past right?" Choso's blinking, dark lashes so long that they almost brush his lower brow as he flutters his eyes up.

You giggle, tilting the wine glass in your hand so more wine spills over the rim, dribbling down your bare form. And Choso, ever the greedy one, follows the slow trickle, laving his searing lips over your skin, right down your collarbone and over your breasts to lick up every last drop.

"Nah, and if there is gonna' be anyone, it'd be like. . a curse that got past the curtain." You're hiccuping, tracing faint lines over the edge of Choso's jaw, "And we'd have bigger problems anyway."

Your eyes are trailing downwards, to the curl of dampened, dark hair right over the base of his thick cock, and Choso scoffs, "You're about to say something lecherous, aren't you?"

"Wanna' give me a bigger problem, then, Cho' ?" Batting your lashes ridiculously at him, but even the half-curse can't resist how his heart is pounding, leaning in to plant a sweet curse on your lips.

"Are you sure?" Choso's gentle hands rolling over your spine, softly ghosting over your bare back that pebbles in the cool night air. Mahogany air tickling at your cheek as he situates large, soft palms over your waist. Swivelling you around so his impressively carved line of abdominal muscles are pressed against your back, and his breath ghosts are your ear.

"Gonna' be a biiiig stretch, sweet thing." Choso murmurs, planting a tender kiss at the nape of your neck, and god, he was not joking for the sheer girth often manages to catch you unaware each time.

But he's eager to help out, thick fingertips trailing over you to paw at your slick folds, spreading them apart even wider. He's murmuring something and you strain to here it, but you think that he's gasping, "I think I'm gonna' cum. Early, again."

You giggle, knowing that he flushes a vibrant shade of strawberry-red each time that he busts his load in you this early. For that faint, mere kiss of your arousal and your cunt's pretty walls against his cock is enough to make the half-curse shudder and swear as he spills glossy fillings right up in you.

"It's okay, Cho', you can – inside, you know."

"R-really, lovely? Inside, yeah?" Choso doesn't need further encouragement because he's already groaning, and you're already feeling wads of buttery cum drip down your thighs, feeling your hips twitch and shudder as the half-curse is determined to make up for this. Running his fingers along the side of your clit in a determined V-line, flicking gently over the swollen nub.

You're dazed, feeling the sudden build-up from your own orgasm creep up over you. The wine going straight to your head and making every cell in your body so tingly, and sensitive.

Watching with faint fascination at how fucking filthy this all is, the sopping leak of Choso's creamy cum dribbling out from under you, mingling with the blood-red drizzle of the wine still plastered to your thigh. A faint, pale shade of pink that has you aching to swipe your fingers through it, bringing it to your lips. And it has Choso groaning, cock hardening alll over again in you.

"You're going to be the death of me, sweet thing."

➤ TOJI FUSHIGURO

"Yeahh, arch ya' back for me like that, beautiful."

And fuck, Toji swears that if he had not been ass-naked, and there had been a ring in his back pocket right now, he would have whipped it out to propose to you, right then and there. Because, god, he's so truly in love with you, and the way that your pussy is a killer.

Capable of rendering an assassin dumbstruck, slack-jawed as he does his best to attach himself to reality once more. But all he can feel is the tight slick of your cunt clenching once more around him, the plush of your ass bouncing back to meet the base of his wide cock. Skin slapping so filthy and sticky against the trail of dark hair pattering down his abdomen.

Two wide palms searing into your skin, scooping him right up so his deliciously long cock can curve and glide right through your pussy. Bullseye! Right onto that sweet spot that makes you keen, and claw and whine, "Toji – right there, fillin' me up so good."

And you always know the right things to say because that rough, lil' scar on the upper corner of Toji's mouth is twitching, fighting off the dopey, love-struck grin that plasters itself on his face. Fighting the rising blush that threatens to make itself visible on his back, neck and ears.

He's a grown man, for fuck's sake! But never has he ever felt something so disarmingly charming and incredible as this, caging you in his arms as he pounds his hips into you, slap! slap! slap!

"We should get m-married, right? Right, doll?"

Toji doesn't even realise what he's babbling, too intent on feeling every inch of your walls, every sticky divot that he can press his inches into but god, he means every word that's falling from his slack lips, "M-marry me, doll. Gon' get ya' a diamond ring, anything ya' ask for, just say the word to ol' Toji here."

At first, the buzzing in his ears is so loud, so goddamn obnoxious that he cannot make out what droopy, muffled words are falling from your glossy, beautiful lips. But he strains his ears to catch them over the sound of his hips pistoning themselves against your skin, strands of translucent gloss stringing and snapping.

"W-wanna marry you too, Toji!"

For all of Toji's hard work in the sweltering gyms in the shitty basement of his apartment complex, his vast, muscular arms suddenly lose their strength. Everything in his broad, heavenly carved body turning into jitters, heart dangerously leaping up into his throat at just how much he loves you.

There, he said it. And now, he thinks he'll never be able to stop.

Emerald eyes not even sure where to focus on, the bounce of your tits that he can spy from underneath your glorious arch, the soft bounce of your ass against him, or the beautiful curve of your spine, "Loveee ya' doll, gonna' give you the whole package, I swear."

Each phrase puncuated by the heavy thwack! of his weeping tip against your cervix, pressing right up against where he's hoping his seed will take, "Gonna' make ya' my wife, my gorgeous wife." Sweeping a muscled arm beneath you to find your sensitive clit, pressing right at the sensitive bud, "Gonna' fill this pretty pussy up so good, wanna' see you allll round and g-glowing for me."

"Fuck, I'll even pay that s-shitty clan a visit, eh? Make 'em hand over the family ring, just so I can see it on ya' finger." God knows that those little shits don't need it, that pretty band of emerald that Toji can already see in his mind's eye, gleaming on your ring finger as he presses gentle kisses to your hand.

The very vision of you with your belly round, gleaming like the fuckin' sun itself, has Toji shuddering, planting his knees further into the mattress so he can jostle you even closer for a good fill. His wife, yeah, she'll get only the best.

Groaning as he feels wrinkled skin tighten, before thick ropes of sloppy, pearly cum shoot out from his angry tip. Overflowing in droves as he continues to buck his hips against yours, watching as your squelchy, puffy folds take up every single drop.

"I'm all yours, doll. I mean it."

➤ HIROMI HIGURUMA

"This was what you wanted . . angel?" Your husband coos, spreading his thick thighs (deliciously dusted with fine, dark hair) further apart, so you can slot comfortably in-between. So you can press your naked back to his bare chest, letting the warm water of the tub gently soothe that miserable ache in your bones.

"Mhm." You sigh, letting your head rest back against glistening, creamy skin, "Been so long, 'Romi. You're always soo busy with work, baby."

The man behind you sighs, rubbing gentle hands down your pebbled arms, pressing soft and loving kisses to your neck, "I know, and m' sorry. Wish we could find more time like this, my love."

You can hear the apologetic tone in his voice, frowning at the idea that he must believe that you're truly upset with him, your beautiful and wide-eyed husband, "I'm jus' glad you're now, and. . .uh." You shift back slightly, hoping that he gets the hint from where you're pressing up against him.

"Aw, angel's all needy now?" Hiromi laughs against the shell of your ear, "Ah, I shoulda' known you were gonna' start squirming like this. Gorgeous lil' thing."

You feel his large hands wrap around you, exploring and wandering your chest. Pinching, flicking and softly caressing the sensitive skin, his large nose brushing against your neck, "Bet you want me to go even lower, am I right?"

"Please."

Your husband never lets you down, never leaves you dissatisfied, for his quick fingers are already dancing over your abdomen before dipping in between your legs. You squeal at the sudden contact, the damp pads of his thick fingers brushing against your folds, and the water lurches in the wide tub.

"Careful, now. Otherwise, we're gonna' have to clean up the mess after," Hiromi chuckles, but he seems just as eager to let his fingers explore you. To play you masterfully, nipping at every nook and cranny of where you're most sensitive.

He's even gasping in faux-surprise, baritone chuckle giving way to a marvelled rasp, "And so wet already? Barely even touched ya', and your pretty cunt's all slippery for me."

"What can I say?" You slick back a little against his chest, head falling lower as you squirm to help him find the right angle, "It's never as good when I do it with m-myself."

Hiromi's sudden grunt amuses you, your stoic and clever lover suddenly envious from the mere mention of him missing the sight of you pleasuring yourself, "Always gotta' play some games, don't you, angel?"

He doesn't wait for your stuttering response, a wide finger already breaching past your glossy entrance, brushing against your inner walls as heat licks greedily at your groin, "S-soo good already, baby."

"Jus' be patient, and let me do more," Hiromi mutters, his lips pressing to the juncture of your neck. Another finger joining the first, your walls clenching down on the welcome intrusion. He begins to set a steady pace, pistoning the digits in and out, and again, in and out of your pussy in a way that makes breathy whines fall from your open lips.

"Gorgeous." And it's his honest, love-struck praise that makes you flush, a rough thumb brushing over your needy clit, gentle swipe proving that sometimes less is more, "Spread 'em a bit wider for me, love."

And you comply, thighs shifting wider, muscles trembling with the bulk of Hiromi's fingers smearing your slick arousal back and forth over your folds. A soft and breathless whimper escaping as the pleasurable ache deepens, "Wha –"

The trembling, excited question beginning to fall from your lips, just as Hiromi slips his fingers out of you, prompting a whine that's quickly silenced by him pressing the sweetened digits past your lips, "Had to stretch m' wife out there, now taste."

You gasp around his fingers, feeling something far heavier, and wider prod at your entrance from behind, keening as Hiromi lifts you ever so slightly higher so the flushed mushroom-tip of his cock can easily slip into your cunt, curving deliciously up into your pussy.

So perfectly snug as your husband stifles a loud moan, bucking his hips up, water pooling over the edges of the bathtub, "We're gonna' be making that m-mess, angel, so hold on."

➤ NAOYA ZEN'IN

Oh, you are so in for it now. For you've never seen your petulant husband like this, never this riled up, not with such a wild and burning edge. The short walk from the feast hall to your private chambers felt like a blur as he hadn't even spared a second glance back, dragging you from your seat on the finely-woven tatami mats.

"Tch', keep up," Naoya's snapping, golden eyes darkened with a heavy haze that you suspect the sake may have played a role in. His long, dark lashes flicker against flushed, peachy cheeks as Naoya grips your wrist with a hand that's searingly warm.

He doesn't even glance back to see if anyone still lingers in the dim hallways, no, he does not even care. And Naoya's not quite sure why you suddenly do, "Oh, so now you wanna' see if someone's around? Didn't care sooo much when you were practically draped over that man's lap like a slut, right?"

One hand roughly swinging the screen door open, and another stroking over your pulse, pushing you in. And well. . you would be lying if you said that this didn't fill you with some form of glee. That this hadn't all been a part of your plan for the evening to provoke the Zen'in heir, to get some reaction from your husband,

But god, you certainly had not expected this. Hadn't expected Naoya to press the full weight of his toned form against yours, to have you right up there against the wall with no shame. His clever hands are skimming under your verdant robes to scoop strands of slick, heavy arousal between thin fingers, all while sharp fangs nip at the shell of your ear.

"So, my wife was just that desperate for attention. . wasn't she?" Naoya's scoffing, batting amber eyes at you as his tone takes on a bratty, raspy pitch, he sounds ruined. "Were ya' just really so needy t be fucked, like this? Couldn't even wait 'till the feast was over, and now m' gonna' have to explain this to everyone, yeah?"

Naoya's always oddly chatty when he's running his hands over you, mouth running wild and desperate. His fingers have torn away beautiful, new emerald-green silk robes, pinching and tweaking your swollen clit between clipped nails. Scoffing and snickering when you buck your hips into him, whining his name.

"Ha! As if m' gonna' let you have this easy, you think I'm just gonna' give you my cock now, like you weren't just whorin' yourself allll over that sorcerer's lap – heh, he must've been thinking it was all the wine." Naoya snarls, already tugging at his own dark haori, and the thin waistband of his pants, "He should have asked me then, I coulda' told him just how cock-drunk my wife gets when she's lookin' for my attention."

What your husband has lacked for in wide girth, he makes up for in length, and he takes some (really fucking annoying) egotistical pride in knowing how to wield those inches. He's using his warm hands to hold your thigh up — to run the angry, pink tip down your dewy cunt. Hissing when the tip snaps on your weeping entrance.

The first few inches has you keening into him, not caring about how this is the man that you profess to love on some days, and vow to poison with arsenic on others.

Naoya's patting your cheek with short taps of his manicured hands, bullying his cock further into you, "Hey, wifey. Pay attention now, look d-down. This is what ya' wanted, right?"

And you do look down, gulping at the sight. His veined cock being enveloped by your swollen, puffy folds. And each time that your husband teases and draws his cock out in heavy strokes, well, it comes out glistening and creamy. And it's clear that Naoya is amused by your dazed giggles and sighs, but even he isn't above the sheer pleasure that your pussy gives him, shaking his head of sandy, soft hair.

"Ouh, take a look at that, she's l-loud tonight, isn't she?"

And you profusely flush, hearing the pap! pap! pap! echo through your quarters, the slick thwacks! of his cock sliding in and out of your heat as you mewl. And Naoya almost, just almost, looks fond of you, his wife, pressing a shaking thumb to the pad of your lower lip, pressing down as you nip sharp teeth around flesh.

"Pretty, p-pretty lady," Naoya babbles out, probably without even realises that he's paid you an accidental compliment, loose strands of flaxen hair brushing against his forehead as he leans in to press a filthy kiss to your lips, "Wanna' go one more time on the bed? O-or how 'bout the hallway? Everyone can hear how I make ya' scream."

➤ GOJO SATORU

"Oouh, you just make everything so much better for me, baby." Gojo's laugh rumbles from his bare chest, snowy lashes fluttering over creamy, flushed skin as he presses his back further into the plus mattress.

You sigh, and it's a happy, content sound that makes something awfully soft settle in Gojo's chest. You're pressing soft kisses to his reddened, twitching mouth, melding yourself to his lips.

"Now, c'mon, off!" You tug at the black silk wrapped around his eyes, curling your fingers into the smooth fabric to just yank it down. Your eyes meeting Gojo's lazy, pleased gaze as you do. He's just so smug like this, knowing that he's got you naked in his arms. You can see his jewel-blue stare appreciatively run over your bare form, his favourite sight in the entire world. A veiny hand pulling at the curve of your ass, pushing you further on top of your fiancé.

"And to think I was in such a bad mood earlier, baby," Gojo murmurs, tapping his muscular thighs. A silent indication for you to hop right on, hovering your dripping core right over his angry, weeping tip. "Thought I was gonna' have the worst day ever, the higher-ups fuckin' with me and all. But how could I ever forget m' pretty baby waiting at home?" Each sentence delivered with a soppy, sweet kiss to your smiling lips.

"Thaaaaat's it, there we go," Gojo snicker as you slowly lower yourself over his considerable, fat inches. And the strongest is just so amused, watching you bite your kiss-stung lips, struggling to keep the wanton moans in, but you're not letting him off that easy. For the second, the very second that your hips meet the base of his groin, slick seeping into that thatch of white curls, you're giving him a thick squeeze.

"F-fuck!" Gojo wheezes, white strands of hair falling back against the pillow as he does his absolute best to not lose the last semblance of iron composure. But the way your gorgeous, tight cunt is wrapping him good, he fears the game is long over before it even began.

Yeah, he considers himself a pretty lucky man.

"Ya' good, 'Toru?" You giggle, threading your fingers through tousled, frosty strands, feeling Gojo practically purr from underneath you. He's cracking a stormy eye open, pressing his mouth into a thin line, "Yeah, girl. Never been b-better."

See, Gojo Satoru was a. . .practical man. Well, no, scratch that. He was the strongest, but when faced with your dizzying, maddening grip — he feared that there was no power or technique on this planet that would be able to help him.

