#Yet I feel... Enlightened | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shokocide · 1 month ago

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ONLY YOU - GETO SUGURU

summary. Geto Suguru built a world with hatred, chose conviction over compassion. But when you smiled at him—looked at him like he could be human, he’s tearing it all down, piece by piece, just to be near you.

word count. 12.9k (whoopsie daisy)

content. mdni fem! reader, canon-divergent au, slowburn, geto being torn between ideology and love, angst, mutual pining, tension tension tension, forbidden romance, emotional whiplash, pet names, fluff, smut, oral (fem rec.), p in v, cowgirl, praise, creampie, pillow talk, geto falls so hard

author's note. started bawling watching hidden inventory arc again so i thought of this

They infest the world like vermin. Powerless, ignorant, and yet so loud. So demanding. Non-sorcerers—monkeys, as he calls them—have always been the root of everything cursed. A plague that breeds more curses with every selfish desire and fear they exude.

Geto Suguru once believed it was his duty to protect them. To save them from the horrors they couldn’t see. But experience breeds bitterness. Enlightenment, as he now calls it, showed him the truth: salvation doesn't lie in protection.

It lies in eradication.

A world without monkeys, a world without curses. It’s a beautiful dream, one he's willing to stain his hands for.

And nothing—no one—was ever meant to come between him and that dream.

Until you did.

The first time he sees you, it’s by pure accident.

You’re not supposed to be there. That part of town, that street, that hour—it belongs to his world now, infested with the filth of curses and the chaos of the jujutsu underground. Yet there you are, a non-sorcerer in every sense of the word, standing beneath the awning of a store with a grocery bag in your hand, humming to yourself as if the world isn’t rotting around you.

Suguru notices you from across the street. He shouldn’t have. He was mid-conversation with one of his followers, something about an exorcism gone wrong—but then his eyes flicker to you. Just for a second. He looks away.

And then looks back.

There’s something about the way you move. The softness. The calm. You’re not like the others—screaming into their phones, laughing too loud, careless in a world that demands caution. No. You're not like them at all.

He can’t explain it, but for the first time in years, the word “monkey” doesn’t come to mind.

He watches you turn the corner and vanish from sight. His follower asks him if something’s wrong.

Suguru only says, “No. It’s nothing.”

But it isn’t nothing. It’s the start of the unraveling.

You don’t hear him at first.

You're crouched down, trying to retrieve a tangerine that’s rolled out of your bag and into the gutter, muttering something under your breath about how this always happens when you try to save plastic. You don’t even register the footsteps behind you until a voice—smooth and strangely calm—cuts through the night air.

“You. I haven’t seen you around here.”

You freeze. Straighten. Turn slowly.

There’s a man standing a few feet away. Long, dark hair tied back loosely into a half-bun, strands falling around his face, and dressed in traditional monk’s robes that seem too pristine for the dusty setting—he stands out, like a figure misplaced in time.

“Uh... I don’t come this way often,” you say cautiously, fingers tightening around your bag. “Just passing through.”

Suguru studies you. You can feel it—his eyes tracing every detail of your face, the slight tremble in your fingers, the way you still haven't stepped back even though you probably should. Most people flinch under his stare. Most people recognize something dark in him.

You don’t.

And that’s what makes it worse.

He should walk away. Let you disappear down that alley and never think of you again.

He hums, the sound low in his throat. “That so?” A small, unreadable smile tugs at his lips. “Not many outsiders stumble this deep into our territory. Especially not alone.”

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, a chill racing up your spine despite the sun overhead. “Didn’t realize this was anyone’s territory.”

“It is now,” he says simply, gaze never leaving yours. “You should be more careful. Not everyone around here is as kind as I am.”

The words land oddly. Kind. There's nothing particularly kind about the way he watches you—intensely, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle you didn’t know you were part of.

But still you don’t move. Something about him roots you to the spot.

“You live around here?” he asks.

You nod slowly. “Not far.”

He hums. “Strange. I’d remember seeing you.”

There’s a pause. His gaze lingers just a second longer—heavy, unreadable—and then:

And without another word, he turns and walks away—robes whispering against the ground, the sound of his steps fading as quickly as he appeared.

You're left staring after him, unsure if you feel safer or more on edge than before.

It happens at a gathering—not loud or chaotic, but something ritualistic in nature. People flock around low fires and soft chanting, incense curling into the air like ghosts. You’re there again. This time, you linger. You observe. A stranger standing just close enough to the edge to be noticed.

He sees you first.

You haven’t spotted him yet—your gaze is fixed on a group of followers weaving through the crowd, your expression unreadable. Suguru watches you from a distance, arms folded inside the loose sleeves of his monk's robe, hair half-tied and swaying as the breeze catches it.

You’re back. He doesn’t know why that matters to him, only that it does.

He makes his way toward you—not with urgency, but purpose. There’s a small pause before he speaks, voice low enough to only reach you.

“Curious little thing, aren’t you?”

You turn, surprise flickering across your face before recognition softens your features. You don’t smile—but you don’t frown either.

“You,” you say again, breath catching on the word. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“I live here,” he says, tone even. “You’re the visitor.”

You don’t answer right away. His eyes search yours—calm but calculating. As if trying to decide what box to place you in. Friend, enemy, or something else entirely.

“I wanted to understand,” you say quietly, “what this place really is.”

He tilts his head slightly. “And what do you think so far?”

“I’m still deciding.”

That gets the ghost of a smile from him. Something restrained, but present.

He takes a step closer. “It’s dangerous to linger in places you don’t understand.”

“I’ve been in worse,” you say, lifting your chin just a little.

His eyes narrow, intrigued.

He nods, gaze lingering a beat too long.

And then he turns, leaving you standing there, heart thrumming a little too loud in the quiet.

The day is warm. Quiet. The kind of peace that feels too fragile to last.

You take your time along the sidewalk, admiring how the sunlight filters through the trees, the way it paints soft gold over laughing children and weary parents sprawled across picnic blankets. For once, it feels like the world isn't spinning too fast.

But then you see him.

Under the shade of a tree, seated alone—him.

That man again.

His gaze sweeps the park slowly, dark eyes sharp and distant, like he’s cataloging each face with a kind of silent disdain. He looks… out of place. Not just in posture, but in presence—something about him hums with restrained tension, like a string pulled too tight.

You hesitate, curious. The last time you met, he intrigued you. Now, you’re drawn in by the quiet contradiction of him: monk’s robes draped over a body too tense, too sharp, to belong to someone at peace. A face too beautiful to hold that much bitterness.

Still, you walk toward him.