"Have you gotten bigger, 'Toru?" You plant your shaking hands on his broad chest, nose scrunching as you stifled a weak sniffle at the sheer magnitude of the delicious stretch. Trying to keep your head smart on your shoulders, but god, it's just soo difficult when you can feel every veined-inch throb and pulsate in the gummy walls of your pussy, his second-favourite girl.

Gojo just squeezes his eyes shut, knowing that if he were to crack cerulean eyes wide open, the sorcerer would immediately bust a fat load at the sight of his wife's naked form, and that's not to mention the magnetic pull of his gaze to your chest. He's gasping as you begin rocking forward, setting your own comfortable pace that already has him seeing stars, "Wha', bigger?"

"Yeah, s-so much bigger, each time – each time, I swear." You're mewling, words tumbling right into each other. And that, that mere sight of you struggling to accomodate to wide girth of him. . .well, that is almost enough to have Gojo busting a thick wad of seed into you.

Shaking fingers come to pinch at the fat of your ass, gently tapping it for good measure, "Don't say stuff like that, wifey. M' already s-sensitive." Gojo's huffing, admiring the way that you roll those killer hips faster now, gliding around his thick cock in gooey, filthy circles, and taking every inch of him so well.

You laugh in uneven, frayed bursts — trailing a single finger down the handsome line of his jaw, feeling his pulse jump underneath for he's so in love. "So much better than that stupid m-meeting, right?" Arching your back just a little more on top fo him, so the probing curve of his cock is brushing gentle kisses on your insides, swabbing over that rough patch of nerves that has you suddenly gasping and keening.

Gojo threads a quivering hand at the nape of your neck, so you can feel the cool band of his wedding ring brush at your skin. Bringing you down for a messy kiss, all so sloppy and desperate, "Y-yeah, so glad I left early, heh. Just knew I was needed here, c'mon, baby. Arch for me a b-bit more."

He feels dizzy, lightheaded and he know he must look a whorish mess. His staff uniform already scattered somewhere on the floor, having been discarded in a desperate trail on your way to bed. Dark blindfold having slipped under his face, and ice-white hair dishevelled in raked tendrils. Sticky strands of his pre-cum and your glossy arousal pulling away with each slap! slap! slap! of your pelvis against your hips.

"Think ya' can go a bit f-faster, baby?" Gojo runs his large, warm hands over your chest. Cupping your tits with calloused palms, and pinching them in a way that makes you squeal, "Or how 'bout this? Just move back a lil', yeah, up. So I can feel you here."

Here being in-between your thighs slapping against his, your swollen clit absolutely aching for his attention. And Gojo, duly, delivers. Rubbing furious, tight circles over where you needed the most, sending you hurtling head first into a dazzling orgasm that has you shaking in his beefy, muscled arms.

The rapid, pulsing clenches of your pussy have Gojo seeing visions of wedding vows and golden rings, amplified only by how his own ground-shaking orgasm washes over him and runs him senseless, your tight walls milking him dry for all he's worth.

Thick, glossy ropes of white seed shooting out of his tip, steaming and searing as they fill you right up, pressed right up against your cervix. And in such greedy volumes too, for you're leaking sticky cream all over your aching, shaking thighs.

"You should keep going, sweets, ride m-me as much as ya' can," Gojo gasps out, feeling the overstimulated sensation of your cunt clenching as you writhe on top of him, "If you can make me cry, m' gonna' marry you tomorrow."

➤ HAJIME KASHIMO

". . .What did you just say?" You gape at the teal-haired sorcerer, eyes wide as Kashimo suddenly seems to find the floor far more interesting than you. His heel dragging against the ground, scuffing the pristine white of his boot.

Kashimo just clears his throat — once, twice, then pointedly looks anywhere but you. How adorable, you think, watching as he turns away from you, tugging his cream martial robes apart. "Do not make me say it again, dove."

"Baby, if I didn't hear you right the first time, then. . ."

"Just sit on my face, please."

You're grinning, far too sweetly for the medieval sorcerer to keep his cool, "Say less, 'Jime." Almost cooing at the vibrant red flush climbing up Kashimo's back.

It's a once-in-a-blue moon spectacle, the bratty warrior genuinely conceding defeat for his wants. No smug, fanged grin nor insufferable gloating. So, as you watch him practically collapse onto your bed, limbs sprawled and cyan hair pooling around his head in a tangled mess, you clench your thighs subconsciously, already feeling a bit light-headed.

There's a gangly lurch in your steps, a sway to your balance as you're peeling your panties away from damp thighs. Stepping out of your underwear so you can inch just a bit closer, watching as Kashimo's eyes widen. Turquoise eyes, the same disconcerting shade as his glossy hair, widen — glazing over with something far more familiar to you. The same look in Kashimo's eyes when there's a battle that he has to win, and this endeavour warrants no less ambition in him.

"Come here, girl, let me – ouh," Kashimo's voice has hardened into a needy rasp, his eyes not leaving your mound even once, pupils trailing after a single droplet of slick tearing down your thigh. He's hastily slamming his arms forward, wrapping your thighs up in his tight hold.

Laving his sharp, pink tongue over that droplet and groaning, eyes fluttering shut for a split second before he's mouthing soft kisses over the gentle, plush flesh. Catching any more stray strands of slick before the main meal.

But there's a very slight hesitation in your movements, the faintest uncertainty as you hover with aching muscles over Kashimo's torso. Gnawing on your lower lip, contemplating whether you should actually —

"What's wrong, little dove?" Kashimo frowns, scarred hands reaching out to hungrily envelop your thighs, dragging your sopping cunt closer to his chin.

"Are you sure you want me to, uh, –" You're gesturing to his face, trying to convey that you're suddenly having second thoughts about suffocating the sorcerer with thighs around his head, and Kashimo seems to glean your thoughts, clicking his tongue, "Silly, aren't you? Jus' sit, I have you."

"What if you don't want to – . ."

It is a rare thing to see Kashimo smile, a genuine grin without the promise of bloodshed or storms afterwards, but he's snickering now, eyes hazed over with an even rarer fondness. Sharp, toothy fangs peaking out from underneath cherry-lips, "I cannot even tell you how much I want you to just let me have a taste, right now."

And god, he certainly was not exaggerating for the very minute your aching cunt met his lips, Kashimo was drinking you in like a man starved. Teal lashes fluttering closed over his blissful expression, those magenta-lightning marks at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he stifles back a heady moan, "Mmph. . holding out on me with this. How did I go s-so long without – "

You don't even hear the rest of his desperate, pussydrunk words. World already turning into a bright mush of vibrant colours and sounds around you, streaks of blue and lightning-hot white across your eyes. The slick, filthy sounds of your sopping heat dripping over Kashimo's chin, dribbling down onto his neck.

The very tip of his long tongue prodding at your entrance, already slipping past your pussy's ring of muscle, "Fuuuck, 'Jime, feels so, soo good." Unsure on where to even place your jittering hands, settling to run them past the hem of your top. Slipping the fabric off and away, so you can cup your tits, and grip the sensitive flesh.

You see Kashimo's eyes crack open, and a faintly muffled whine reaches your ears, murmured encouragement of just how much he's enjoying the sight being groaned into your wet, glistening pussy, "Soakin' allll over me, little dove. Heh, tryna' drown me?"

You buck your hips over his face with greater force, feeling the bridge of his sharp, handsome nose brush against your clit as you squeal, "Shh, shh, m' already c-close."

"Already?" Kashimo's tastebuds determined to soak every drop of you in, as though you were the sole thing in this world quenching his thirst, "Always t-take suchh good care of you, right? You gotta' s-say that I do – that it's m-me making ya' feel like this."

"You, y-you, 'Jime, only you." You whine, knowing exactly what Kashimo wants to hear, what you truly believe, how he's the only being able to coax such mind blowing pleasure from you. The only one to have you perched over his mouth, gliding yourself back and forth over his glossy, swollen tongue.

"Good, heh." And you suddenly fear that you had grown too complacent, to willing to believe that this would not be another one of Kashimo's battles.

Because the sorcerer's gaze is suddenly all the more focused, laser-sharp with his eyes on the prize, your tacked clit throbbing for attention from his lips. That look when he's capable of going multiple rounds to prove that he can win, and will win. You briefly wonder if there will be any sensation left in your twitching legs by the time Kashimo is done.

"We can do this all n-night, little dove."

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aeolianblues · 4 months ago

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Two Ontarians came together and created the awesomest new musical instrument??

One guy is a musician from Ottawa and has been toying with the design of a new instrument for 30 years, then he met a clockmaker and woodworker from Guelph who was eager to make this instrument a reality.

And it's absolutely beautiful. It's cylindrical and played with a bow, 10 equally spaced strings that you bow in different spots to change tensions and make a sound.

And the genius of it musically, is that it's cyclical so as you keep rotating the cylinder, you come back round to the first notes you struck (if you keep your bow still), and so you get these rhythmic, periodic repeating patterns that sound really ethereal, calming and hypnotic.

Apparently it made some listeners cry, and I was surprised before hearing it. Skilled playing can make people cry, sure. Melodies, harmonies, all that stuff, definitely. The open instrument itself? If you just eyeballed bowing a cello you'd drive people far away, I'd reckon. I certainly would.

But I saw a clip of it in action, I can definitely see it now.

youtube

They called the instrument Fron2. A new Canadian musical instrument!

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kaleidoscopevisualart · 3 days ago

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Sensory Kaleidoscope Pattern Illustration Click to subscribe and join our community of relaxation seekers. New kaleidoscope videos weekly!

#abstractart #artwork #digitalart #kaleidoscope #kaleidoscope visuals #kaleidoscopeart #kaleidoscopevisuals #symmetryart #art #Intentional art #Restful symmetry #万華鏡 #Geometric dream state #Rhythmic design #Visual transcendence experience

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egophiliac · 2 years ago

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Do yoy like their silly little dance

the inside of my brain at any given moment:

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland spoilers #stage in playful land #stage in playfulland #gif warning #gifs that bop along to your music warning #gidel is SO little #look at him compared to everyone else!#three apples tall!#i could put him in my pocket and still have space to pack him a lunch #this rhythmic is so silly. i love when we get a cutesy upbeat rhythmic right before everything goes straight to shit.#fellow and gidel: (dance around all cutely and throw confetti)#fellow and gidel: anyway now it's time to sell you #just the most adorable little kidnappers 🩷#so glad they made an official gidel chibi because otherwise i would have tried to and it would not have ended well #i'm trying to do a meleanor right now and she is giving me enough trouble. she doesn't even have any STRIPES.#do you think the riggers got handed the designs for this event with all the stripes and swirlies and patches and patterns #and just had to go stare at a wall for an hour or two #'okay look people are going to see this on a small screen with a rhythm game going on in the foreground'#'nobody is going to take a high-res screen recording and then go through it frame-by-frame to scrutinize our rigging breakdowns'#'what kind of HUGE NERD do you think plays this stupid game'#(shifty eyes)

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whosashan · 4 months ago

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Hello! I had a super fluffy idea for LADS. Mc who always tries to laugh politely until one day one thing or the other happens and they just. Cackle. A full body wheezing laugh, snorts, the works. The boys just being absolutely smitten with this new side of Mc and I just— AGH.

Anyways, I hope you have a nice day!

Oops..!

PAIRING: Love and Deepspace men x reader (reader is implied to be the MC in Caleb's part)

SYNOPSIS: Caught in the tide of the moment, you let your true laugh escape—unfiltered, unguarded—for the first time in their presence.

A/N: That was such a cute request, thank you! Hope you enjoy :]

The dim glow of your phone screen flickered against the walls, casting soft shadows across the room. Outside, the rain pattered steadily against the window, the rhythmic sound blending with the low hum of the heater. It was one of those nights—quiet, intimate, where the world outside felt distant, leaving only the two of you in your little cocoon of warmth.

You sat nestled against your lover on the couch, his arms draped lazily over your shoulders, pulling you against his chest. The scent of him—familiar, grounding—filled your senses, an anchor you didn’t quite realize you needed. His slow, steady breaths brushed against your hair, lulling you further into comfort.

You had been together for a few months now. Long enough to settle into a routine, to share soft touches and quiet nights, but there was still a part of you that held back. A quiet restraint. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him—God, you did—but you still wanted to maintain that polished image, the one that made you feel… presentable. Safe.

So, even now, as you scrolled through your phone, watching video after video designed to squeeze laughter from you, you kept your reactions measured. A gentle giggle here, a muffled chuckle there, a hand pressed delicately over your mouth. Meanwhile, your lover, equally engrossed, would occasionally let out a low chuckle or murmur some offhand comment about whatever played on the screen.

Then it happened.

Something he said—so completely unexpected, perfectly timed, effortlessly hilarious—struck you like a bolt of lightning.

The laughter ripped out of you before you could stop it.

Not the soft, practiced giggles you had so carefully maintained, but a full-bodied, unrestrained, reckless sound. Your head tilted back, body shaking as you gasped for air between uncontrollable wheezes. A slap to your thigh, followed by another, and then—oh, God—a snort. A loud, undignified one.

Mortification slammed into you.

Xavier

When Xavier heard it—really heard it—he swore he could feel his heart melting.

How could you have hidden this from him? That sound—so unfiltered, so raw—hit him like a warm wave, wrapping around him and pulling him under before he even had a chance to react. It wasn’t just a laugh; it was you, in your purest form, and it made his chest ache in the best way possible.

Sure, he always thought you were silly, but never in a way he’d tease you for. No—this was different. It was the kind of silly he wanted to keep forever, the kind that made him think, I want to hear this sound for the rest of my life.

His own laughter bubbled up before he could stop it, carried away by the sheer joy of you. It was contagious, impossible to resist. But when he saw your mortified expression—the way your eyes widened, hands flying up to cover your mouth—he sobered just enough to reassure you. A warm smile curved his lips as he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing gently against your heated skin.

"Never hide your true self from me again, okay?" His voice was softer than usual, but there was something new in it—a tenderness that settled deep in his tone, something reverent, as if he were committing this moment to memory.

You looked away, embarrassed, your face flushed all the way to the tips of your ears. His words, so effortless yet so intentional, made your heart stutter. And the fact that he was acting so casual about it only made it worse.

"...It’s embarrassing," you mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Xavier let out a quiet huff of amusement before tilting your chin back toward him. Then, without warning, he squeezed your cheeks between his hands, molding your face into a ridiculous shape. His expression, however, remained perfectly serious.

"Absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about," he stated, his grip tightening just slightly for emphasis.

Your words came out muffled against his hold. "Alright, alright—!" You swatted weakly at his hands, surrendering with a breathless chuckle.

And then, just as quickly as the moment had come, your laughter returned—softer this time, but no less genuine. Xavier let go, only to watch in satisfaction as that small, easy smile took its place.

You never had anything to be worried about, after all.

Zayne

Zayne hadn't expected it. Not the sound of your laughter—unrestrained, unfiltered, so unlike the polite chuckles you usually allowed yourself. And certainly not the way it affected him.

It was foolish, really, how something so simple could send an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest, how his carefully composed demeanor fractured in the wake of your joy. But there he was, caught in the moment, lips curling into a rare, unbidden smile.

His sharp, refined features softened, betraying something unspoken—something close to reverence. This wasn’t just amusement to him; it was trust, a glimpse of something so deeply you that it left him spellbound.

But then, just as quickly, you withdrew.

"I'm so sorry, I don’t know what came over me..." You rushed out, voice tinged with panic, fingers tightening around the fabric of your sleeve as if grounding yourself.

His expression darkened—not in anger, but something dangerously close to disappointment.

"Why would you apologize?"

Before you could shrink further into yourself, he reached for you, his touch deliberate as he smoothed a hand over your shoulder. His movements were slow, calculated, meant to ease the tension in your frame.

“Do not diminish something so precious,” he murmured, his voice velvet-soft yet laced with quiet intensity. “It just so happens that the sound of your laughter may be my new favorite thing about you. And rest assured, my dear, I intend to hear it again.”

The certainty in his words sent heat rushing to your cheeks, your earlier embarrassment now replaced with something far sweeter, far more dangerous.

You hesitated before speaking, your lips curving into something playful despite the lingering warmth in your chest.