He notices you when you’re a few steps away. The tension doesn’t leave him entirely—but something in his expression shifts. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. His eyes lose some of that cold edge, replaced by something else.

Curiosity. Amusement. Interest.

He doesn't speak. Not yet. He's too busy trying to figure you out.

Why you? Why does the sight of you not repulse him like the others? Why does your presence settle into his chest instead of rotting beneath his skin like everyone else’s?

It can’t be your face—no, he isn’t that shallow.

It’s something else. Something quiet. Something dangerous.

And before he can overthink it—

“Hi!” you greet, voice soft and light. Your smile is easy, unguarded. Like you’ve never had to be afraid of someone like him.

Suguru’s heart kicks hard against his ribs.

“So we meet again,” you add, tipping your head to the side. “Quite the coincidence.”

He hums, eyes still locked on you, like he’s trying to read between your words.

You shift your weight slightly, brows raised, smile unwavering.

“Twice is a coincidence,” you say. “Thrice is fate. Maybe we should get to know each other.”

Something tightens in his chest. Normally, that kind of line from a non-sorcerer would have him scoffing, turning away, brushing it off with a sneer. But you’re different. He doesn’t want to turn away.

He wants to stay. To answer you. To know why you make the noise in his head quiet down for a moment.

So, for once, Suguru Geto doesn’t walk away.

Instead, he shifts, patting the spot next to him on the grass.

“Then maybe,” he murmurs, “you should sit.”

You blink at his response, a little surprised. You hadn’t expected him to entertain you, let alone invite you. But you don’t question it. Instead, you lower yourself beside him, settling into the grass, a respectful distance apart.

For a few seconds, you sit in silence.

Then, your voice cuts through it gently, “So… do you come to this park often?”

His eyes flick toward you, amused. “That’s a terrible opening line.”

You laugh. “Maybe. But it worked, didn’t it?”

A soft huff escapes him. Almost a chuckle.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “So… what do you do?”

He pauses, considering you. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m curious.”

That piques him more than it should. His gaze lingers on you—your open expression, the lack of wariness in your eyes.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

A beat of silence. Then he shrugs, eyes drifting back to the crowd in front of him. “Let’s just say I lead a very... isolated life.”

You smile. “That’s not ominous at all.”

Another quiet laugh, and you swear it’s the first time you’ve truly heard it. Soft. Warm. Like it doesn’t belong in someone like him.

“You have a name?” you ask.

He glances at you again, something unreadable passing through his expression.

“…Suguru.”

You repeat it quietly. “Suguru.”

The way it rolls off your tongue makes his chest tighten.

“And you?” he asks, almost cautiously.

You give your name, and something strange happens when he hears it. His gaze sharpens for a moment—like he’s locking it into memory. Like it’s important.

And then, like the sharpness never existed, he relaxes again, leaning back on his palms. The sunlight filters through the trees, catching on his dark hair, the soft sway of his robe.

“Do you always talk to strangers in parks?” he asks.

“Only the ones who wear monk robes and look like they have secrets.”

He huffs a quiet laugh again. “You’re strange.”

You smile, eyes on the sky. “So I’ve been told.”

And beside you, Suguru thinks maybe—just maybe—strange isn’t so bad after all.

It’s late when the fire dies down. Most of the followers have retreated to their quarters, leaving only ash and silence in their wake. Suguru remains seated, legs folded beneath him, back straight despite the exhaustion tugging at his limbs.

But he can’t rest. Not with you on his mind.

He should’ve known this would happen. Should’ve turned you away the second he saw that spark of curiosity in your eyes. Should’ve told you to run, to stay far from places like this—from people like him.

Instead, he let you stay. Let you speak. Let you look at him like that—like he wasn’t some twisted, broken thing. Like he could still be good.

Foolish.

He exhales slowly, pressing his knuckles against his lips, as if trying to physically restrain the thoughts crawling up his throat.

He doesn’t even know you. And yet—

The way your voice softens when you’re unsure. The slight tilt of your head when you’re thinking. The way you listen—not just to respond, but to understand. He remembers all of it.

Why do I care?

Inferior. Helpless. A breeding ground for curses. The root of everything he’s come to despise.

But you?

You make him hesitate.

That alone is dangerous.

Suguru’s hand tightens into a fist, jaw clenched. He closes his eyes and tries to smother the thought before it fully blooms—but it’s already too late.

What am I doing? he thinks. Why does it feel like I’m slipping back into the person I used to be?

A person who protected people like you.

He tells himself it’s weakness. A fleeting curiosity, nothing more. It’ll pass. It has to.

But when he pictures your face—gentle, confused, lit by firelight—it doesn’t feel fleeting at all.

It feels like the beginning of a crack.

One that threatens to ruin everything he’s built.

It had been happening slowly—so slowly he hadn’t even noticed it at first.

The way his feet wandered to the same park when he had no reason to be there. The way he scanned faces in a crowd, hoping—no, expecting—to see that familiar smile again. That warm, soft voice still echoing faintly in his mind days after their last meeting.

And Manami noticed.

She always noticed.

“Suguru,” her voice cuts into his thoughts one evening, when the sun is dipping behind the rooftops and the village has quieted. “You’re different now.”

He barely glances her way. “How so?”

She scoffs. “You know what I mean. You’ve been zoning out during gatherings, missing details, forgetting things. You hardly speak unless spoken to. And it’s been happening ever since—” she pauses, eyes narrowing, “—ever since you met that monkey at the ritual two weeks ago.”

There’s a sharp shift in his energy.

His brows draw in, eyes narrowing. “Don’t call her that.”

That alone is enough for her to raise her brows, a slow, sardonic smile tugging at her lips. “Oh? Her, is it?”

Suguru doesn’t respond. His jaw ticks. His posture grows stiff and tall.

“Oh, please,” Manami drawls. “Don’t tell me you’ve caught feelings for someone like her.”

His silence is louder than a scream.

Manami crosses her arms, unimpressed. “She’s a non-sorcerer, Suguru. A human like all the rest. You said it yourself—curses are born of them. They are the root of all evil. Have you forgotten?”

His voice is low. Cold. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then what is this?” she snaps. “You think you’re subtle? You think we don’t see the way you soften when she’s mentioned? The way you’ve started hesitating?”

His lips part as if to defend himself—but there are no words.

Because she’s right.

Because he is hesitating.

Because something in him fractures every time he hears you laugh, or watches the way your eyes light up when you speak. You were supposed to be like the rest. But you’re not. Why aren’t you?

And worse than that… he doesn't want you to be.

It was quiet here. Tucked away behind the village's outer border was a secluded hillside where the wind whispered through tall grass, the sun dripping gold over the landscape. A rare pocket of peace in a world Suguru had deemed far too polluted.

He stood at the edge of the hill, arms crossed, eyes far off into the horizon—but his thoughts weren't on the view.

They were on you.

Every smile, every word, every accidental brush of your fingers against his arm played like a loop in his head. He hated it. Hated the way you lingered.

He was a leader. A savior. A visionary. What would his followers think if they saw how his mind drifted—who it drifted to? A non-sorcerer. A monkey. The very thing he’d sworn to cleanse from this world.

He shouldn’t feel this way.

And yet—

“Oh,” your voice cut gently through the breeze. “I didn’t realize you would be here.”

He turned, eyes catching yours.

You were smiling—but it faltered the moment he said nothing.

He should ignore you. He should walk away. But he didn't. Couldn't. And when your expression shifted—confusion curling into something softer, something hurt—something twisted painfully in his chest.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Did I… do something wrong?”

He should’ve stayed silent.

But his voice came out low, harsh. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What…?”

“You don’t belong here,” he said, sharper this time. “Not in this part of town. Not around people like me.”

Your face crumpled with the force of the words, confusion morphing into disbelief. Why did it sting so much?

You’d only spoken a handful of times. Just simple conversations, nothing deep. So why did it feel like your heart had dropped into your stomach?

“What do you mean by… don’t belong?” you asked quietly, voice trembling.

But he didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His jaw clenched, and without another word, he turned and walked away.

Each step felt like a betrayal.

Each step felt like a dagger he drove into his own chest.

Because the further he got from you, the more unbearable the distance became.

And he couldn’t help but think—

If he looked back even once… he wouldn’t be able to leave.

The temple was quiet.

The kind of silence that weighed heavy on Suguru’s shoulders as he stood alone in the dimly lit chamber, candlelight casting flickering shadows across the walls.

He’d been pacing—he didn’t realize it until he stopped, breathing uneven, fists clenched at his sides.

What he’d said to you echoed in his mind.

You don’t belong here.

A lie. One wrapped in truth, but still a goddamn lie.

You did belong—at least, you did to him. Somehow. Somewhere between those small, accidental conversations and the way your voice softened just for him. You’d become the only thing that made him feel real. Not a leader, not a prophet, not a killer. Just… a man. A person.

And now you were gone.

He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping the strands at the roots like the pain might anchor him.

He had to push you away.

Had to protect his ideals, his vision, his purpose.

Curses wouldn’t vanish if he let himself fall for a non-sorcerer. The world wouldn’t change if he let himself be selfish.

But—

Was it worth it?

Suguru stared blankly at the altar before him, its presence suddenly meaningless. Cold. Hollow.

Was it worth pushing away the only person who made him feel human again after nearly a decade of drowning in blood and faith and fury?

His throat tightened.

And for a brief, broken second…

He wasn’t sure anymore.

You try.

Every time you see him, you try.

A soft “hi” that gets ignored. A hesitant smile met with indifference. A greeting that dies in your throat as he walks past you, eyes trained ahead like you don’t exist.

And still, you try.

Sometimes, you catch him looking. Just for a second. A flicker of something in those dark eyes before he schools his face and turns away like it never happened.

The confusion eats at you. The pain makes a home in your chest.

What did you do?

Why won’t he even look at you?

It’s maddening.

The way you keep seeking him out. Like you haven’t realized yet—like you still think there’s something good in him. Something worth reaching.

He wishes you’d stop.

He wishes he had it in him to be cruel. Maybe then you’d let go.

But you don’t. You keep smiling. You keep trying.

And it breaks something in him.

Because every step you take toward him feels like it drags him further away from who he’s supposed to be.

The day is quiet. The air hangs heavy with tension as you find him once again, standing beneath a shrine’s shaded archway.

His jaw tightens when he sees you, but he doesn’t walk away this time.

Not this time.

“I want to talk,” you say, voice soft.

He exhales slowly. “What do you want?”

You blink. Your mouth opens—then closes. You hadn’t expected him to ask that. Not after everything.

But you gather the courage. You’ve held it in too long.

“I want to know why you’ve been pushing me away,” you say, voice trembling. “I want to know what I did wrong.”

Silence.

The kind that stretches and suffocates.

Suguru’s eyes fall shut. He stays like that for a moment, shoulders stiff, hands clenched at his sides. He’s thinking. Battling.

When he speaks, it’s low. Almost a whisper.

“You didn’t do anything.”

Your breath catches.

“Then why—”

“Because I’m not the person you think I am.”

His voice hardens. Cold. Controlled. But there’s something beneath it. Something cracked.

“I used to believe jujutsu existed to protect people like you. But now… I know better.” His eyes meet yours, and they’re not empty. They’re burning. “The world is rotting because of non-sorcerers. Because of monkeys who can’t see what’s crawling around them—what we have to fight.”

You flinch at the word.

“But then you came along,” he bites out, like the confession tastes bitter on his tongue. “And I don’t know why, but I can’t hate you. I should. Everything in me says I should.”

A pause. His voice drops, quieter, more raw.

“But I can’t.”

You say nothing. The ache in your chest is too loud. His eyes flicker, searching your face for something—maybe disgust. Maybe fear.

But you’re still there.

And he hates that too.

You take a shaky breath, eyes never leaving his. He’s expecting you to run, you can feel it. Expecting you to look at him the way everyone else eventually did—with fear. With disgust. Like he’s a monster beyond saving.

But you don’t.

Instead, your voice comes out quiet. Soft. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

Suguru’s expression falters, barely. “What?”

You take a step closer. “You don’t have to do all of this—carry this weight alone, live with this hate. I—I don’t know how to convince you. I probably can’t. But I know you have it in you to see the bright side of things.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “The bright side?” he echoes, voice sharp. “There is no bright side. There never was.”

“But you used to believe in one,” you say. “You wanted to protect people. That has to mean something.”

He shakes his head, almost violently. “It meant something when I thought people like you were worth protecting. When I thought they deserved it.”

“And now?”

“Now I know better,” he says coldly. “The world doesn’t deserve jujutsu. It never did. Curses exist because of you. Because of all of you.”

“Then why not hate me?” you whisper.

That silences him.

You step closer. “If it’s so easy, if we’re all the same to you—then why not hate me too? Why not get rid of me like you would the others?”

His lips part, but no words come out.

“I’ll tell you why,” you say, softer now. “Because you don’t believe all of that. Not deep down. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be standing here trying to convince yourself it’s true. You wouldn’t be struggling so hard to push me away.”

He flinches. Barely noticeable—but you see it.

“I don’t know what happened to you,” you whisper, “or how much it hurt. But I know what I see when I look at you. And it’s not a monster.”