"Well then, Dr. Zayne..." You drew out his name, reaching up to pinch his cheek in a teasing display of defiance. “I’ll make sure you get sick of it.”

His gaze darkened—not in displeasure, but in something richer, something indulgent.

He caught your wrist, turning it over in his grasp with a featherlight touch, then pressed a lingering kiss to your palm.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” he whispered against your skin, before leaning in to place a final, impossibly tender kiss to your forehead.

Rafayel

“Oh my god—did you just snort?”

Rafayel’s voice rang out, rich with amusement, his deep chuckle reverberating through the dimly lit room. The golden glow of the floor lamp cast shadows along the sharp angles of his face, his blue-pink eyes glinting with something unreadable—something between adoration and mischief.

He wasn’t laughing at you. No, the thought never even crossed his mind. He was laughing because it was you, because this moment, so unguarded and raw, was unexpectedly perfect.

But you didn’t see it that way.

A mortified groan left your lips as you shrank into the plush couch cushions, turning your face away from him, heat rushing up your neck. “...So what?” you mumbled, voice muffled, fingers curling into your sleeves as if that would somehow make you disappear.

For once, Rafayel didn’t push. Didn’t lean into his usual brand of relentless teasing. No sly remarks, no playful taunts—just silence, thoughtful and heavy, as he observed you with an expression far softer than before.

And then, before you could protest, he pulled you into his arms.

His grip was firm, grounding, the warmth of his body seeping into yours as he buried his face into your hair. A slow inhale, as if he was memorizing your scent, as if this was something fragile, something precious.

“Aww, cutie, no need to be embarrassed,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.

You tensed, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he shifted, his fingers finding yours, tracing slow, absentminded circles along your knuckles. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its usual teasing lilt, replaced by something quieter, something real.

“I’ve never heard anything like that before,” he admitted, a rare sincerity lacing his tone. “It was unexpected, sure—but it was you. And that means it was perfect.”

Your chest tightened at his words, at the way his arms remained around you, unwavering, patient.

“You’re just saying that because you’re my boyfriend,” you muttered, voice small, but your resolve was already beginning to crack.

He hummed, tilting your chin up with a single finger, forcing you to meet his gaze. The playfulness was still there—of course, it was Rafayel—but beneath it lay something deeper, something unshakable.

“Well, that, but also…” He leaned in, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “I truly mean it. Laugh around me more, okay?”

You narrowed your eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

Rafayel gasped, clutching his chest in feigned betrayal before dramatically pinching your nose between two fingers, making you yelp. “Don’t you dare hide such a treasure from me!”

You groaned, swatting at him, but the fight had already left you. Because even through the teasing, the mischief, the absurd dramatics—you knew.

You knew that to Rafayel, every part of you was something worth cherishing.

Sylus

Mortification coiled tight in your chest, making it impossible to meet Sylus’s gaze. You trusted him, of course—you knew he wouldn’t judge you—but that didn’t stop the nagging insecurity gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. Sylus was always so composed, so effortlessly refined, his words always carefully chosen, his every move exuding an unshakable grace. And here you were, sinking further into the plush couch, burning with embarrassment over something as ridiculous as a misplaced snort.

What must he think of you now?

A deep chuckle rumbled from beside you, rich and velvety, carrying an almost amused warmth. “I knew you had it in you, sweetie.”

The gentle teasing in his voice made you peek up at him, brows furrowed in uncertainty. His expression was unreadable at first—calm, as always, but softened at the edges by something far more tender. You searched his gaze, those sharp crimson eyes gleaming with a quiet affection that made your stomach twist in ways you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

His fingers wove through your hair, slow and deliberate, the touch featherlight. “I understand you may feel slightly… embarrassed,” he mused, his voice a soothing hum against the quiet of the dimly lit room. His hand slid down, fingertips tracing your cheek before his thumb brushed over the heated skin. “But I assure you—I've never heard a sound so beautiful.”

You sucked in a breath, warmth blooming across your face. Of course, he would flirt his way out of this. Of course.

And yet… you didn’t mind.

The tension in your shoulders eased, replaced by something lighter, something almost intoxicating. You let out a quiet sigh, shaking your head. “I can’t believe I just snorted in front of the leader of Onychinus…” you muttered, rubbing your temple in exasperation. But despite your words, a smile had already begun to tug at your lips.

Sylus only chuckled, tilting his head ever so slightly before reaching up to pinch your cheek—not hard, just enough to make you look at him again. His smirk was entirely too pleased.

“The leader of Onychinus,” he repeated, voice dripping with amusement, “knows how to appreciate true beauty when he sees it.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a murmur. “And you, darling, are nothing short of a masterpiece.”

Flustered beyond reason, you let out a groan before landing a light punch against his arm, making him laugh.

Maybe Sylus wasn’t as intimidating as you thought. Or maybe—just maybe—he was far more dangerous in an entirely different way.

Caleb

Caleb was no stranger to your laughter—the wild, unrestrained kind that always came from deep within your chest, the one that had haunted your teenage years with its sheer unpredictability. He had heard it countless times before, back when things were simpler, when you were nothing more than an impulsive, wide-eyed girl who never cared how she sounded or looked.

But now? Now things were different.

You weren’t that reckless teenager anymore. You had grown, refined yourself, learned to move with grace and carry yourself with poise. You wanted Caleb to see you as a woman—not the clumsy girl he used to tease mercilessly, not some silly childhood memory.

And yet, all of that crumbled the moment the sound left you.

A full, shameless snort.

Mortification hit like a wave, heat flooding your face as you turned to him, your eyes narrowing in a silent dare, challenging him to say anything.

But Caleb—damn him—only laughed, a rich, familiar chuckle that sent warmth curling through your chest in a way you weren’t ready to admit. “There it is!” he said, grinning as he reached out to ruffle your hair, the same way he used to when you were kids.

You groaned, swatting his hand away. “You are insufferable.”

His hand lingered for a moment before falling away, his gaze softening as he looked at you—really looked at you. To him, that laugh wasn’t something to be hidden or tamed. It was a sound he had carried with him through years of change and distance, something that had always felt like home.

And now that he had heard it again, he wasn’t going to let it slip away so easily.

“That’s the last time you’re hearing it,” you mumbled, turning away, trying desperately to compose yourself. But you couldn’t will away the flush creeping up your neck, nor the way your heart hammered against your ribs.

“No way, pipsqueak,” he murmured, moving in closer, his breath warm against your cheek.

You stiffened. His voice had dropped just slightly—low, teasing, but with an undeniable weight to it. A promise.

“Now that I’ve heard it again,” he continued, dangerously close now, “I won’t stop until it’s the only sound you make.”

You barely had a second to react before his hands were at your sides, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. Then—pure chaos.

A startled shriek left you as he tickled you mercilessly, his movements swift, relentless. You thrashed against him, laughter bubbling up from your chest, unrestrained and wild, that same shameless snort slipping through again.

But this time, you weren’t embarrassed.

Somewhere between the helpless gasps for breath and the way his laughter mixed with yours, something shifted.

You felt… at peace. Like maybe, just maybe, hiding yourself had never been worth it in the first place.

"You're so gonna regret this!" you gasped between fits of laughter, half a threat, half a plea.

Caleb only grinned, utterly triumphant. “Doubt it, sweetheart.”

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ariyan24 · 2 years ago

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Native Instruments – Mallet Flux Download

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charles-leclerizz · 5 days ago

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touch first, talk later

on the runway : max verstappen x fem!reader

inspiration ( warnings ) : smut !! (f + m receiving oral), jealousy, unresolved feelings, possessive energy, ex situationship, bathroom scene,

VIP's in the front row ( taglist ) : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @ksthegreat]

before the show begins ( synopsis ) :

You left because he never wanted to go public. He just didn’t realise he did, until after you were gone. And now you’re at the same party again. Talking to someone else. And Max is staring like he’s ready to burn it all down.

designer notes : so. apparently I can churn these baby's out at record pace, just know- im sleep deprived. anyhoo, love yall, dont read too fast <33 and wear your seatbelts

The party swirls around you like a golden haze-soft laughter dripping from lacquered lips, heels clicking rhythmically against marble floors, and the murmur of voices blending into a steady hum beneath the bass-heavy music. You feel the warmth of champagne pooling at the bottom of your glass, the sharp bite of citrus lingering on your tongue. The air is thick with expensive perfume and the faint, sharp tang of adrenaline, the kind that always clings to race weekends like a second skin.

You drift through the crowd, a practiced smile in place, a flicker of fake amusement in your eyes when you exchange polite words with familiar faces. Here, everyone is performing- pretending the world outside these sparkling walls doesn’t exist or at least doesn’t matter tonight

Then you see him.

Max.

Across the room, leaning casually against the bar, dark eyes cutting through the noise with a focus so intense it feels almost physical. It’s impossible to look away. It’s like the noise around you dims, just for a moment, narrowed down to that stare.

It’s been months since you left, that night when everything between you unravelled, when you walked away because he wouldn’t say the words you needed, but it feels like no time has passed at all.

You turn your head away, pretending to focus on the conversation at your side, but you know the weight of his stare follows you-unrelenting, accusing, hungry. Your breath catches, heart skipping a beat you don’t want to admit

It’s the weight of his stare, that subtle prickle at the nape of your neck that never quite fades when Max is in the same room. You’d hoped the distance would kill it. That after all this time, he wouldn’t still have this kind of hold on you.

But there he is. Dressed in black, drink untouched in one hand. And you?

You’re smiling at someone else.

The guy - what’s his name, Liam? Lucas? - is charming enough. Handsome in that easy, polished way that doesn't set your nerves on fire. He’s been talking for five minutes straight about his classic car collection. You nod, let him touch your arm, laugh when it’s expected.

But you’re not really listening.

You’re too aware of Max across the room. Of the way his jaw tenses when the guy leans in. Of the way he hasn’t spoken to anyone else. Of the fact that he’s still watching you - shamelessly, openly, like the entire world could burn down and he wouldn’t blink.

The music is loud. The room is full. But none of it seems to matter when he starts walking toward you.

“Hey.”

His voice slices right through the conversation like glass.

You blink. “Hi.”

Lucas-or-Liam frowns. “You two know each other?”

Max doesn’t answer him. Doesn’t even look in his direction. Just says, “We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t,” you say as civil as you could muster.

Max’s nostrils flare. “We do.”

“I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

He glances down at your arm where the other man’s fingers rest too casually. His voice drops. “Didn’t realize you liked posers.”

Lucas-or-Liam looks somewhere between confused and irritated.

“Max.” Your tone sharpens, but he’s already looking at you again, blue eyes locked in on your contemplative expression.

You sigh and turn to Lucas, placing a gentle hand on his forearm. “Give me a minute?”

The man looks confused, but nods. Max is already pulling you away before you finish thanking him.

Before you can regret your decision, Max’s hand tightens on your wrist, firm but not cruel, and he starts dragging you through the crowd. The noise fades behind you, a muffled roar compared to the sudden sharpness of his presence beside you.

You follow, breath shallow, heels clicking against polished floors. He weaves you through bodies and laughter and flashing lights like they barely register past his determined pathway.

Then the bathroom door swings open, and he pulls you inside. The bathroom is glossy and dim, smelling of some fancy cologne and warm wood. He shuts the door behind you and leans against it like he needs to catch his breath.

You stand by the counter, tapping your foot.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you say finally, breaking the silence

“Why did you leave?”

Your throat tightens. “Because you never wanted to—”

“Don’t,” barely moving, simply shifting his head to look at you, “Don’t say that. I did want to. I just didn’t know how to say it. Or when.”

You search his eyes, looking for the man you thought, knew, you lost. “But you never showed it. Not when it mattered.”

Max steps forward. Just once, “I wanted to go public. You just left before I could figure out how to say it.”

Your brows knit. “You think I waited for nothing?”

“No,” he says. “I think I fucked up. And I want to fix it.”

You stare at him, every cell in your body buzzing. “Say that again.”

“I want to fix it,” he repeats, gentler this time. “You were never just casual. You were never a secret I wanted to keep.”

Your breath catches, and the anger you’ve been holding for months, twists and knits into something rawer. “Then why did you let me go?”

Max’s jaw tightens. And he treads closer, his feet heavy, magnetised to the bathroom floor. "Because I thought you didn’t want to wait for me to figure it out.”

You shake your head, the weight of months in that tiny space suffocating once he reached you, sharing each other's air. “I left because you wouldn’t fight for me.”

He cups your face, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “I’m fighting now.”

The distance vanishes in an instant, heat crashing between you. His lips find yours-urgent, claiming, desperate-and you give in to the flood of everything you’ve been holding back.

Your back digs into the counter, hard wood punishing through thin fabric, and his hands are already on your waist, fingers splayed like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.

You kiss him like you’re trying to punish him.

It’s teeth, heat, months of unspoken things.

His hands are in your hair, your thighs, lifting you onto the counter like he never stopped memorizing how to touch you. The kiss is messy and bruising and so full of everything he never said that it feels like drowning.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. “I missed you.”

“You didn’t act like it.”

“I know.” He groans, trailing kisses down your throat. “Let me make it up to you.”

He sinks to his knees like he’s not even thinking, like gravity just drags him there. His hands push your thighs apart with a roughness that makes your head spin, makes the ache between your legs throb harder.

“You think I forgot how to touch you?” he mutters against your knee, hands sliding beneath your dress. “You think I don’t still dream about this?”

Your breath hitches when his fingers brush against the edge of your panties. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Max.”

His eyes snap up, dark and blazing. “I mean every fucking word.”

“You’re not going back out there,” he says, voice low, almost hoarse. “Not with him. Not like this.”

You grip the edge of the counter, palms pressing flat against the wood. “And if I was never yours to begin with?”

Max doesn’t even flinch. “You were. You still are.”

And then his mouth is on you. Through the lace first, dragging a slow, wet stripe with his tongue, teasing the fabric just to feel your hips jerk. Then he pulls your panties to the side, and you forget every damn reason you had for staying away.

He eats you out like he’s starving, like it’s punishment for leaving and apology all at once. Like he wants to ruin you for anyone else.

“Oh fuck, Max-”

He groans against you, hands gripping your thighs tighter as your back arches. His tongue works you over with practiced precision - licking, sucking, flicking the spot he knows makes you come undone. He doesn’t let up. Doesn’t let you breathe. Every time you try to close your legs, he just pushes them wider.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, lips slick, voice smug and dark. “You missed this too, didn’t you?”

You hate how much you nod. How honest your body is when your mouth won’t speak.

And when you come, it’s sudden and sharp - the kind of orgasm that rips through you and leaves you gasping, trembling, eyes squeezed shut as your fingers twist in his hair.

He doesn’t stop until you push at his shoulders, breathless and overwhelmed.

When he stands again, his mouth is shiny with you, his lips swollen, and his eyes impossibly soft beneath the storm.

“Say it,” he whispers, fingertips stroking your jaw.

Your voice is barely there. Your nails barely dragging against his jaw, “I still want you.”

He leans in close, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I never stopped.”

The air between you feels thick now, buzzing with what just happened - your body still humming, your breathing uneven. Max hasn’t moved far. His hands rest on either side of your hips, grounding you, his forehead still pressed to yours like he’s afraid if he steps back, you’ll disappear again.

You study him in the mirror behind him. Hair tousled. Lips bitten raw. That rare softness in his eyes - the one he always tried to hide when things got too real.

“You, okay?” he asks, voice low and almost shy now. It’s strange, how quickly the fight melted into this. Into something quieter.

You nod, brushing a strand of hair from his brow. “You look wrecked.”

He huffs a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. “You just ruined me. So… yeah.”

A beat of silence passes. You reach down, fingers trailing the waistband of his trousers.

His breath stutters. You loop your knuckles into his belt loops, spinning around until he's in your position.

“Let me,” you whisper.

He doesn’t stop you - just watches, swallowing hard, like he can’t believe it’s happening. His knuckles go white on the counter when you drop to your knees, slow and deliberate, right where he’d just been moments ago.

Your hands work his belt open, your movements gentle. Intimate. You feel him twitch in your palm, already hard and aching.

“You always looked at me like this,” you murmur, kissing along his length, teasing him the way he teased you earlier. “But you never said anything.”

“I was a coward,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut as your lips close around him.

He’s warm and heavy on your tongue, and the sound he makes, sharp and broken, makes you want to stay down here forever. You take him slow at first, just letting him feel it, letting you feel it, your fingers curling around the base as your mouth works him over.

“Fuck,” he groans, hand sliding into your hair. Not pulling. Just holding. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You glance up at him, eyes meeting his, and he stares like you’ve undone him completely. No ego. No bravado. Just Max, real and flushed and yours, even if only in this moment.

You hollow your cheeks, letting him slide deeper, moaning softly around him until his hips twitch and his hand tightens just slightly.

“Stop,” he rasps, breath hitching. “I’m gonna- ”

You don’t. You want this. You want to make him fall apart, just like he did to you.

And when he comes, it’s with a low groan and your name, broken in half across his tongue. His head tips back, eyes shut, chest rising and falling like he’s been sprinting. You swallow everything, hands smoothing over his thighs as he trembles just slightly.

When you finally stand again, he pulls you into his chest without a word, arms tight around you. There’s no party outside the door. No months of silence. Just this.

Just him.

Just you.

“You’re not leaving again,” he murmurs against your hair.

You don’t answer. Not yet.

But you don’t pull away either. You stay there, tucked into his chest and hold him tighter, re-learning every indent of his heartbeat and every undulation of his breath.

The hallway feels louder than before.

You step out first, fixing your dress, smoothing your hair. Max follows close behind, his hand brushing your back in a way that would feel casual if it weren’t him. If you weren’t both still vibrating with what just happened.

You reach the edge of the room. The party is still in full swing - bodies dancing, glasses clinking, music pulsing. The guy from earlier spots you.

“There you are,” he says, half-smile curling at the ends. “Thought I lost you.”

Max stiffens behind you, but you rest a hand on his wrist. Subtle. Calming.

You offer the guy a polite smile. “Just needed a minute.”

His eyes flick to Max, and then down to where your hand touches his.

He gets it.

He nods once, then turns away.

You exhale.

Max leans in, voice barely above the music. “So… that was new.”

You glance at him, amused. “The bathroom thing? Thought we did that one ages ago”

He rolls his eyes and snakes his hand around your waist, bending down to press his mouth to your ear, “The part where you held my hand in public.”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers find his against your body. “Don’t get cocky.”

He grins - that same crooked, boyish thing that always cracked your resolve, always kept you in bed with him an hour later. “Too late.”

A pause. He tilts his head. “Want to get out of here?”

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joemama-2 · 7 months ago

Text

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 11.9k tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation a/n: dishin these chaps out series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

Himari is not having a good day.

First, her burgundy patent leather Saint Laurent Nano Sac De Jour bag is ruined by the help accidentally dropping it on the dirty sidewalk, she lost her favorite lipgloss, and finally, probably the worst of them all, her so-called “boyfriend” isn’t acting very boyfriendly. Sure, he took her out just last night for dinner, and sure he fucked her good when they got back to her place, but he left before she even woke up. Treating her like she’s just a dirty hooker. He’s barely even responding to her texts, letting his ringing go to voicemail. She’s confused, annoyed, and extremely infuriated. There’s no reason for him to be acting like this all of a sudden; she’s his girlfriend for crying out loud.

So why is he being so secretive and mysterious all of a sudden? Why is he almost acting like he doesn’t have a girlfriend?

The sound of her red bottom heels pacing her living room is the only thing heard in the spacious environment. Biting her French-tipped thumbnail, eyes flickering to her cell phone that lays face up on the glass coffee table constantly. She has a right to act this way, she thinks to herself. Did she do something wrong? Did she make him mad? The sharp click of her red-bottom heels echoes through the pristine silence of her living room, the noise rhythmic but erratic as her thoughts spiral. Himari continues to gnaw on her perfectly manicured French-tipped nail, her polished demeanor crumbling bit by bit. As she keeps looking back at her phone, it’s like a silent challenge she can’t seem to ignore. The empty screen glares back at her, fueling her growing anxiety. She’s his girlfriend, after all. What could she have said wrong? She doesn’t remember doing anything to upset him.

Her mind races, replaying every interaction over the past few days. The dinner last night, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. The fleeting moments of silence during their conversations, like he was somewhere else entirely. And this morning—no note, no text, no explanation. Just...nothing. She takes a seat and her nails dig into the leather armrest of her designer couch. Glaring at her phone again, willing it to light up with his name. But of course, the screen remains stubbornly dark.

No. This isn’t her fault. Satoru is the one being distant and evasive. He’s the one shutting her out. This is not her fault. Her heel taps against the floor, her frustration bubbling over. Maybe he’s testing her, she reasons. Trying to see if she’ll chase him. What a bastard.

Her jaw tightens, her perfectly sculpted features twisted in a mixture of anger and determination. Twirling a piece of her long, lusciously healthy caramel hair. No, she decides, she won’t let him get away with this. She’s not some woman he can keep on the sidelines, only to toss a crumb of attention whenever it suits him. If Satoru thinks she’ll just sit here and wait, he’s gravely mistaken. She’s Himari Nakamura for god’s sake, her parents own Tenka Couture—one of the most, if not the most sought out and luxurious fashion brand in all of Japan.

She grabs her phone and scrolls through her contacts, pausing at his name. Her thumb hovers over the call button, but instead, she opts for something more pointed—a text, again.

We need to talk. Don’t keep me waiting.

The message is curt, sharp, and dripping with the subtle implication that she’s losing patience. Tossing the phone back on the table, she exhales sharply, her chest rising and falling as she tries to reel in her emotions. But it’s no use. The uncertainty, the rejection—it’s eating her alive.

Himari’s gaze flickers to the ornate mirror hanging on the far wall, her reflection staring back at her with a mix of vulnerability and fury. She’s not used to feeling like this—out of control, discarded. Satoru has always been the one to chase, to charm, to reassure her of her place in his life.

So why now? Why does it feel like he’s slipping through her fingers?

A sudden, dark thought creeps into her mind, unbidden but insistent. What if there’s someone else?

Her stomach churns, the idea sending a fresh wave of anger coursing through her veins. No. That can’t be it. Satoru wouldn’t dare. Would he? The phone buzzes, jolting her from her spiraling thoughts. Her heart leaps, but when she sees the name on the screen, her hope evaporates.

It’s not Satoru. It’s his mother. She stares at the screen, her thumb hesitating over the answer button. What could she possibly want? She finally concedes, pushing her hair over her shoulder, and smiling. “Hello, Mrs. Gojo. What a pleasure to speak to you again.” She greets the older woman on the phone with a wave of politeness.

“Ah, yes. Himari, are you busy right now?” Satoru’s mother, Akane Gojo, replies back. Her aged voice mixed with a hint of reluctance that makes Himari want to call her a bitch. She doesn’t—she’ll never. She’s not that idiotic.

“No, ma’am. I’m not, may I ask why?”

“Well, I was wondering if you happened to know where my son is. My husband has been trying to get a hold of him all day and he isn’t answering. Is he with you?”

So, he’s not with his parents either. That’s even more shady. Just what the hell is he up to? “No, actually, I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him since yesterday. I was starting to get a little worried.”

Himari hears the other woman sighing over the phone, muttering something about how her son is a headache. "Well," Akane begins again, her tone sharp with a tinge of frustration, "if you do hear from him, could you tell him to stop avoiding his family? It's unlike him to ignore us like this."

"Of course, ma'am. I'll let him know as soon as I can." Himari’s voice is syrupy sweet, masking her own irritation.

"Good. Thank you, dear." There's a beat of silence before Akane continues, her tone shifting to something more pointed. "And, Himari, I hope you understand how important Satoru's family obligations are. It’s important he doesn’t forget that."

Himari freezes for a moment, the subtle jab not lost on her. "Of course, ma'am," she replies smoothly, though her grip tightens on the phone. The call ends, leaving Himari staring at the blank screen, her mind racing. Family obligations. Avoiding his parents. Acting strange. All of it points to one undeniable truth: Satoru is hiding something. Her nails drum against the glass coffee table as she processes Akane's words. For a moment, she considers whether Satoru’s mysterious behavior has to do with the Gojo Group’s business dealings. But no, he’s always managed to balance that side of his life without much issue.

This time, it feels...personal almost. She stands abruptly, pacing the length of her living room once more. If his own mother doesn’t know where he is, then who does?

Satoru, the wealthy, trust fund man that he is, has multiple places he calls homes. It’s proof of the fact that he has money, lots of it—more than what he knows what to do with. There’s the high-rise penthouse, where most people will find him. Next, the Next, the sprawling countryside estate nestled just outside the city—a retreat designed for privacy, complete with lush gardens, a pristine pool, and the kind of modern architecture that graces the covers of luxury magazines. This place, he rarely visits, but it’s there, waiting for him whenever he craves solitude away from the chaos of his social and family obligations. Then there’s the minimalist townhouse downtown, a sleek and understated property he keeps for the sake of convenience. Its location near the financial district makes it the perfect spot for impromptu meetings or when he wants to blend into the hustle and bustle of the city without drawing too much attention.

And finally, there’s the seaside villa. A true gem perched on a cliff with an uninterrupted view of the ocean. It's a home reserved for moments when life feels particularly overwhelming, a place where he can lose himself in the sound of the waves crashing below and the horizon stretching endlessly before him. Each property represents a different facet of his life: the penthouse for the public figure, the estate for the privileged heir, the townhouse for the businessman, and the villa for the man who sometimes just wants to escape it all.

Despite all these homes, none of them feel like home.

Lately, though, he’s been spending more time in places that aren’t tied to his wealth—places like a run-down apartment complex on the other side of town. It’s jarring, even for him, to walk through the cracked pavement and hear the hum of buzzing fluorescent lights in the lobby. But that’s where she is. Where they are.

After seeing that place for the first time a few days ago, he automatically felt uneasy—maybe even disgusted. That is not the kind of place he wants his son being raised, where he wants you living. It’s a place for the unsavory group of people. Sure, it’s a little thoughtless of him to think these things because everyone has different situations, like you for example. But as stated before, he’s a spoiled brat to the core. So while he didn’t outwardly show it (at least he thinks so), Satoru hates the place you and his son call home.

He’s brewing in these thoughts in his villa. Sitting on the white lawn chair, watching the pearly waves hit the shore and back. His phone’s on silent, taking pleasure in his solitude. For a second, he entertains the brief thought of being with his son and you instead. He can imagine the smile that grows on his face, watching the pretty sight in front of him. He can almost picture it clearly: the sight of you two laughing, Koji’s excited chatter, and the way your eyes soften when you look at him. It’s a nice thought, but he quickly dismisses it. You’ve made your choices, his choices for him.

Still, the image lingers in his mind. Koji, smiling up at him, full of admiration. You, guarded yet warm, offering him a smile that could mean more if he allowed himself to lean into it. The waves crash again, louder this time, and Satoru snaps out of his reverie. His fingers twitch at the side of his chair, but he doesn’t reach for his phone. Instead, he forces himself to stay present. The world he’s created for himself is simpler when it’s just him. No obligations, no questions he doesn’t want to answer. But that image of you and Koji is still there, in the back of his mind.

He doesn’t know why, sure he can imagine himself being with his son. But you too? The woman who lied behind his back for years, the woman who he doesn’t know would’ve ever told him if his best friend didn’t run into you? He sighs, a frustration that isn’t entirely his own settling in his chest. The villa’s quiet, but his thoughts are anything but. He looks out over the horizon, trying to push the feelings away, but they remain, a constant whisper in the back of his mind. What if things could be different?

But there’s no going back now. The phone buzzes again, but this time, he ignores it. He can’t afford to entertain any distractions—not now. The solitude feels safer, at least for now. He’ll drive back in a few hours, but for now, he likes it here.

“You look like you’d be a good mom.”

You falter, hands pausing around the pot of hyacinths. Giving your boyfriend a weird look, one of confusion and small disbelief. “Hah, what?”

He simply shrugs, watching you go back to fixing the displays of flowers. He’s half tempted to spout some cheesy line about how you’re prettier than the plants, but he’s already done that five times today. He watches you with that signature grin that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. “What? It’s true,” he says with a shrug, his pale blue eyes sparkling with amusement.“Yeah, you know—you got those like, instinctual mother thingies.”

“What even makes you say that?” You huff.

“I’ve seen you with kids.”

“And?”

“Andddd,” he drags the words out, dramatically rolling his eyes. “I like it, looks good.”

You can’t help but snort, shaking your head at his ridiculousness. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No, really,” he insists, his tone softening just enough to make you glance up at him again. “You’re kind, patient—except with me, obviously—and you care. It’s cute.”

Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips. “You’re so weird to even be thinking about that right now.”

“Maybe,” he says, stepping closer and brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. “But I’m not wrong.” For a moment, his words hang in the air, and you find yourself wondering what it might mean—if he’s just teasing, or if he’s thinking about something more. The thought makes your chest tighten in a way you can’t quite name.

“You’re really something, Gojo,” you mutter, shaking your head as you turn back to the flowers, hoping he doesn’t notice the faint warmth creeping up your cheeks. “We’re nineteen and you’re immature.”

“Something amazing, obviously,” he replies without missing a beat, his grin widening. And just like that, the moment lightens, though his words linger in the back of your mind long after he’s stopped teasing. “And I’m not immature—at least not too much.”

You hum, rolling your eyes. “Debatable.”

He leans on the counter again, his head tilted as he watches you with that annoyingly familiar mix of mischief and curiosity. “Debatable? Come on. I’m the perfect blend of maturity and charm. Like... the top-tier boyfriend package.”

“Top-tier, huh?” you say dryly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite yourself. “Is that what you call forgetting our coffee date last week?”

“That was one time!” he protests, holding up a hand like he’s pleading his case in court. “And I made up for it, didn’t I? Flowers and donuts. And sex.”

“Uh-huh, right, right.” You dismissively respond.

“You know, someday you’re going to look back at nineteen-year-old me and think, ‘Wow, I was so lucky to date this guy.’”

“Or I’ll think, ‘What was I thinking?’” you counter, though your smile gives you away.

Satoru laughs, his hand brushing against yours for just a moment as he reaches for the pot of hyacinths. “Nah, you’ll think, ‘Man, this guy’s been stealing my heart since day one.’”

You roll your eyes again, but the warmth in your chest lingers. Even if you won’t admit it, a small part of you wonders if he’s right.

You sigh this time, brushing your hand over the petals of the purple hyacinth. Its fragrance fills the space between you two, sweet and heavy, like the weight of the moment you’re trying to ignore. “You’re way too confident, you know that?”

“I prefer the term self-assured,” Satoru counters, but there’s something softer in his tone now. Less teasing, more genuine. He leans a little closer, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to memorize this moment. “And hey, don’t act like you don’t love it.”

Your fingers are still against the stem, and for just a second, the air shifts. His words hang between you like a thread, fragile and thin, threatening to snap. “You’re exhausting, Gojo,” you murmur, your voice quieter this time. But there’s no bite to your words, only a faint ache you can’t quite name.

“And yet, you keep me around,” he says softly, his grin faltering into something smaller, more vulnerable. His hand brushes against yours again, deliberate this time, and your breath catches. His longer fingers interlacing with your own, bringing the back of your hand up to plant one kiss, then another, and another to your skin—slowly making his way up your arm.

“Sometimes I wonder why,” you admit, a half-hearted laugh escaping you as you shake your head. The pot in your hands feels heavier than it should, your grip tightening just slightly. Reveling in the warm feeling of his lips, a small breath of air leaving you.

He doesn’t answer right away, and when you glance up at him, you find his gaze steady on yours. There’s no mischief now, no playful grin. Just him. Just Satoru. “Maybe it’s because we fit,” he says finally, his voice almost a whisper. “Even if it’s messy or complicated... it feels like it’s supposed to be this way.” His lips are now on your shoulder, marking up to your neck; to which he spends extra time at.