His hands curl into fists. He looks away. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me,” you plead. “Let me understand. Let me be there for you.”

His throat bobs with a hard swallow. You don’t know if he’s trembling or just trying not to. The silence stretches again, thicker this time.

When he speaks, it’s barely above a whisper.

“You’ll get hurt.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But maybe it’s worth it.”

That—that—makes him look at you. And this time, his eyes don’t burn with hate. They shimmer with something unbearably human.

Fear. Guilt. Longing.

And beneath it all, something he’s too scared to name.

His eyes don’t leave yours now.

There’s something in them that wasn’t there before. Something soft. Fragile. Like the dam he’s built for so long is beginning to crack.

You take one tentative step closer, careful not to startle the moment.

“Can I…?” You don’t finish the question. Your hand lifts gently, hesitantly—just high enough to reach for his. You’re not sure if he’ll take it, swat it away, or disappear entirely.

But he doesn’t move.

And that’s an answer in itself.

Your fingers brush his knuckles.

He inhales sharply.

They’re calloused, strong—but they twitch under your touch, like your skin burns him in a way he can’t fight. Still, he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans closer.

Your hands don’t fully link. They just rest there, barely touching—just enough to feel the tremble in each other’s palms.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Maybe,” you whisper, “but I think I want to.”

His eyes fall to your lips, then dart away like he’s ashamed of even thinking about it. Like he’s afraid that giving in, even for a second, would shatter everything he’s built—his ideals, his anger, his carefully crafted distance.

But he doesn’t step back.

You shift, just slightly, to be closer. The space between you is barely there now. Your faces just inches apart, the air shared, electric.

Neither of you moves in.

Neither of you moves away.

A breath. A beat. A heartbeat too loud.

And then, his voice—hoarse and low, like gravel under his tongue.

“This is dangerous.”

You meet his eyes. “I know.”

And for a moment, just one flicker of a second, his forehead tips forward. Barely brushes yours. You don’t know if it’s accidental or not—but it sends your pulse into chaos.

He lingers there. Breathing you in.

Still not kissing you. Still not letting go.

And somehow, that restraint is more intimate than anything else could be.

His hand shifts in yours, and you almost think he’s going to pull away.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his fingers tighten around yours—just for a second. Just enough to make your breath hitch. Just enough to tell you everything he’s trying not to say.

And then, he lets go.

The absence of his touch feels like a hollow echo down your spine.

“I should go,” he says quietly, almost like it pains him.

“Oh… oh, alright,” you manage, voice softer than you intended.

He takes a step back, but his eyes don’t leave yours. There’s a war in them—between the man who’s supposed to hate you and the one who just held you like you meant something.

And still, he stares.

Until he finally looks away.

Turns.

Walks.

And you’re left standing there with the ghost of his touch clinging to your fingers and a heart that refuses to slow down.

You lie awake that night, eyes tracing the ceiling in the quiet of your room, but your mind is somewhere else—with him.

The look in his eyes when he held your hand lingers like smoke in your lungs.

He’s not a kind man. Not anymore. You know that. He’s said as much, shown it in the way he speaks about the world. About people like you.

Monkeys, he called them. You.

But when he looks at you… it’s different. Softer. Torn.

And for some reason, you believe—you know—that the boy he used to be is still in there somewhere. Buried under the weight of bitterness and pain, but not gone.

You saw it.

You felt it in the way his hand tightened around yours like he was scared to let go.

There’s light in him still. Flickering. Struggling. But it’s there.

And maybe you’re foolish for thinking you can coax it out of him. That your presence—your words—could ever be enough to untangle the darkness that’s wrapped around his heart like a vice.

But hope is a stubborn thing.

And you have so much of it—for him.

Because no matter how much he pushes you away, how much venom he spits when he speaks of your kind…

You know he’s capable of more.

You’ve seen it.

And you’re not ready to give up on him yet.

He sees you before you see him.

Or maybe you notice him first—he doesn’t know anymore. All he knows is that this time, you don’t smile. You don’t wave. You don’t walk up to him like you always do, like he’s something familiar and safe.

No. This time, you look away.

You stand your ground where you are, eyes fixed on something else—anything else. Your shoulders are squared, posture firm, but he knows better than to think you’re unaffected.

Because he can feel the shift. The distance.

You’d always been the one to reach out. Always the one to bridge the gap. But not today.

And he hates the silence more than he thought he would.

Suguru stays still for a moment, watching you from across the space. The wind brushes through your hair, and for a fleeting second he’s struck by the quiet resolve in your expression.

There’s no malice there. No bitterness. Just… a calm understanding. Like you’d come to terms with something.

And that unsettles him more than your presence ever did.

Because he’s thought about you. More than he should’ve. More than he wants to. And when he walked away that day, he’d told himself it was for your own good. That he was protecting you from someone like him.

But now he wonders if he’s only succeeded in pushing away the one person who saw him for more than what he’d become.

He wants to go to you. Say something—anything. Break the silence that’s eating at his chest like acid.

But what could he even say?

That he misses the sound of your voice?

That your absence feels like a wound he doesn’t know how to treat?

That he’s afraid of what he feels when he looks at you?

Instead, he just stands there. Still. Silent.

And you don’t look back.

Not even once.

He wonders what’s changed.

Why you won’t look at him. Why you won’t smile.

But the truth is—you’ve been wondering too.

You’ve thought about him more times than you’d care to admit. About the way he looked at you that night, how his touch lingered just a little too long, how it meant something. And then how he left—cold, distant, like none of it mattered.

You realized then: he’s pushing himself away from you. Building those same walls you tried to gently tear down.

And it hurts.

Of course you still want him to change. To see the beauty in things, the warmth, the light. To remember what it feels like to hope. But you don’t want to force that change onto him. You don’t want to be a burden—a non-sorcerer girl clinging to an idealistic dream of saving a man carved from tragedy.

You know he can be better. You’ve seen it—in those brief moments when his gaze softens, when his voice lowers just for you. It’s there. Beneath all the anger and grief and resentment… there’s still something left of the kind boy he used to be.

But you want him to find that boy on his own.

Not for you. Not for anyone else.

You want him to choose himself.

So you stay where you are. You don’t look at him. You don’t approach.

Because if he wants to change—if he truly wants to be better—

He’ll come to you.

And he does. He takes a step toward you.

Then stops.

Your back is turned, your shoulders stiff. You’re not smiling. You’re not laughing. You’re not you—not the version of you he’s grown used to. And for a man like him, who once craved solitude, the silence now feels suffocating.

He swallows hard.

Why aren’t you coming to him?

Why aren’t you trying anymore?