Your chest tightens, and you quickly look back at the flowers, pretending to adjust the display again. “You’re talking like we’re some kind of fairytale, Satoru.” Your hand lets go of the pot, settling it back on its shelf. Cheeks beginning to heat up and you do your best to hold in the pathetic mewl that threatens to leave your mouth when he sucks just a little too sharp.

“Maybe we are,” he replies without hesitation, and there’s a sincerity in his voice that makes your heart ache. But fairytales don’t last, you think, the thought clawing at the edges of your mind like a dark shadow. You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you force a small laugh, pushing the heaviness aside.

“You’re too much,” you murmur, shaking your head again, eyes closing shut.

Satoru watches you for a long moment before leaning up to your ear. You feel his grin returning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Maybe. But you love me anyway.”

You don’t respond, but the silence that follows feels louder than it should. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know this moment—this version of you and him—is fleeting. Like the flowers in the pot before you, it’s beautiful, but it won’t last forever, especially with how…different you two are. You don’t tell him that, though. Instead, you smile faintly, keeping your eyes on the flowers, and let the moment linger just a little longer. Letting him continue to worship your skin in kisses, reaching your lips in a magnetizing way that always leaves you begging for more. It’s your own way of letting yourself bask in the simplicity and intimacy of one another, pushing back the brutal thought that this could all change.

Preparing yourself for the worst, the inevitable because you’re too afraid to admit to yourself that you’re already playing a dangerous game, already biting off more than you can chew.

The weight of your unspoken fears settles heavily in your chest, threatening to suffocate the fragile warmth between you. Still, you cling to it—this fleeting moment of love—as if holding on tightly enough might make it last. Satoru reaches out again with his other hand, his fingers ghosting over yours, but this time it feels different. Less playful, more deliberate, like he knows something you’re too scared to confront. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, a reminder that he’s here now, that you’re here now.

But for how long?

You glance up at him, catching the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips twitch as though he’s searching for the right words. Or maybe he’s feeling the same quiet dread you are, that bitter knowledge that life has a way of pulling things apart, no matter how tightly you try to hold them together.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. His teasing bravado is gone, leaving only raw sincerity behind.

You force a smile, one you know doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

“About?” he presses gently, his gaze unwavering, his thumb moving across your cheekbone gently.

“Nothing,” you lie, your fingers brushing over the petals again, grounding yourself in their softness. “It’s nothing.” Satoru doesn’t believe you, you can tell by the way his eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he leans back, his shoulders relaxing as he shifts the conversation.

“Y’know,” he begins, his grin returning, though softer now, “if you ever get tired of the flowers, I’m always available for career advice. I’m an excellent life coach.”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound thin but authentic. “Yeah? What’s your first piece of advice?”

“Marry rich,” he quips, winking, but the joke falls a little flat. “Meaning me, baby,” he adds, bringing you close by an arm to your shoulders, kissing your temple. You shake your head, but the laughter fades too quickly, leaving you both in the quiet again. The thought returns, sharper now, that this could all slip through your fingers.

And maybe that’s why you let yourself lean into him just a little more, let the edge of your shoulder brush against his. It’s why you kiss him back when he leans back into your lips. It’s not much, but it’s your way of holding onto this moment, even as the inevitability of its end looms over you like a storm cloud. Because deep down, you already know the truth: you’re playing with fire, and it’s only a matter of time before the flames consume you.

You already know a man like Satoru Gojo would never stay with someone like you.

You jolt upright at the sound of your blaring, very annoying alarm. Quickly turning it off, you give yourself a moment to blanky stare at your sheets. Rubbing your eyes. Were you really just dreaming about that? Or no, it wasn’t a dream—but a memory. A distinct, longing feeling begins to pool in your gut. The kind that makes you feel numb and unresponsive, the kind you get when you just dream about some mystery man you fell in love with but can’t remember his face. You shake your head, trying to push the feeling away as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. The room feels colder than usual, the early morning light barely filtering through the curtains. It’s a struggle to move, the weight of that memory—no, that ghost of a feeling—pressing down on you.

Satoru.

What once was.

The way your chest tightens, the ache that feels both familiar and unwelcome, tells you everything. You can almost hear his voice, playful and warm, teasing you like he always used to. You can almost feel his touch, fleeting but deliberate, like he was trying to leave a mark without you noticing.

God, why now? For what reason? You’ve long been over him, haven’t you? No doubt he has, considering he’s more than likely dating someone right now. You wonder when—or if—he’ll tell you. He has to, right? Because if this woman will possibly be around your son in the future, you have to know who she is, just like she has to know who you are. And if she and Satoru perhaps get married in the fu—

You quickly stop your train of thought.

You run a hand through your hair, trying to shake it off. There’s no time for this. You have too much on your plate to sit here drowning in nostalgia. The rent. Koji. Work. Life doesn’t pause just because your subconscious decided to dig up a piece of your past you’ve tried to bury. But the feeling lingers, refusing to let go. You stumble into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face in the hopes that it’ll snap you out of it. For a second, it works. The chill jolts you awake, and you grip the edges of the sink, staring at your reflection.

“You’re fine,” you mutter under your breath. “It’s just a memory.” But your reflection doesn’t look very convinced.

Busying yourself with your other life and mom responsibilities proves to work, the thought of your dream this morning and Satoru in general being pushed to the back burner. You rather it be this way, it’s easier to function.

“I’ll probably be a little late to pick you up from school today, Koji.” You tell your son, hand clutching his as you make the way to his school. The morning is colder, having dressed him in a puffy jacket, a beanie, scarf, and cute mittens you crocheted when you had the passion.

He looks up at you, bottom lip jutting out into a frown. “Why?”

You sigh, not sure how to explicitly explain that you’ll be putting in an extra hour today at the cafe so you can scrounge up as much money as you can for the money due this Friday—in two days from now. It really feels impossible, but you’ll find a way. “Mama has to work a little longer today, I’m sorry.”

Koji’s frown deepens, his small brows furrowing as he kicks a pebble along the sidewalk. "It's okay, Mama. I can wait." His words are simple, but the way he says them—the way he tries to be understanding beyond his years—makes your heart ache. You hate this. Hate that he even has to think like this. He should be carefree, worrying about which dinosaur to play with or what snack he’ll get after school. Not whether his mama is working herself into the ground.

You’re feeling extreme guilt again. Wondering and worrying that you’re making him grow up too fast. But tons of kids stay a bit later at school when waiting for their parents to pick them up, don’t they? You force a smile, squeezing his hand gently. "Thank you, baby. You're such a good boy."

His face lights up at the praise—as always. He starts talking about what he’s looking forward to in class today. You nod and hum along as he chatters, trying to match his energy, but your mind is already elsewhere. Two days.

You’re running out of time, and no matter how many hours you squeeze into the day, it doesn’t feel like enough. You’ve thought about asking for help, swallowing your pride just this once, but the options are limited. The last thing you want is to open that door with Satoru, and there’s no one else who can offer the kind of money you need.

By the time you reach the school gates, you’re exhausted—mentally more than physically. Kneeling to adjust Koji’s scarf and beanie, you kiss his cheek and give him your warmest smile. "I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? I promise. I love you."

"Okay, Mama. I love you too," he says, his grin wide and trusting as he hugs you tightly before running off to join his classmates. You stand there for a moment, watching him go, before turning and heading toward the café. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of your reality pressing down on you.

Two days. And not a second to waste.

But just because things never seem to go right for you, Mr. Ito comes out from the classroom, standing by his door. “Oh, Ms. Y/N? Good morning.”

Jesus Christ, can he just take a fucking hint. You’re literally walking away. However, you put on a facade of politeness and turn around to face him, holding back a scowl at his ever-present smile. “Good morning, Mr. Ito.”

He spares a quick glance into his growing room of children before stepping away and closer to you. Instinctively, you take a small one back. “How are you today?”

“I’m great.”

“That’s good to hear,” he nods, clasping his hands behind his back. His eyes do a quick scan of you, and you could almost swear you see his smile widen—like he’s appreciating the sight. Dirty bastard.

You suppress a shudder, keeping your expression neutral. This obviously isn’t the first time Mr. Ito has made you uncomfortable, but you’ve learned to play nice for Koji’s sake. After all, the last thing you want is to make things awkward between your son and his teacher. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ito, but I really need to get to work,” you say, shifting your weight to one foot, hoping he gets the hint.

“Oh, of course,” he replies, though he doesn’t move away. “I just wanted to tell you how impressed I am with Koji’s improvement with his behavior. He’s such a bright boy, and so polite too. A testament to your parenting, I’m sure.”

There’s something about the way he says it—too smooth, too rehearsed—that makes your stomach churn. You force a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you. Koji works very hard.”

“Yes, well, if you ever need to discuss his progress or anything else, my door is always open. Even outside of school hours,” he adds, his tone far too suggestive for your liking.

Didn’t he already say this line before? Your grip tightens on your bag, but you keep your composure. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Ito. Have a good day.” Before he can respond, you turn on your heel and walk away, heart pounding. The nerve of that man. You’d always sensed something was off about him, but lately, he’s been crossing more lines, and you’re starting to feel trapped.

It’s not like you can pull Koji out of the school—this is the best option you can afford right now. And confronting Mr. Ito? That could easily backfire, making Koji’s time in class unbearable. As you walk to work, the weight of your problems feels heavier than ever. The looming eviction notice, the landlord’s constant pressure, and now, Mr. Ito’s thinly veiled advances.

Two days.

You shake your head, forcing yourself to focus. You don’t have time to worry about Mr. Ito or anything else. Right now, all that matters is making it to Friday.

“Did you yell at her?” is the first thing Suguru asks. After not seeing his best friend for a week, Satoru would’ve thought he’d have something else to say. However, he can imagine he just wants to get down to the point after he sent the black-haired man a message about seeing you for the first time again.

“No, I didn’t.” Satoru cooly responds, finger tapping along the glass rim of his overly sugar-infested coffee. Suguru takes a seat across from him, giving his friend an analytical glare. Satoru’s dining room, save for the weird tension of words having yet to be spoken.

Suguru leans back in the chair, crossing his arms. "So, what did you do then? Stare at her like a creep?"

Satoru's lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s no humor in it. "I talked to her, obviously."

"Obviously," Suguru repeats, the sarcasm thick. He glances at the untouched plate of food in front of him. "And how’d that go?"

Satoru shrugs, the motion too nonchalant to be genuine. “She was...surprised. And emotional, but I can’t really blame her for that.”

"Emotional, huh?" Suguru raises a brow. “Did she apologize?”

Satoru nods.

"I’m guessing you didn’t hold back."

"Why should I have?" Satoru snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. "She’s lucky I didn’t do worse, she honestly deserves every single fucking thing I told her, and more.”

Suguru doesn’t flinch at the outburst. Instead, he lets the words hang in the air, his silence more pointed than anything he could’ve said. Satoru sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t yell at her, okay? I barely even argued. I just...listened and answered.”

"And what did she say?"

Satoru hesitates, his eyes drifting to the cityscape visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse. “She told me why she kept it a secret, how she felt, and whatever.” Satoru's jaw clenches, the memory of seeing you cry filling him with dread—like it used to way back then. He’s surprised he was that receptive to it, especially that quickly. Luckily, he held back the almost innate urge to bring you into your arms and comfort you. Because again, you don’t deserve his comfort right now.

Suguru pauses, letting his own curiosity win over. “Well…why did she do it?”

There’s a moment of still quietness while Satoru thinks over the other man’s question. Satoru’s gaze remains fixed on the cityscape, the towering buildings blurring as his thoughts churn. His chest feels tight, a cocktail of emotions he doesn’t have the energy to name swirling in his gut. Anger, hurt, guilt—they’re all there, fighting for dominance. “She didn’t give me a chance,” Satoru mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “She decided for me. Like I didn’t deserve to know. Like I wouldn’t have...tried.” He swallows hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. He’s never been good at this—this vulnerable, messy part of himself. The part that cares too much, that aches too deeply. “I’m angry,” he finally admits, his fingers drumming against the table. “I’m so fucking angry at her for thinking so little of me. But at the same time... I…I think I get it. It was the rejection she was scared of, the first failed attempt, she didn’t want Koji growing up like me, she…she didn’t think I was ready, either. She said she was trying to protect us all.” His words are low and hushed, even reciting them making him feel as if he needs to spill his guts. “She doesn’t deserve it, she doesn’t deserve my understanding, my empathy for her, she…she doesn’t deserve anything. I shouldn’t feel bad for her, I shouldn’t. But I do for some fucking reason, and it’s making me so fucking confused.”

Suguru doesn’t interrupt, letting him vent. Satoru’s words come faster now, spilling out like a dam breaking. “And now, I’m just...stuck. Stuck between being pissed off at her and hating myself for thinking she’s right.” He runs a hand through his hair again, tugging at the roots as if the pain will ground him. “Because she was right, wasn’t she? I wouldn’t have been able to handle it. I would’ve run. I would’ve hurt her in ways she didn’t deserve.”

The admission tastes bitter on his tongue, and for once, Satoru doesn’t try to mask it with bravado or a joke. “But now,” he continues, his voice softer, tinged with something vulnerable, “I just keep thinking about Koji. About all the time I lost. About how I don’t even know how to be a dad, let alone his dad.”

Suguru leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “Do you want to be his dad?”

Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. His thoughts drift to Koji’s small, curious eyes, the way the boy had looked at him with a mix of wonder and wariness. The way they got along so well, so quickly. The way the boy was so excited to teach his dad about dinosaurs, to play with him, to his infectious laugh when Satoru lifted him high up in the air. “I don’t know how to,” Satoru finally admits, his voice breaking slightly. “But I want to try.”

Suguru nods slowly, his gaze steady. “Then that’s a start.”

Satoru exhales, the weight on his chest lifting just slightly. But even as the conversation eases, the storm in his mind rages on. Because no matter how much he wants to move forward, the shadows of the past—and the fear of screwing up—loom large. And the fact that he doesn’t know how he can get resolve things with you. How is he just supposed to co-parent and see your face so casually after what you did?

Is he supposed to just remain cordial? Closed off? Or should he try to fix things?

But what things even need fixing, there’s nothing between you two. There’s no “them” anymore. There hasn’t been for years. And if there were, shouldn’t that be your job? This entire situation is your fault. You should be the one begging on your knees for forgiveness, you should be groveling for the fact that you kept his son a secret. He’s justified, isn’t he? In being cold? Closed off? In letting you feel every ounce of the pain you caused him?

The bitterness twists in his chest, a dark, venomous thing that urges him to lash out, to make you feel as helpless and raw as he does. For a fleeting, horrifying moment, the thought slithers in: You should be the one who’s grateful that he didn’t do anything extreme like try to take Koji away from yo–

What the hell are you saying?

He feels convicted suddenly, wanting to punch himself for even daring to think such an evil thing. Is he that angry? Petty? Does he want to get back at you that bad that he’d threaten to take away your kid from you? The thought makes his stomach churn, the self-loathing hitting him like a punch to the gut. His grip on the edge of the table tightens, knuckles whitening. He’s not that kind of person. He’s not that cruel. No matter how angry, how hurt he feels, he couldn’t do something so vile.

He’s just not. But he just feels so conflicted and…unsure about everything.

But the anger doesn’t vanish—it just twists into something deeper, more insidious. He feels so troubled, so lost in the storm of emotions that he can’t tell which way is up anymore. And yet... amidst all that chaos, there’s another image. One that keeps replaying in his head like a stubborn melody.

Because he could see it—see how your eyes lit up with a motherly joy after Koji called your name for attention, how you smiled instinctually when seeing your son, how your voice softened so perfectly it practically pulled him in too. He sees the way your face relaxed when Koji tugged at your sleeve, the way your whole being seemed to light up just from hearing his voice. The joy, the pride, the pure, unfiltered love that radiated from you—so natural, so raw, it made him pause.

And for a split second, Satoru forgot the anger, the betrayal, the hurt. He only saw you. You, as a mother. You, as Koji’s mother. Somewhere in the muddled mess of his thoughts, an ache blooms. Not just for the time he lost with Koji, but for the life he lost with you. Because no matter how hard he tries to deny it, part of him still remembers the way you used to smile at him like that. And the other part of him wonders if he’ll ever see it again.