Because deep down, he knows—he knows he doesn’t deserve it.

Not after the words he said. Not after he looked you in the eye and tore down every glimmer of connection you built between each other. He told himself it was the right thing to do. That keeping you away was protecting his ideals, his world, his mission.

But now… with you just a few feet away, still and distant… it doesn’t feel right anymore.

He stares at the back of your head, fists clenched at his sides.

He wants to go to you. To say something, anything. But what would he even say?

"I’m sorry I made you believe I cared, just to shove you away?"

No. That would be a lie.

He does care.

Too much.

And maybe that’s the problem.

You glance over your shoulder, just once—and the look in your eyes is like a dagger to the gut. Not angry. Not cold.

Hurt.

It shatters him.

Because even now, even like this—you’re not trying to make him feel guilty. You’re not yelling or demanding anything from him. You’re just standing there, brokenhearted but still kind. Still hopeful in that quiet, selfless way.

You deserve better.

And he hates that he might be the reason you stop believing people can change.

But he’s not ready yet.

So he turns.

And walks away.

And each step tears something inside him apart.

It’s raining. Hard.

Cold droplets soaking through your jacket, clinging to your skin, chilling you to the bone—but you don’t care. You just needed air. Space. Somewhere to think, to breathe, to try and forget the ache that’s been lodged in your chest since the last time you saw him.

You don’t know why you’re walking in this part of town.

Maybe you hoped to see him. Maybe not.

But the moment you do, every thought stutters to a stop.

He’s there.

Standing just under the edge of a narrow awning, soaked anyway, like he didn’t bother to move when the rain started. His hair—dark and long, tied up loosely—is drenched and clinging to the side of his face. His monk’s robe sticks to his frame, heavy with water. He looks like a ghost.

But his eyes—those weary, haunted eyes—lock onto you like you’re the only thing still real in this world.

You stop walking.

Your heart skips.

He opens his mouth, hesitates, then takes a step into the rain toward you.

“Why are you out here?” he asks, voice low, rough—like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

You shrug. “I could ask you the same.”

He runs a hand through his wet hair, exhaling harshly. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

You say it too quickly. He notices.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The rain keeps falling between you. Loud. Unforgiving. Then—

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says suddenly, his voice trembling in a way you’ve never heard. “But I thought if I pushed you away, I’d stop feeling whatever this is.”

You blink, stunned. “Suguru…”

“I’m not a good person,” he goes on, stepping closer, slow but desperate. “I’ve killed people like you. I still believe the world would be better without non-sorcerers—but I can’t make myself believe it when it comes to you.”

Your breath hitches.

He’s standing in front of you now, so close you can feel the warmth of his body even through the downpour. His fingers twitch at his sides. Like he wants to touch you. Like he’s begging himself not to.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he whispers, rain dripping from his lashes, “I just… I needed you to know.”

Your heart breaks.

And heals.

And breaks again.

You take one small step forward, tilting your head up to look at him fully.

“I know,” you whisper. “I’ve known.”

Then your hand reaches for his.

And this time—he doesn’t pull away.

His fingers close around yours, almost hesitant—like he’s still not sure he deserves this. Deserves you. But when you don’t pull away, when you step in even closer until there’s barely an inch between you, something in him cracks.

You look up at him, rain clinging to your lashes, sliding down your cheeks like tears you never shed.

He breathes your name. Like a prayer. Like a curse.

You don’t even know who leans in first. Maybe it’s both of you.

And then—

His lips press to yours. Soft. Careful. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you too roughly.

Your hands curl into the soaked fabric of his robe, gripping onto him like he’s the only steady thing in this storm. And he is. He always was, even when he pushed you away. Even when he hurt you.

The kiss deepens. It’s not perfect—it’s desperate. Messy. His lips are cold but the way he kisses you is warm. Feverish. Real. You feel every inch of his restraint shatter beneath your fingers, every breathless exhale like a confession he can’t bring himself to speak.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both gasping. Rain dripping off your faces. His forehead rests against yours.

“You should hate me,” he whispers. Broken.

You shake your head, voice trembling, “No. Stop giving me reasons to.”

And he kisses you again. This time harder. Like he’s sorry. Like he’s trying to make you understand everything he can’t say.

It’s rougher—less careful. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Etch the shape of your mouth into his soul before his ideals take him too far again. Your back hits the wall of the temple just behind you, the cold stone forgotten under the heat of his touch. His hands tremble where they hold your waist, like even now, he’s scared of crossing a line.

You pull back just enough to look at him—lips kiss-bitten and wet from the rain, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes full of conflict.

“Why do you keep doing this?” you ask, breathless. “Why do you keep coming back if you’re just going to leave again?”

His eyes close like your words cut deeper than any blade. “Because I don’t want to hurt you,” he breathes.

“Then don’t,” you whisper. “Stay.”

It’s such a simple word. But to him, it sounds like an entire world he's no longer a part of.

“I can’t,” he says, barely audible.

You swallow hard. “Because of them? Your followers? Your mission?”

His silence is answer enough.

You shake your head slowly, eyes searching his. “You’re still human, Suguru. You still have a heart. I’ve seen it.”

He lets out a shaky breath, resting his forehead against yours again, clinging to this moment like it’s the last warmth he’ll ever feel.

“I wish I never met you,” he says.

You flinch.

“But I did. And now everything’s falling apart.”

You press your hand against his chest, right over his heart. “Maybe it’s not falling apart. Maybe it’s just… changing.”

He stares at you, throat tight, and for the first time in years, he doesn’t know what he believes in anymore.

Because in your eyes, he sees something terrifying.

Hope.

His lips brush yours again—softer this time. Less frantic. Like he’s trying to apologize with every slow pull and part of his mouth. His hand cradles the back of your head, thumb grazing your cheek as he murmurs against you, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

Each kiss is a confession.

A plea.

A goodbye that he doesn’t want to say.

You feel it in the way he holds you—so tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

And then— A sound.

Far off, muffled at first. Laughter. Chatter. Footsteps on gravel.

His entire body tenses.

He freezes, then pulls back just enough to listen. His jaw clenches. You watch the warmth in his expression flicker—replaced by that practiced calm, the cold calculation of the man you know he’s tried to be.

“They’re coming,” he murmurs, glancing toward the temple entrance, voice low and urgent.

He takes your hand, leading you around the back of the temple, behind the high wall where the moss grows thick and the shadows stretch long.

When he turns back to you, he’s not just Suguru.

He’s the man hiding a war behind his eyes.

“You should go,” he says quietly, but firmly. “Before they see you here.”

You open your mouth, unsure what to say—your heart still thudding from the closeness. From everything.

“But—”

“Please.” His voice cracks. “I can’t protect you if they find out. You don’t belong in this world.”

Your breath hitches. And for the first time… you don’t argue.

You just nod, slowly, even though it hurts.

He watches you for a second longer—like he wants to memorize you. Burn the sight of you into the back of his eyes.

And then you slip away into the trees, and he turns, just as the voices draw nearer.

The mask returns. But his hands still shake.

Each time you find yourselves alone, it’s the same.

A glance across the market crowd. A brush of hands as you pass by the temple walls. A meeting in the still hours of dusk, behind shrines where the wind carries whispers and incense smoke.

And when your eyes meet—it’s over.

No words.

Just his mouth on yours, desperate and gentle all at once. Like he’s searching for salvation in the curve of your lips. Like he’s asking for forgiveness without saying a word.

Every kiss is stolen. Every moment borrowed.

There’s no room for forever here—only fragments.

But it’s in those fragments that something begins to bloom. A quiet understanding. Mutual. Unspoken. Heavy.

You both feel it.

In the way his fingers linger on your wrist after pulling away. In the way you hesitate before leaving, always turning back for one last look. In the way his voice softens whenever he says your name.

It gnaws at you both—this thing. Because it’s real. It’s there.

But the world you come from, and the world he’s built… they were never meant to touch.

Still, you touch.

Still, you reach for each other like you’re defying the very stars that set your fates.

And every time, it hurts more.

Because even love—especially love—isn’t enough to fix a broken world.

Not yet.

It’s late.

The halls of the temple are silent, dimly lit by flickering candles that cast long, wavering shadows along the walls. Outside, the world sleeps. But Suguru doesn’t.

He sits alone in the meditation room, eyes heavy, thoughts heavier.

And for the first time in a long while, he lets himself wonder.

What if?

What if he never looked down on them?

What if he’d held onto that old, crumbling ideal—that jujutsu sorcerers existed to protect, not condemn? That their power was meant to shield the powerless, not judge them?

What if he’d stayed?

Stayed beside Satoru. Beside Shoko. Beside the boy he used to be.

The one who looked at the world and believed it could be saved.

His fists curl.

Because he knows it’s too late. He knows too much now—about how vile humans can be. About how curses breed from their ignorance, their hatred, their selfishness.

And yet…

Yet there’s you.

Smiling, despite the darkness around you. Kind, even when faced with cruelty. Looking at him—not with fear, not with disgust—but something gentler. Something he doesn’t deserve.

You make him wonder if he was wrong.

And god, that scares him more than anything.

Because if he was wrong… then all of this—all the blood, the death, the conviction—was for nothing.

He exhales sharply. Runs a hand through his hair, tugging it back as if he can wrench the thoughts out of his skull.

But your face won’t leave him.

Your voice. Your warmth.

The quiet question that lingers in his chest like a bruise:

What if I had stayed?

What if I still can?

The sound of the creek is the only thing filling the silence.

Suguru walks with no real destination, hands tucked into the sleeves of his monk’s robe, the cool breeze tugging gently at loose strands of hair that fall from his half-tied bun. He’s restless again—wandering, thinking, searching.

And then he sees you.

You’re seated at the edge of the creek, knees pulled up to your chest, chin resting on them as you stare at the water. There’s a calm smile on your lips. A peaceful kind of smile—the kind that looks rare, like you don’t wear it often.

It tugs at something in him.

You glance up, sensing someone near. When you see it’s him, your eyes brighten. The smile stretches just a little more, as if his presence has shifted something inside you—like it made your quiet moment even better.

“Hi!” you say, like you’re genuinely happy to see him.

Suguru’s chest tightens.

He wonders how you can still smile like that—how it always looks like the world isn’t as cruel as he knows it to be. He doesn’t know how you do it. Or why it makes him want to stay.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he murmurs, stepping a little closer, but not sitting down. Not yet.

“Well, I live around here,” you say, nudging your chin toward a modest house visible just beyond the trees. “So I come here pretty often.”

“You live alone?” he asks, the question slipping out more protective than intended.

You nod. “Yep.”

His eyes drift toward the house, then back to you. For a moment, he says nothing. He just watches—the way the sunlight dances on your hair, the way you look at him like he’s just Suguru. Not the man who’s built a cult. Not the sorcerer who’s abandoned his own kind. Just… him.

He sits beside you.

Quietly. Close enough that your shoulders almost brush, but not quite. His eyes stay on the creek, though he’s only half-seeing it.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he says finally, his voice quieter. “It’s not always safe.”

You hum, like you’re not entirely sure if he means the world… or himself.

But you smile again anyway. “You’re here though. So I feel safe.”

And that just wrecks him.

The two of you sit there for a while.

Not talking. Just existing.

The water trickles past in a lazy rhythm, birds chirp overhead, and the wind carries the scent of earth and flowers and something sweet he can’t quite name.

Suguru doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s felt this. Stillness. Like time isn’t chasing after him with bloodied hands and whispered curses. Like the world’s not crumbling under the weight of its own cruelty.

You tilt your head toward him, watching him with soft curiosity.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” you tease lightly, bumping your shoulder into his.

He huffs a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath, but it’s real.

“I talk when I have something to say.”

“Oh? So you’ve had nothing to say this whole time?” You raise a brow at him, smile tugging at your lips again. “I’m wounded.”

He glances at you then, and for a split second—just a second—his expression softens. “You talk enough for both of us.”

“Rude,” you murmur, though you’re grinning now, looking back at the creek.

It’s quiet again, but this time it feels warmer. Like something unspoken is beginning to bloom between the silence.

Suguru speaks, his voice quieter now. “Why here?”

You blink. “Hm?”

“This place. The creek. Why do you come here so often?”

You pause for a moment, thoughtful. “Because it’s quiet. Peaceful. And it feels… safe, I guess.”

There’s a slight pull in his chest at that word again. Safe.

“And you?” you ask softly. “Why are you here?”

His lips press into a thin line.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe I was looking for peace, too.”

You don’t say anything to that. You just look at him—really look at him—and there’s something in your gaze that feels too knowing. Too tender. And Suguru finds he can’t quite meet your eyes anymore.

So you change the subject.

“I had a dream last night,” you say, voice lighter now. “You were in it.”

His head turns, curious. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling at the memory. “You were... different, though. Not that you’re not you now. Just... happier. Lighter. You laughed a lot.”

Suguru swallows.

You laugh a little. “I know. Weird, huh?”

But he shakes his head slowly. “No. Not weird.”

You tilt your head again. “Do you laugh a lot, Suguru?”

“I used to,” he says quietly, gaze fixed on the water. “A long time ago.”