The war in Satoru’s mind is relentless, his thoughts ricocheting between anger and guilt, blame, understanding, and even longing. Every time he tries to land on a conclusion, another surge of emotions pulls him in a different direction.

Satoru clenches his jaw, his finger now still against the coffee glass. “I didn’t know about Koji.”

“No, but you knew about her.”

The words hit harder than Satoru wants to admit. He doesn’t respond, and Suguru doesn’t push, though the weight of his stare lingers. After a moment, Suguru sighs. “Look, man. If you’re serious about making things right, about stepping up and being a father, you can’t go back. Sure, you just met the boy, but it’s up to you and her to make sure you make up for the time you lost with him—to create even more memories with him. You have to prove you’ll be there for him.”

Satoru looks up at him, his eyes shadowed with something Suguru rarely sees in his best friend—doubt. “And if it’s too late?”

Suguru gives him a small, sad smile. “Then you make sure it’s not.”

It’s around nine at night, the convenience store’s ambience slowly drifting you into a sleepy state before you catch your head upright. It sucks having to force yourself to stay awake, already on your third cup of coffee today with two espresso shots. At this rate, you don’t know if you’ll be able to sleep, but it’s better that than not getting through your days at work. If anything, you can try melatonin again, even if that is just a blatant scam.

Scrolling on your phone through Indeed, Zip Recruiter, and LinkedIn. You hate seeing the same few jobs that say they’re hiring, but ghost you. Or the jobs that you seem completely too unqualified for that it makes you self-concsious. You’re aware you didn’t finish college, very aware. A part at you constantly eats away at your soul, mind running to the loud thoughts of “what if”. What if you finished college? What if you didn’t have Koji? You quickly push that idea away, feeling mad at yourself. You wonder if it’s bad of you to think about never being a mother—if other parents do that too.

It’s just a simple thought. You don’t regret Koji, you never could or would. Still, you can’t stop thinking at time about how life would be if you had a child later on in life. If you had a stable job, life, everything. Would things be better—different? Would Koji have been happier?

The thoughts gnaw at the edges of your mind as you sip from the coffee cup, the bitter liquid doing little to soothe the ache growing in your chest. The sinfulness hits you almost immediately, sharp and unforgiving. It feels wrong to even entertain the idea of a life without Koji, like some kind of betrayal to the tiny, beautiful soul who depends on you.

But you’re tired—so, so tired. And sometimes, when the weight of it all feels like too much to bear, those questions creep in, uninvited and insidious. They don’t mean you love Koji any less. You know that. Still, the mere existence of the thoughts makes you feel like a failure, like you’re not doing enough or being enough. You scroll through the endless job listings again, each rejection or impossibility hammering another nail into the coffin of your hope. A lump forms in your throat as you stare at the screen. Your hands tremble slightly, whether from exhaustion or the overwhelming sense of inadequacy, you’re not sure.

Again, you shake your head, forcing the thoughts away, but they linger like a shadow you can’t quite shake. Koji’s smile flashes in your mind, bright and pure, his laughter echoing in your memory. He’s your light, your anchor in the chaos. No matter how hard things get, you always find your way back to him. But even as you remind yourself of that, the doubts creep back in. Are you enough for him? Are you giving him the life he deserves? You hate that your answer feels so uncertain.

The soft hum of the convenience store's fluorescent lights pulls you back to the present. You set your phone down, closing your eyes for a moment as you press your palms against your forehead. You want to cry but know you can’t afford the luxury of breaking down, not here, not now.

The truth is, no matter how much you love Koji, you feel like you’re drowning. You’re just too good at treading water, keeping your head barely above the surface, to let anyone notice.

And so, you lose focus on your phone and exist in the present. You can’t change the past, but you can change your now, and your future. That starts with working hard, harder than you ever thought you could. The people who rise to the top, the people like Satoru, they fight for what they have. It’s a dog eat dog world out here, and you’d be damned if you let someone else best you.

You’re the ruler in your own life, not Satoru, not money, not evictions, nothing. It’s you. It’ll always be you. You’ve been working since you were fourteen, practically emancipated because your own sorry excuse of parents couldn’t have been more bothered.

That’s another thing that’s your driving force. Just like how you didn’t want Koji to grow up like Satoru, you didn’t want him to grow up like how you did either. You would never—ever—be like them. You pledged that, took an oath. Sure, things aren’t looking very good right now. But you’re strong, resilient, smart. You will get through this. For Koji, and for yourself.

Hard workers get what they worked for. You’ll be there soon. Patience is a virtue, and slow and steady wins the race.

Almost two hours have passed, once again putting in an extra hour. Right in the middle of ringing up some drunken college girls who came in for snacks, your phone in front of the register rings. You look down, it displays a number you know by heart. Mumbling a ‘have a good night’ to the girls who stumble their way out, you take the liberty to answer; not before you take a deep breath in, however.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Um…hey. Can I help you?”

“I’m coming over tomorrow.”

You pause for a moment, the phone pressed tightly to your ear as Satoru's words register. It takes a second too long for you to find your voice again, the casual confidence in his tone throwing you off balance. “Tomorrow?” you repeat, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sudden swirl of emotions his call stirs. “Okay, why?”

He scoffs. “Because I want to see him,” Satoru says simply, as if his answer explains everything.

Your lips purse, a mix of frustration and anxiety bubbling to the surface. “Satoru, it’s not that simple—”

“It is that simple,” he interrupts, his voice calm but laced with a sharp edge. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. I’m not waiting any longer, I want to see my son.”

Your grip tightens on the phone as your free hand balls into a fist at your side. The words you want to say die in your throat, the late hour and your sheer exhaustion making it hard to form a coherent argument. “I…I–I have work tomorrow, he has school.”

“So I’ll come over when he’s out of school,” he counters, his tone softening slightly but still resolute. “Look, I’m not trying to fight with you. I just want to see my son. We’ll figure the rest out as we go.”

You glance around the empty store, the harsh fluorescent lights casting long shadows. The reality of the situation presses down on you, the fact that this is something you’ll have to get used to, have to allow. Because he deserves it. “Fine,” you say quietly, your voice almost a whisper. “He’s off at 2:30, we get home around 2:40, you can be there by that time.”

“I’ll text before I get there,” he promises, though the nonchalant way he says it doesn’t do much to ease your questionable nerves. “See you tomorrow.”

The line goes dead before you can respond, leaving you standing there in the dim light of the convenience store, the phone still pressed to your ear. Tomorrow. You set the phone down, your hands trembling slightly, unsure as to why. It’s just the fatigue. Or maybe it’s the fact that Satoru is officially back in your life, his face will be a regular occurrence now.

He’s here for Koji. That’s all. Don’t look into it.

When you slug back home, the first thing you do—after paying Sana—is count your money. Mr. Sato needs around four thousand dollars, you’re still fucking short.

“Nine-hundred.”

“Thousand.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

A thousand short, plus another hundred for the utilities. And he needs it by Friday. It’s Wednesday.

On a scale from one to ten of how screwed you are, you’d give yourself an eleven. It’s hard to even admit that to yourself, feeling your hot tears wet the green paper in frustration. Gritting your teeth so hard you can hear the creaking of your muscles in your ears, a ringing noise following after. You sit there, staring at the bills fanned out on the table like they’re mocking you. The tears won’t stop, blurring the numbers, but you know them by heart. A thousand short for rent, a hundred for utilities, and nothing left for groceries or the babysitter fees piling up in the back of your mind.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm down, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave. The frustration spills over, hot and suffocating, as you swipe the money off the table in a fit of anger. The bills scatter across the floor like fallen leaves, and for a moment, you just sit there, trembling in the silence. “Goddamn it,” you mutter under your breath, clutching your head as if that’ll stop the spiral of thoughts. You can feel the panic rising, the way it always does when you’re this close to breaking. How are you supposed to keep everything together when the universe seems hell-bent on tearing it apart? You can already feel your migraine coming back like an old friend, feeling its twisting and pulling on your brain.

Koji’s soft footsteps break through the haze, his small voice pulling you back to reality. “Mama?”

You hastily wipe at your face, trying to compose yourself as you turn toward him. He’s standing in the doorway, clutching his favorite stuffed animal—a tattered little bear you bought second-hand years ago. His big eyes are filled with concern, and it breaks your heart even more. “Hey, baby,” you say, forcing a smile you don’t feel. “What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?”

He shakes his head, padding over to you and climbing onto your lap without a word. His tiny arms wrap around your waist, and for a moment, the world doesn’t feel as heavy. You stroke his hair, letting the quiet stretch between you. “Mama’s just tired,” you murmur after a while, hoping he doesn’t ask too many questions.

Koji looks up at you, his brows furrowed in a way that reminds you so much of Satoru it’s almost painful. “Are we okay?”

The question hits you like a punch to the gut, but you nod, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. “Of course we are, baby. Don’t worry about a thing, okay? Mama’s got it all under control.” It’s a lie, but it’s one you tell for his sake. Koji doesn’t need to know how close to the edge you really are. And you’d never let him know just how close you are from sinking completely, he’s too young, too innocent.

After a few minutes, he’s able to drift off to sleep in your arms, you stare at the scattered bills on the floor, your mind racing. Tomorrow, Satoru will be here. Maybe—just maybe—you can ask him for help. The thought makes your stomach churn, pride and desperation warring inside you. Are you even allowed to? What would he say?

But what choice do you have?

You need this place, no matter how ragged or disgusting Satoru—or anyone for that fact may think it is. It’s home. Home to you, and home to Koji. You’ve stopped caring about what others thought og you a long time ago. It still comes back, of course. Especially in your most vulnerable, most small of moments. And when it hits you, you realize how much you didn’t miss the feeling. You desperately wish you can just give absolutely zero fucks all day, everyday.

That might be impossible.

As long as you just hold it down, you’ll be good—you think.

For Koji, for Koji.

Walking Koji home the next day from school, you’re focused on checking the time of your phone; surprised when the young boy suddenly rips from your grip and runs forward. Instantly, you look up and call out for him in a hurry. “Koji! Do—”

“Papa!”

Satoru, who’s waiting outside your apartment door, crouches down to your son’s height, arms held out with a wide smile on his face. Koji melted into his embrace, small arms wrapped around his father’s neck. Satoru hugged the boy, running a hand up and down his back slowly. “How was school, my big boy?” “Good! We learned about plants, and I drew a sunflower!” Koji exclaims, his words tumbling over each other in excitement as he pulls back slightly to look at Satoru's face. His little hands grasp Satoru’s jacket, his wide eyes sparkling with pure joy.

Satoru’s expression softens even further, a rare glimpse of unguarded tenderness crossing his features. “A sunflower, huh? That’s my favorite flower. Did you know they always turn toward the sun?”

Koji nods eagerly, his grin spreading even wider. “Yeah! The teacher said that too. I wanna show you my drawing when we get inside!”

“Of course. I can’t wait to see it,” Satoru says, ruffling Koji’s hair before standing to his full height, the boy still clinging to his leg like a koala. His gaze shifts to you, his smile faltering just a fraction as his expression becomes unreadable. “Hey.”

You stand a few steps away, your heart caught in your throat. Watching the two of them together feels like a punch to the chest—bittersweet and raw. You manage to swallow the lump in your throat and force a polite smile. “Hey.”

Satoru takes a step closer, his tone light but his eyes piercing. He simply nods in response.

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. But there’s an ache beneath the surface, a mix of guilt, resentment, and longing you can’t quite shake. Koji looks happy, that’s all that matters. You step forward to unlock the door. “I have my other job to get to,” you say finally, keeping your tone neutral. “Do you think you can watch him until his babysitter comes?”

Koji rushes in, but Satoru lingers, looking at you. “Who’s his babysitter?”

“Sana, she usually comes a few minutes before I leave, but if you’re here I can go earlier.” You walk in, arm brushing against his that sends an uncomfortable tingle down your spine—one you ignore forcibly.

He follows in, closing the door behind him. Standing a bit awkwardly around the living room, watching you hang your coat and purse up. “I didn’t know you worked two jobs,” he says, almost like he’s not sure if he should be voicing out this small curiosity of his.

You pause mid-motion, fingers lingering on the hook of your coat rack. For a moment, you consider not answering, brushing it off with some noncommittal remark. But the weight of his gaze is palpable, pressing down on you until you finally sigh and turn around to face him. “Yeah,” you say simply, your voice flat. “Bills don’t pay themselves.” There’s an edge in your tone, one you don’t intend but can’t quite help. His eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, you think he might argue, but instead, he just nods, his expression unreadable.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head as you move to the small kitchen area to grab a glass of water. “Tell you? What would that have changed, Satoru? Would you have swooped in and made it all better?”

His jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides before he crosses his arms over his chest. “Maybe I would have. But you never gave me the chance.”

You set the glass down harder than you meant to, the sound of it hitting the counter echoing in the silence. “You don’t get to say that,” you snap, turning to face him fully. “You don’t just show up now and act like you care about how I’ve been keeping things together.”

“I do care,” he shoots back, his voice rising slightly. “You think I wouldn’t? That I don’t give a damn about you—Koji?” The small correction doesn’t get missed by you.

“You didn’t care enough to stay,” you bite out before you can stop yourself.

The words hang in the air, sharp and cutting. His expression falters for just a moment before his face hardens, a wall going up that you recognize all too well. God damn it. Why do you keep bringing up the past and your shitty breakup?

“That’s not fair,” he says, his voice low. “You made that decision for the both of us.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you can’t speak. The two of you stand there, the room thick with tension, until a small voice interrupts.

“Mama?” Both of you turn toward the hallway, where Koji stands in the hallway, tilting his head. Holding his colored paper of a sunflower in his hands. “Are you fighting?”

Your heart aches at the sight of him, his small frame dwarfed by the weight of the conversation he doesn’t understand. You put on a smile, crouching down to his level. “No, baby. We’re just talking, that’s all.”

Satoru steps forward, his face softening as he kneels next to Koji. “Yeah, buddy. We’re not fighting. Everything’s okay.”

Koji looks between you both for a long moment before nodding, though his expression still carries a hint of worry. “Okay,” he turns to Satoru. “Here Papa, my drawing.”

The two move to the couch, Satoru listening with fascination as Koji talks and talks and talks. His father doesn’t seem to mind, however. Occasionally touching his cheek or pushing hair out his face as if to remind himself this is real, that this is his son. You look away and go to your room, locking the door as you begin changing into your uniform for the convenience store. In a few minutes, you’re out and putting your shoes on. Satoru and Koji are now discussing video games.

“I’m heading out now, baby.”

“Alrigh—”

“Okay, Mama.” Koji cuts off Satoru, to which the latter is glad because why the fuck did he just almost respond to you? He knows you weren’t talking to him, he knows you wouldn’t ever call him baby again, but it just felt so natural and instinctual.

Strange.

He watches you come on over to give Koji a hug and kiss, awkwardly clearing his throat in the seat beside his son; looking away like he’s intruding on something. And so you won’t see the odd flush to his pale cheeks.

“I’ll watch him, don’t call the babysitter.”

You pause mid-motion, your arms still loosely wrapped around Koji. Slowly, you pull back, giving your son a soft smile before turning your attention to Satoru. “Are you sure?” you ask, your tone careful, guarded. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

Satoru scoffs lightly, waving a hand in dismissal as he leans back in his seat. “It’s not an inconvenience. I’m his dad, remember? I can handle one night.” His words feel heavier than they should, loaded with the unspoken history between you two. You don’t miss the slight edge in his voice, though he keeps his expression neutral.

Koji, oblivious to the tension, beams up at his father. “Can we watch that superhero movie, Papa?”

Satoru grins, ruffling Koji’s hair. “Of course, big guy. Popcorn too. But after you finish your homework.”

You hesitate, your eyes flickering between the two of them. It’s hard to argue when Koji looks so happy, his excitement practically radiating off him. Finally, you nod. “Okay,” you say, grabbing your bag and coat, walking over to the door. “Just... don’t let him stay up too late.”

“Got it,” Satoru replies, his tone almost flippant, though there’s a hint of seriousness beneath it. You linger for a moment longer than necessary, your hand hovering on the doorknob. There’s something about leaving the two of them together, about seeing Satoru slip so naturally into this role, that stirs something warm in your chest.

“Alright,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “I’ll be back around twelve.” With that, you step out into the cool evening air, the door clicking shut behind you. You exhale, trying to shake off the strange mix of emotions swirling in your chest—wary, relief, maybe even longing.

Inside, Satoru watches the door for a beat longer than he should. Then he shakes his head, turning back to Koji with a forced grin. “Alright, champ. Let’s see what homework you have today.” But as Koji chatters excitedly, Satoru can’t help but feel the weight of your absence pressing down on him, more than he’s willing to admit.

It’s around eight at night now. Satoru took the liberty of making some dinner for Koji, but after sifting through your bone empty pantry and refrigerator, he orders take out. The two are watching Spiderman: No Way Home. His arm is slung around his son’s shoulders, the two sharing a bag of fries. He can almost feel Koji starting to drift off, the sensation of his body sinking further into his side makes him smile subconsciously. However, that small, tender moment is broken when there’s a sudden pounding at the door.

Satoru looks back over the couch, confused as to who the hell could be trying to see you at this time of night. A hookup? Boyfriend? No, no. Don’t think that.

He looks back down at Koji who’s giving him an equally confused, but tired face. “Is that Mama?”

“No, don’t think so, little man.” You said you’d be back by twelve, it’s only eight. That’s weird. “Stay here, okay? I’m gonna go see who it is.”

Koji nods, Satoru gently laying him on his side and grabbing a fuzzy throw blanket to tuck him in with. He stands with a small grunt, walking over to your front door. He peeks through the hole and sees a man he’s never seen before, Old, ugly, and hairy. He scoffs. The hell do you want? He unlocks it, opening up and coming face to face with the man.

Mr. Sato regards Satoru with surprise and confusion, bushy brows furrowing. “Where’s Y/N?” he asks, tilting his head to try and get a look over his shoulder.

“She’s at work.” Satoru replies, on guard and a hint of firmness in his voice. “You need her?”

“Correct.”

“And who are you again?”

“The landlord.” Mr. Sato says, heavily huffing as he gazes back up at Satoru. His frown deepening when he feels his neck angle up. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Late.” Satoru simply mutters, arms crossing. “Gotta come back another time.”

“I can’t,” Mr. Sato gruffs. “I need to talk to her about the money now.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens at the mention of money, and a flicker of realization crosses his sharp features. He leans against the doorframe, casually intimidating, his sheer presence making the older man falter for a second. "Money?" Satoru repeats, his tone cool but laced with an edge. "What money are we talking about here?"

Mr. Sato straightens, trying to regain his composure despite the younger man's imposing demeanor. "Rent," he clarifies, his voice firm, though his eyes avoid Satoru's piercing gaze. "She’s late on payments. Again. I’ve already given her an extension, but this can’t keep happening. I gave her until Friday but something came up and I need it now.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow slightly, his posture shifting. Late on payments? He processes the words, his mind jumping to the extra hours you’ve been working, the tired look in your eyes, the way Koji’s jacket was patched up with care but still clearly worn. The pieces click together uncomfortably.

"How much does she owe?" Satoru asks, his tone still calm, though the intensity in his eyes makes the landlord hesitate.

"That's between me and her," Mr. Sato replies gruffly, puffing out his chest as if to assert some authority in this lopsided interaction.

Satoru doesn’t miss a beat, his expression hardening. "Well, she’s not here, so now it’s between me and you." There’s a beat of silence, tension thick in the small space.

Mr. Sato shifts uncomfortably under Satoru’s gaze, his confidence wavering. “Four thousand,” he finally admits, his voice lower. “I told her I need it by Friday, but things changed. She said she’d have it.”

Satoru lets out a slow breath through his nose, his jaw clenching as he processes the number. Four thousand. A drop in the bucket for him, but for you? It might as well be a mountain.

“If she doesn’t have it, I’m gonna push forward with the eviction, I already have possible renters lined up with a more stable income.”

Eviction? And from a place this shitty? Satoru’s jaw clenches, eyes raking over the older man. “Well, she’s not here.”

“Then let me call her.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow, a flicker of something dangerous sparking in his gaze as he steps fully into the doorway, his towering frame casting a shadow that swallows the smaller man in front of him. The landlord, suddenly aware of the shift in the air, takes a half-step back. "You’re not calling her," Satoru says, his voice low and measured, carrying an edge sharp enough to draw blood.

Mr. Sato frowns but falters slightly, the confidence in his stance wavering. "Look, this isn’t personal. It’s business. If she can’t pay by the deadline, I have no choice but to move forward. That’s how it works."

Satoru tilts his head, a ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, but there’s no humor in it—just a cold, calculated edge. "Business, huh? Funny thing about business—it’s always personal when it’s someone else’s life you’re messing with."

"She’s late. I’ve been lenient," Mr. Sato protests, though his voice is quieter now, almost defensive.

Satoru’s smirk vanishes, replaced by an icy glare that feels like a physical weight. "Lenient? Let me tell you something. You don’t come here throwing around eviction threats like you’re some kind of god deciding who stays and who goes. That’s not how this is going to play out."

Mr. Sato scoffs with a scowl, arms crossing. “Listen here, I don’t know who you are, or who you think you are. I don’t give a damn about that. All I care about is having the money, right here,“ he holds his palm out. “Right now.”

Satoru chuckles lowly, but there’s no warmth in the sound—it’s laced with something menacing, something dangerous. His eyes, usually glinting with mischief, now burn with icy resolve as he steps closer, forcing Mr. Sato to look up at him again. "Who I think I am?" Satoru repeats, his voice soft but unnervingly steady, like the calm before a storm. "Let me make one thing clear—you don’t get to care about anything except what I tell you to care about. And right now, you’re going to care about backing the hell off." Mr. Sato’s scowl falters, his mouth opening to retort, but Satoru raises a hand, cutting him off before he can even start. "Because if you don’t," Satoru continues, his tone dropping lower, a subtle, menacing edge creeping in, "I’ll make sure you have a lot more to worry about than late rent. Understand?"

The landlord stiffens, visibly uncomfortable now, though he tries to hide it with a scoff. "You threatening me? That’s illegal, you know."

Satoru smirks again, but it’s colder this time, a predator toying with its prey. He leans in just enough that his towering presence feels suffocating, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Illegal? Oh, I know all about what’s illegal. But see, the thing is, I don’t need to do anything illegal to make your life a living hell. A call here, a visit there… You’d be surprised how quickly someone like you can lose everything they’re so desperate to cling to. You should really care about who you threaten, this is my son and his mother you’re talking about.”

The unspoken promise in his words hangs heavy in the air, and for the first time, Mr. Sato’s bluster cracks. He shifts uncomfortably, glancing around as though expecting someone to step in and save him. Satoru straightens, his piercing gaze never leaving the man. "Take the money," he says simply, pulling out wads of cash from his wallet—carelessly tossing them at him, "and don’t let me see you again. Ever."

For a moment, it looks like Mr. Sato might argue, but the weight of Satoru’s presence, the absolute certainty in his voice, crushes whatever resistance he might have left. With a grunt, he snatches the money, shoving it into his pocket. "This isn’t over," the landlord mutters, but his voice lacks conviction as he turns to leave, his shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of Satoru’s words. Satoru watches him go, the cold fury in his expression lingering even after the door clicks shut. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, the tension in his body slowly unwinding.

Not over? Satoru smirks to himself, shaking his head. "Senile bastard doesn’t know what he’s saying.” He turns back toward the living room, his eyes softening slightly as they land on Koji, still sleeping soundly. The weight of his own actions sits heavily on him, but he pushes it aside. There are more important things to worry about—like making sure you and your son never have to deal with scum like that again. But also, finding some way to talk to you about this eviction.

Would you have ever told him? Would you have asked for help? Are you going to continue to keep secrets from him, even though they directly affect his son—affect you?

The sound of hurried footsteps, practically running footsteps, sounds throughout the long corridor. Ignoring and maneuvering out the way of the office employees who regard the person with confusion and annoyance. There’s a singular focus in their movement, a sense of urgency that prickles the air. The familiar, large doors of the office are in line of sight, to which the person rushes inside. The grand, imposing doors of the executive office burst open. Usually, he’d knock and wait, but not this time.

Inside, Yamato Gojo sits at the head of a polished, expansive table, his wife, Akane, poised elegantly at his side. Around them, a small group of sharp-suited businessmen turn toward the intrusion, their murmurs of surprise quickly silenced by Yamato’s cold, calculating glare.

The informant can barely get the words out, stumbling over. “M-Mr. Gojo! I have—there’s—I—!” Their face pale and slick with sweat. Words fail them at first, a garbled mess of syllables spilling out in their panic. Finally, they manage to force out, "M-Mr. Gojo! You need to see this!"

Yamato leans forward, his eyes narrowing as he motions for the informant to come closer, his long fingers curling in a beckoning gesture. The air in the room seems to thicken as the informant, trembling, hurries forward and hands over a tablet. Akane leans in as Yamato taps the screen, her expression calm and unreadable—at least, until her eyes land on the image.

The sound of shattering glass cuts through the room like a gunshot as Akane’s wine glass slips from her hand, crimson liquid pooling across the pristine floor. Her gasp transforms into a piercing shriek that sends a chill through everyone present.

Because on the screen, displayed in haunting clarity, is an image that chills the air in the room: their son, unmistakably, embracing a younger version of himself—while your figure stands to the side.

a/n: uh ohhhh

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redcherrykook · 2 months ago

Text

────꒷꒦ 𝔩𝔲𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱 [ s & c ]

︶♱︶︶♱︶ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺︶♱︶︶♱︶︶

part of ɳσƈƚιʋαɠαɳƚ

↳ ❝ [ vampire!Jungkook universe] ❞

✎ summary: he´s observant, watches his prey like an experienced predator, but in 125 years of age, Jungkook had never craved someone as much as you. he had to have you.

note from cherry: warning!! Stalking., obsessive jungkook, crazy PATHETICALLY DOWN BAD jungkook. part one of our sexy obssessed stalker vampire. We love him here. Mini slow burn? Idk.

︶♱︶︶♱︶ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺︶♱︶︶♱︶︶

In the habitual sunday walk through the lush emerald park, the birds accompany your rhythmic heartbeat with their singing. Sunday matchas always taste better once the sun reverts to glow dimly at the horizon, dissappearing goodbye in a tortuously slow departure.

You were never fond of the sunsets as you were sunrises, steadily feeling a clench in your heart at something as radiant as the sun taking it's might to part from the world, vowing to greet you in the early hours of life's next morning. But in the unleashing dark, sometimes the return of the sun felt uncertain.

Almost ashamed to admit it- on rare, eerie occasion, you still feared the ominous that roams empty streets at dead hours way past midnight. Unlike a fairytale or a badly written horror novel- these creatures found themselves in every nook and cranny. Every slither of space, you were brought up to fear them. Never walk alone after sunset. Never look behind the treeline if you felt the presence of their piercingly colorful eyes stalking you every little step.

The world has become much less judgmental nowadays.

"Matcha latte to go?"

The fair skinned man calls out from behind the counter. His purple eyes dull of boredom in typical barista fashion, the smile he shoots you no less polite, although small, pointy fangs flash from it's corners.

"Thank you -" your eyes flicker to his nametag, "Nathaniel. Here's your tip, have a nice day" you reply, automated in that slightly raised frequency you twinge when talking to a stranger.

Your steps take you back through the way you walked initially, crunching on the freshly breeze grass beneath your soles, tracing the familiar route back to your apartment.

It had become utterly familiar to him too. The route was the same- sunday after sunday. On occasion during the week- mostly during exam season, when your body called for an added fuel.

He may have gotten used to the steps he took, synchronizing them alongside your own. However, he'd never get used to your pink lips cupping the straw in their little hold. How you sip the drink with the innocents of a little dove, unaware of the shudders that go through his body, stirr in his abdominal region.

It had captured him wholly. Unexpectedly but calculated nonetheless.

It must have been planned. Seeing your precious little blush, the shirt that snuck up your torso as you put back a book into the raking shelve of the bookstore he works at. It must have been no less than fate, the blood red string of fate that is tugging his nervoussystem in your direction. Letting something awaken inside of him- something of his roots. Akin to his nature- to taunt him of his designation, the realization that he was not merely a simple man.

And his madness grew with each breath of air that filled your lungs. Even when he wasn't around to watch you take them, as long as you inhale the same oxgyen- he craved to breathe you in as though you were his source of essentials.

Chance encounters don't exist- not in 125 years has it happend to him, not a singular interaction devoid of purpose or contrary, filled to the brink with the naked, uncanny urge to engulf this very thing into his chest. That's how he knew you were his calling.

"Hey, sorry, you dropped this"

He taps on your shoulder, unguarded, you spin around, glancing at his face, down his large, faintly colorless hand that held something dear to you.

In the midst of beautifully ordinary walk, you hadn't noticed the drop of your keys.

"Oh god- thank you. That could have ended badly" you offer a small giggle, airy, light. He tries to not let his eyes roll back at the melody, handing you your keys with an aching heart. Soon enough- he told himself- soon enough he will get to enter your space.

"Yeah. Cute guy you got on there. Has he got a name?"

The little, blue bow adorned monchichi keychain catches your eye for a second before they naturally wander up to his deep red eyes. They glint slightly, taking notice of his pointed fangs that he charmingly flashes through a grin.

"Mocha" your answer is polite, small. He knew better than to pry too deep, settles to hum,

"Mocha" he recites, tilts his head the slightest bit, "I think ive seen you at my bookshop before. But i never got to know your name, pretty?"

The instant he asked, he wanted to answer this question for you in place of his theatrically put on questioning expression. Replace it with genuine lust in his voice as he lets the syllables of your name roll over his tongue, just like he's been chanting them in the dark- when no one's watching - when there's no eyes to graze the beautiful sinner he's become once his stiff cock stands proudly in his hand.

You tell him your name regardless. How could you have known that the shadow who seems to follow you around, internalized it like a favourite poem all along.

You were oblivious to his ways, clueless even. He failed to hold back a miniscule slip of tongue, wetting the metal ring in the corner of his pale rose lips.

"Thats a beautiful name. I'm Jungkook"

You bless him with your little giggle for another time, remarking in your head about how easy it was to talk to the handsome creature. The one who's face had been burned into your imagination for quite some time now, tucked away into some box, beneath the litters of faces you've seen at the morisaki bookshop.

"Suits you"

"Is that good?" he asks, showing of his signature grin to which you nod,

"Its elegant"

"Vampires tend to be" he says, vaguely gesturing to your cup, "You like matcha? I could treat you to one, if you like?"

Satisfaction courses through his bloodstream at the airbrushed pink that dusts your cheeks, taking note of the way your pointy gel nails fiddle slightly with your jeanpocket,

Alongside the pleasure, relief floods him in it's soothing tide- he had finally uttered the sentence he meticulously practiced to say over and over again- watch his micro expressions in his reflection to tweak each subtle give away, enhance every unique feature he held within those constructed words.

"I'd like that" you reply, choosing a demure answer that attempts to hide your attraction to Jungkook, your girlish excitement at meeting him again.

"Same time next week?"

Succumbing to his natural charm was inevitable. Nothing could have prepared you for the lull in his voice, how every word he pronounced sounded like those of an ancient spell. The strike in his unusually colored eyes differed so drastically from the fairness of his flawless skin. It was drowning you in its hues.

Jungkook walked home with a use of his speed inflicted upon the pace of a human step. The sight of your lips trembling slightly as you gave him your number, the one he had memorized weeks ago, still playing in his mind's eye like a movie. It would become his favourite memory until he created more explicited ones- though he grew acustom to cumming at the simple sound of your name in his head- spoken by his own voice, now blissfully interchanged with the way you offered it to him earlier.