There’s something in his tone—wistful, aching—and you know better than to press. So instead, you place your hand beside his on the grass. Not touching. Just close. A silent offering.

And though neither of you say anything else, Suguru lets his fingers inch just a little closer to yours.

Almost touching but not quite.

Your fingers are so close. A breath away. Neither of you move. Not really. But your proximity is louder than any words could be.

Suguru feels it—the weight of silence between you, the charged stillness hanging in the air like the moment before a summer storm. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be sitting by a creek with someone who’s slowly unraveling the iron threads he's wrapped around his heart.

But you're not doing anything. Just sitting there. Looking at the water, at the sun dancing across the surface.

At peace.

And when you turn to look at him again, your smile is small but it’s real. A quiet kind of affection behind your eyes. “You look like you're carrying the whole world on your back.”

He breathes out a quiet scoff. “Aren’t I?”

You study him for a moment, and your voice is gentler this time. “You don’t have to.”

A pause.

“You could set it down. Just for a while. With me.”

Those words. They undo him.

He looks at you then, really looks at you—soft sunlight catching the curve of your cheek, the way your lips part slightly, waiting, nervous but brave.

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second too long.

And then—

He leans in.

Slow. So slow it almost doesn’t feel real.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

You just tilt your chin up slightly, breath catching in your throat.

His forehead brushes yours.

“You make me forget,” he whispers, and his voice is rough like he’s confessing a sin.

And then—he kisses you.

It’s soft. Barely there at first. Just a gentle press of lips, tentative and careful, as if he's terrified the moment will shatter if he pushes too hard.

But when you kiss him back—when your hand comes up to rest against his chest like you’re trying to ground him—it deepens. Slow and reverent, like you're tasting the ache he's buried for years.

No one’s watching. No prying eyes. No judgment. Just the two of you, tucked away by a quiet creek, hearts trembling and wide open.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment longer, like he’s trying to memorize the way this feels.

Like peace.

“…Suguru,” you whisper.

He opens his eyes. There’s something broken and tender in them.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes your cheek, gentle as ever. “But I don’t think I can stop.”

You’re still catching your breath—and then he sees it. That look in your eyes.

Like you're not done.

And god, neither is he.

His mouth finds yours again—no hesitation this time. It’s hungrier, rougher, full of everything he’s been trying to suppress for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe since the first time you smiled at him like he wasn’t a monster.

Your fingers fist into his robes instinctively and his hand slips behind your neck, cradling you gently even as the kiss deepens, as if you’re something both sacred and dangerous.

You fall back against the grass with a quiet gasp, and he follows you down, one hand bracing himself beside your head, the other still tangled in your hair.

He's above you now. Breathing hard. Eyes flickering across your face like he's memorizing every inch of you, desperate to carve this moment into his soul.

And you don’t look afraid. You don’t look unsure.

You look at him like he’s something worth holding onto.

“Say something,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

But you don’t. You reach up instead—fingers ghosting across his cheek, and then pulling him down again.

The kiss that follows is slower. Deeper. The kind that says I’ve missed you even though you were never mine to begin with.

And it breaks him just a little.

Because in this moment, with your body beneath his, hands in his hair, lips moving like a prayer against his—

He forgets the war. He forgets the blood, the ideology, the lies he tells himself to stay sane.

All he knows is you. And he’s terrified.

Because what happens if he lets himself love you?

The dream is cruel.

He doesn’t realize it’s a dream at first. It feels too real—the heat of the sun overhead, the sharp scent of smoke in the air, and the frantic sound of footsteps pounding across temple stone.

And then—your voice.

Panicked. Calling his name.

He turns the corner and there you are. Knees scraped, arms bound by a rope, blood smeared across your cheek. You're on your knees before his followers, eyes wide in terror.

“You said she was a local,” one of them sneers. “Said she wasn’t important.”

“She’s not,” another spits. “She’s a monkey. She doesn’t belong here.”

“Wait—please—” you whisper, eyes darting around. “Suguru—?”

But Suguru doesn’t move.

He watches. Frozen. Helpless.

One of the followers raises their cursed tool.

“NO!”

The scream rips from his throat too late.

The world goes red.

He bolts upright in bed, breath ragged, sweat cold down his spine. The room is dark and silent, but he can still hear it—your voice, breaking. His name on your lips.

His hand trembles as he runs it down his face.

It was just a dream. Just a dream.

But what if it wasn’t?

What if they find out?

What if they already know?

And what if he loses you—again?

His fist clenches, heart pounding. He doesn’t know if he’s angry or terrified or both. All he knows is this: he can’t let that happen.

But how does he keep you safe…

When the real danger is him?

He shouldn't be here.

Not dressed like this—hood pulled low, robes traded for simple jeans and a dark sweatshirt, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Not standing outside your home under the cover of night, hoping no one saw him slip away from the temple grounds. Not risking everything for the sake of a face that keeps haunting his thoughts.

But here he is.

His footsteps falter at the edge of your doorstep. The lights inside are dim. The house is quiet. He could turn back now. Pretend none of this happened. Pretend the dream didn't shake him. Pretend you don't exist in his thoughts the way you do.

But then his hand rises—and he presses the doorbell.

A few seconds pass. Nothing.

Maybe you’re asleep. Maybe this is a sign. He should go—

He rings it again.

There’s a faint thump, the groan of floorboards, and then a sleepy voice muffled behind the door: “Who is it?”

The door opens slowly, and you blink against the porch light, hair tousled from sleep and an oversized t-shirt hanging loose around your frame.

Your eyes widen. “Suguru?” You stare at him—eyes squinting, confused and half-dreaming. “What are you doing here?”

Your words barely leave your lips before he pulls you into his arms—tight, desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

His hood falls back slightly, revealing that familiar face you’ve only ever seen half-shadowed in moonlight or sunlight leaking through trees. But now he’s here. Real. Shaken.

“Suguru?” you whisper against his chest, your hands instinctively curling around the fabric of his sweatshirt. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His grip only tightens, and you feel the faint tremble in his breath. That’s enough to make your heart clench.

“Come on,” you murmur, gently tugging him inside. The door closes behind you with a quiet click, but he still hasn’t let you go—not really. His arms are still around you, like the thought of breaking that contact might splinter him all over again.

It’s only after a beat of silence, standing there in your quiet hallway under the soft golden light, that he speaks.

“I had a bad dream,” he says, voice low, almost a whisper. His breath hitches. “About you.”

Your heart skips. You pull back slightly to look up at him, your hands still resting against his chest. “What kind of dream?”

But he just looks at you, eyes shadowed with something heavier than he’s ever let you see before. Like he’d rather burn the world than ever see you hurt.