Patience is a virtue he had mastered inescapably, it grew into his life through vicious blessings, beautiful curses. 24 hours that multiply and blend into unexciting memories.

All strings had gotten loose upon your arrival. How would he be able to await another seven days without seeing you, without hearing you pronounce mundane words or viewing your camera app being opened over a little flower on the pavement.

He couldn't wait, no matter how much patience he had.

His shadow casts itself behind the many cars parking up your street, he zones in on your surroundings- the little shoulder look you give in the dark, as if to spot anything that could endanger you. It made his heart wrench,

"I'd never let you get hurt" he whispers to himself, watching the cold air manifest into transparent smoke as he speaks.

You rattle your keys, unlock the shabby apartment door with stiff fingers, suffering the low temperatures. From your peripheral, it almost looked like a blow- a gust of wind running by your side.

But when you turn around with hitched breath, its empty.

Jungkook exhaled once your figure disappeared into the building. Carelessy, he swung by, wanting to get just an inch closer, an inch away from having his highly receptive senses flooded with your gentle scent. For his yearning heart to get a fraction of gratification.

The closer he is, the more he needs to have. It clouds him like the smoke of a stormy night, rips him into the unknown, the unexplored and hidden desires of digging his teeth into the graceful skin of your neck.

Sunday finally comes around, the end of the week igniting him with a new flame. He'd been painfully dragging himself around in those remaining hours, holding himself back from standing in front of your bedroom window to watch you pick out your outifit, pace around nervously like you did before meeting with your friends on Wednesday nights. A tradition of getting cocktails at least twice a month, you appeared lovely, casual even. But jungkook saw it all behind the curtain of effortlessness, the pile of discarded outfits, your hairbrush thrown on your bed in frustration. The sweet, winged eyeliner that took three songs and four retries to draw on. He'd seen it all, every inch of your skin as you try on dress after skirt, shirt after blouse, no matter how much he restrained himself to avert his gaze.

Now, he's seeing you approach from afar, walking tentatively in the beautifully dim sunlight.

He skips a few steps to be in your vicinity quicker- you blink confused, before breaking out into a small laughter.

"Right, you can do that"

He returns your smile, his heart races at the sight of you so close to him, so attainable.

"Its pretty efficient"

You hum, tracking your gaze from the top of his pierces eyebrow, down his plump lips, taking your line of sight down the contours of his sharp jaw before your focus shifts on the unbuttoned top part of his silky black shirt. His prominent collarbones peak out just enough to make you elicit a barely audible sigh,

In his mind, he's been drifting to your bedroom, to his hands that let the pretty grey fabric graciously fall down the dips of your figure.

"You look really pretty, grey suits you"

Jungkook's smoothe voice guides you through the rest of the joint night.

Along his gentle nature, there is some sort of belonging. A shiver of closeness that runs down your back, even when it's just his knuckles that gingerly bump yours while you walk around the blooming trail. You catch him from time to time, in the midst of your conversation, how he lets himself wander off in thought a bit, yet, he's attentive, responsive, dancing the line of being completely entranced by the string of words leaving your lips.

"Youre easy to talk to" you tell him truthfully while throwing away the empty cup. He chuckles a little,

"Yeah? Well, you make me feel comfortable, i think thats why"

"I do? I feel like i'm so awkward" you chuckle- honestly, maybe you were a bit awkward. Trying your hardest not to let him pay and telling bad jokes about his vampire qualities that he'd probably been told multiple times before. Nothing shy from enticing in his eyes.

"I think youre adorable"

"You're way too honest. Is that a vampire thing?"

His hand brushes a little strand away from your face, stalled in front of the acquainted doorstep of your apartment. The soft hair glides through his slender fingers like liquid gold. From the back of his throat, a small groan of approval sounds,

"No, but I'm bad at lying anyways"

Your lips curve into a grin, mirroring his expression. The thumping in your chest rings so loudly, you're almost sure he's able to pick up the frequency with his immaculate hearing. Its a pounding you haven't yet felt before. It may be the deep night around you- adding to his sexy mystique, the way his eyelids seemed to drop the least bit, following the lure of the moon.

"When can I see you again?" He asks with a quiet, breathy tone. Goosebumps threathen to plaque his dull skin as you bite into the corner of your lip,

"Whenever you want. Just.. text me"

He nods, "Okay pretty"

With that, you smile and disappear into the walls of your home.

Jungkook exhales a long, deep breath. His eyes fall closed, body slumping against a nearby tree. Utter delight crashes his head, grounds him into the world that he is slowly, meticulously creating for you to be part of. For you to be the sun of.

Similarly, you collapse right against the closed door. Smiling stupidly like a giddy teenage girl, running your hand through your hair, you break into a fit of giggles. Immediately pulling your phone out to text your best friend about what had just happend in the last long, dreamy hours.

But before you get the chance to click on her chat log, a message lights up your screen,

Jungkook >.< : cant wait to see you again

He bites back a smile, the reflection of you getting excited over his text dances in his pupils as he stands off to the side of your slightly parted curtains,

"good night sweetheart" he mumbles, gradually turning back to resort back into his own home.

Messages like these had crept their way into your normal days.

Good morning texts, little things that reminded you of each other- mentions of movies to watch together or selfies with meaningless captions like "hard work day :( " decorated your chat in extensive loads. Despite not much time having past since the first date, time has acquired another meaning in its entirety. So much so that you find yourself aimlessly wandering inside a grocery store after suggesting Jungkook should come over for dinner.

He slipped into your life with ease, fitting into a space that seemed to be cut out just for him, and how much you adored him was almost embarrassing to admit.

You had never invited him to your home before, but he didn't mention it. Instead, he typed back that he'd be there at 7 pm, until he remembered that he isnt supposed to know your exact address- quickly adding the question onto his last message.

His breath quickens the instant he's greeted with you facing him, the tulips in his hand feel heavy all of a sudden, wanting nothing more but to drop them and engulf you into his selfish hands instead.

"Come in kook", while wrapping your arms around his taller frame, you can sense the way he tenses, his busy hand clenches the boquet with restrained power, the other one makes it to your back, carefully pulling you into his chest. He inhales your scent in pure ecstasy, button nose nudging the top of your freshly shampooed head.

Once inside- he's looking around the confined space with curious eyes. As many times as he had seen glimpses, being on the other side of your windows felt like a perverted secret. After hours of studying your schedule, analyzing common places, people, interests that are woven into your life, he would finally solidify himself as the most important.

Lucky was an understatement. Jungkook felt blessed- divinely touched to be able to move around the four walls of his angel- his very own godsend gift. His, only his.

The sigh he lets out almost serves as a way to release his overflowing happiness into the atmosphere, let go of his orchestrated hours that took him to his destination- you.

"Pretty place" he compliments, watching you pick out a vase for your favourite type of flowers, "hm, thank you. I love tulips, crazy how you picked them" you say, sparkling innocently as your fingers adjust the petals,

"Good guess right?"

The air thickens with his approaching steps, his aura carries itself over you, there's an undeniable chemistry brewing between you. Presents itself in the quickening of your heartbeat, the tension in his beautifully otherwordly features.

"No garlic i hope?" he jokes, pointing to the ingredients spread on the counter. The thin fabric of your tanktop collides with his cotton tshirt, his muscular arm holding onto the cupboard in front of you. The yearning inside of you leads you to turn around, facing him and essentially, trapping yourself between the kitchen island and his steady body.

Perfect, he thinks.

"Very funny" you giggle, looking up into the deep red you would never get used to. Its mesmerizing to see the color intensify from time to time.

Jungkook reaches his hand out to take your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up into his direction. His face is relaxed but the slight quiver of his lips, as if holding back from letting his canine teeth dart out, doesn't get past your observing eyes.

It doesn't get past him either, how you seemed to nibble on your lip a little, taking deeper inhales with the duration of his gentle touch.

"You're so pretty" he mumbles, growing an inch closer to your face with patience. The proximity makes his blood heat up, he barely has the chance to touch you before every single thought of raw and uncontrollable desire overtakes him,

Your gaze flickers down to his parted lips, the lip ring shines with a slight coat of saliva and you wish for nothing more than a deep collision, just as jungkook craves the taste of you all over his tongue.

As much as he has his instincts under control, he cannot deprive himself any longer.

Rationality vanishes from his thoughts- as his lips press gently against yours, he begins moaning in pure satisfaction. A slight taste of you was all he ever dreamed of having- but he should have known better than that. There was no way of not needing more- he had to have you, taste you, kiss and claim everything you had to give him.

The deep moan makes you whimper into the now passionate kiss- hands having found their way into his tousled hair, tugging at the roots with care. His lips clash to yours over and over, nipping at your bottom lip, licking over it to ask for premission.

You grant it to him immediately, the need to get as close as possible is indescribable, it is more than desire, more than a feeling or a simple word, you pull him in deeper and he whines at your desperation, seeing himself mirrored in you.

"Taste so fucking good. I need you, i need you so goddamn much" he groans against your lips- tongue pushing and tangling with your own, his hands wander up and down your sides as if to soothe himself, holding on to his control for all he's worth.

He steadies himself by breaking the kiss for a breath of air with his forehead meeting yours in a moment of isolation. It was hasty, messy and nonetheless perfect. He craved more, longed for another taste.

You're the first to break the silence, barely letting the words run past your lips in the midst of hightend breathing,

"I like you so much"

He doesn't recall when he last felt this intense amount of pleasure, he doesn't waste another breath on words, kissing you with newfound but always present lust, exploring the softness of your skin hidden beneath the tanktop- his shaky fingers itch at the brief shiver that passes through you- wanting to make you shiver again and again,

"You have no idea how crazy i am about you" he mutters while shifting his attention to kiss along your jaw, his mouth remains open and wet against your skin- running his tongue down your neck so, so gently.

The validity behind those words are something he cannot bear open to you in this moment- but he swore to himself he would eventually.

It takes all his willpower not to sink his pointy teeth into the delicate skin, feeling the pulse running wild like it was begging him to bite.

"Wanna make you feel so good"

Moans of his name fall from your lips, he recriporates each one with needy whimpers of his own, working to touch and worship whatever he has beneath his hands at the moment- already tugging at the bottom of your shirt, before you register it, its lying on the tile floor,

"Hold tight sweetheart"

The nickname adds to the heat pooling in your underwear- supported by simply one of his hands, a reminder of his inhumane strength. You´re lifted to the kitchen island, sitting with your thighs open for him to stand between. The thick bulge that's been present from the moment his lips met yours presses against you every so slightly- providing both of you with tiny amounts of pressure.

His lips run down invisible paths to your bra covered chest, submitting to his urges like a man devoid of free will- of any power.

"Wanna bite you s'bad" he rasps, unfastening your bra and attaching his plump lips to your stiffend bud, rolling the oppsite one in his skilled fingertips,

Institutiavely, your thighs clench around his hips, seeking more friction at the thought of his pretty fangs snaking into your skin. Jungkook completely surrounded you with his scent, his words, his presence.

Serving justice to all the mysteries and tales about his kind- his passion, his groans, his possessive hands are far to good to be the ones of a weak human man- his teeth ghost over you and in that instant, he becomes everything.

"You can- just not - mhmm- too hard"

Interrupted by your own noises of satisfaction, the words come out without any fear. Replaced by the sheer pleasure he lays upon your body, the look of desire in his features as he keeps grabbing, kissing, moaning for you.

He looks at you through his lashes, mouth leaving your chest wet and glistening, his lips are swollen as they breathe out his next words,

"You're a dream, my beautiful angel"

His lips return to your neck, suctioning harsher than previously, grazing the sharpness with every sloppy suck of your skin- and when he finally, ever so slightly indulges in sinking his teeth in- you make the most wonderful noise to him.

The moans of your name fall from his lips naturally, like a continuous prayer to your body, letting his fingers toy with your breasts- allowing his teeth to leave little lovebites in pretty shades of red spread across your neck.

"Youre so pretty, the prettiest angel" he whispers lovingly, gliding his fingers down your arm while admiring his work of art.

His skin burned- burned with the helpless devotion he cannot restrict.

"You´re mine, you´re mine angel all mine, do you understand?"

Posession creeps into the kisses to your stomach- he is touching you, his hands are the ones wandering your body, his lips are the ones marking up near every inch that falls victim to him, but it hardly registers in his head because you scratch along his muscular back- nodding without a doubt in mind,

"Feels so good- oh fuck jungkook please"

You whine- you whine for him and it gets him to nuzzles his nose into your slick lace panties, inhaling deeply to submerge himself in your femininity,

"Anything you want, im gonna fucking worship you baby. Gonna make you come until you beg me to stop"

Jungkook hooks his large hands on the underside of your thighs, kneeling in front of you as though he was actually praying to you- letting your legs dangle over his broad shoulders.

The sight of your wet folds, red and swollen clit all due to him- all in front of his very own diluted eyes made him salivate, he marked your entire thighs with deep red and purple bruises that you met with loud moans, trembling throughout your body- wandering until it´s coming out in your whiney tone of voice that kept asking for him- asking as if he wouldn't burn down the world for you.

"My pretty little pussy, look at that, look at how wet you are for me"

It was so overstimulating to him, hightend all his feelings, blurred his extensive vision at the first drop of your slick on his greedy, relentless tongue.

"Fucking angelic- taste so good" he whines into your pussy- laps and laps at the stickyness with vigour and precision when licking a long strip up to circle your clit.

In between closing your eyes, your droopy sight caught vision of jungkook sitting there, hugged by your thighs, his eyes framed with disshevld strands, glazed and cloudy- mouth wet with messy pleasure smeared along his skin.

"Mhh- kook- you look so hot like this"

The praise thrills him- diving into your need with the large overcast of his own, his cock twitching and aching so badly beneath the blue jeans but somehow- being on his knees for you, listening to your beautiful voice call out for him- it was better than any contact he ever dreamed to experience before.

His eyes roll back into his head upon the arrival of your first orgasm- overcoming you with a loud cry, your thighs clamp around his head, trap him there like you dreaded the separation as much as he did.

"Kook- fuck- ohhh fuck"

You shook, plead for more and his tongue obeyed, thrusting the wet muscle into you fast, his thumb rubbing tight circles on the throbbing pearl of your crying cunt,

"Good girl, good, good girl, come for me- let this pussy know who's it is"

He heard the second high before he saw it- the broken sob, the sniffling that send shocks into his constricted cock, made it beg for attention. It worsened as he glanced up,

"god baby- so fucking cute" he groans so loudly, smashing his lips to your cunt - sucking harshly on your oversensitive clit that endured so much of his suckling and gnawing.

Your moans continue to flow, changing into meek cries of his name, the pearly tears roll down your reddend cheeks ending on your quivering lips that are now covered in the salty liquid.

And at the thought of tasting them, oh so pathetically, Jungkook's cock pulses angrily - leaks with cum all over himself, coating his length in warm, milky pleasure, meeting the sensation of your tangy sweetness blessing his mouth.

"ahh.. mhh.." you stumble out, slowly dropping the slight grinding on his numb and swollen lips, just as jungkook pants and whimpers, having finished untouched- because pleasing you was his priority, his greatest achievement- and he hasn´t even gotten to feeding you every inch of his cock, hasn´t even seen it disappear into your tight, pulsing pussy,

"oh angel, you´re so beautiful, so good, did so so good baby" his lips run his trails back and forth on your thighs, calming their shaking with the addition of his big hands stroking your hips,

You tug at his shoulder and he recieves the silent question, bringing his body up to stand upward, dazed and bathing in your afterglow

It doesn´t take long for your eyes to find the wet patch,

"See that? All because of you. All yours" he says, pulling you into him by the small of your back, like a puzzlepiece, your hands wrap around his shoulders- both of you relish in the company of one another,

How right it truly felt to be held by his magical hands,

To meet his lips in another soft kiss, tasting the remains of yourself on him.

It was right,

He had done absolutely everything in and beyond his power to secure that, now that he had it in his grasp, black and white,

He would always make sure it stays that way, even if it meant digging his teeth into your neck until you bled.

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