Your eyes soften, your voice gentle, threaded with concern. “What happened? In the dream, I mean.”

Suguru’s jaw tenses. His breath shudders—like the thought alone is unbearable. His gaze drops, eyes flickering somewhere over your shoulder, not quite able to meet yours anymore. That vulnerability he’s always kept behind iron walls is leaking through the cracks now.

You reach up slowly, your fingertips brushing along his forearm. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. I’m here for you.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. His throat bobs with a hard swallow.

“I saw them find out about you,” he says finally, voice quiet and raw. “My followers. They knew. And I wasn’t fast enough—I couldn’t stop it.” His hands curl into fists at his sides. “They hurt you. You were crying. Calling for me.”

He opens his eyes again, and the pain there is like nothing you’ve ever seen in him.

“I woke up, and I didn’t even know if it was just a dream.”

You don’t hesitate. You wrap your arms around him again, anchoring him to the present. To you.

“It was just a dream,” you whisper. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”

He exhales shakily against your shoulder. “I don’t want to lose you,” he says, almost too quietly for you to hear. “Not you.”

Your hand rises before you even realize it, fingers brushing through his hair, warm against his skin as you cradle his cheek. His breath hitches at the contact, eyes flickering to yours, searching. For what—he isn’t sure. Reassurance? Permission? A lifeline?

“Suguru…” is all you manage to say.

Just his name.

But it’s everything.

Then you lean in—urgent, unthinking, needing—and your lips crash into his.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His arms wrap around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, like you’ll slip right through his fingers if he doesn't hold you tight enough. The kiss deepens instantly, wild and breathless, all-consuming. You feel the tension bleed from his body and into yours, your fingers slipping into his hair as his own hand settles on the small of your back, anchoring you to him.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s a confession. A plea. A breaking point.

You press closer, sighing into his mouth as he kisses you like he’s starving—like this is the first real thing he’s tasted in years. And maybe it is.

When you part for air, foreheads pressed together, his thumb brushes your jaw. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he whispers.

You smile, soft and breathless. “I think I do.”

The quiet between you lasts barely a second.

Because then he’s kissing you again—harder this time, desperate. It’s messy, teeth clashing and tongues tangling, like he’s trying to pour every unspoken feeling into your mouth. You gasp into the kiss, and he swallows it whole, backing you up until your back hits the nearest wall with a muted thud.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, your hips, like he needs you closer, like he still can’t believe you’re here and real. Your fingers tug at the fabric of his hoodie, fisting it tight, grounding yourself in the heat of him.

His mouth tears from yours only to trail down—over your jaw, your throat—hot, open-mouthed kisses that leave you trembling. His breath is ragged against your skin, lips ghosting over your pulse. You feel his tongue flick at your collarbone before he sucks gently at the skin, pulling back just enough to leave behind the faintest bruise.

“Suguru—” you breathe, chest rising and falling fast, your voice shaky with want.

He groans against your skin, his grip tightening. “I shouldn’t want you like this,” he murmurs, voice low and ruined, “but I do.”

And god, you want him too.

So bad it hurts.

You don’t even remember how you made it to the bedroom.

All you remember is the feel of his hands—urgent, reverent—as he pulled you in, lips never straying far from your skin. He kissed you like he was afraid it would be the last time. Like this moment was all he had.

Your clothes fell away piece by piece, the quiet rustle of fabric hitting the floor the only sound between the hungry kisses. His eyes never left yours, not even for a second—like he needed to memorize every part of you, every breath, every tremble.

And then he lays you down. So carefully. Like you’re something precious. His hands glide along your sides, your arms, your stomach, pausing at each new inch of exposed skin to press kisses into it—soft, slow, like he’s marking you with his mouth. Worshipping you.

He pulls back to lift his hoodie over his head, throwing it somewhere behind him. His breath is shaky when he rests his forehead against yours. “Can’t do this anymore,” he murmurs, voice breaking with the weight of his confession. “Can’t keep pretending like you don’t mean anything. Like I don’t… feel this.”

You reach up, fingers tangling in his hair, and he leans into the touch like he’s been starved for it.

“I’m gonna change,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the hollow of your throat. “For you. I want you in my life.”

And the way he says it, it doesn’t sound like a promise. It sounds like a vow.

Your breath stutters as his lips trace slow, reverent patterns down your body—each kiss a promise, each touch laced with trembling devotion. You feel his warmth everywhere, like he’s trying to brand your soul with the shape of him.

And then, through the haze of desire and something deeper, your voice breaks the quiet.

"Suguru… what about your followers? What would they do?"

He pauses, lips hovering just above your skin. His fingers twitch where they hold your hips, but he doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t stop.

“Doesn’t matter right now,” he murmurs, voice thick and ragged, “I’m gonna protect you, sweetheart. Gonna do anything for you. Won’t let anyone hurt you.”

The words land heavy. Solid.

And the strangest part is that it doesn’t feel strange at all.

To protect you—a non-sorcerer. The very people he built his new world to fight against. The ones he taught himself to loathe.

But now? Now it feels like it was always meant to be this way. It only took you. You, with that voice, that heart, that warmth—to make it bloom again. To make him remember what it felt like to care.

To love.

He presses another kiss to your thigh, then lower, lower��until his breath ghosts over the most intimate part of you. His voice rumbles softly against your skin.

“Suguru…” you gasp, a breathless, vulnerable sound.

He glances up, eyes dark and blown wide. “Yes, sweetheart?”

And then you say it.

“I love you.”

Time stops.

His lips freeze against the inside of your thigh.

You feel his breath there, hot and uneven, his hands tightening slightly at your hips as your words sink in—like he wasn’t ready for them, like he’d been craving them all the same.

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes wide, blown with something far deeper than lust now—something raw and aching. His hair is messy, dark strands falling into his face, and he’s never looked more human. Never looked more vulnerable.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice barely audible over the rush in your ears.

Your hand finds his, fingers lacing together.

“I love you,” you say again, stronger this time. With your whole chest. Because you mean it.

A beat passes, and then he’s crawling up your body, kissing you like he’s falling into you—like you’re the only thing keeping him from shattering. Every part of him shakes. His heart, his breath, his resolve.

“I love you too,” he murmurs against your lips. “God, I love you.”

His hands skim your waist, warm and steady, fingertips sinking into the soft curves of your hips like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. Your breath hitches as his lips move lower—down the center of your stomach, slow and reverent, leaving a trail of kisses that burn in the most tender way. He murmurs your name against your skin, like a prayer, like a secret he’s only ever willing to whisper when no one’s looking.

You feel his hands slide beneath your thighs, lifting you gently, guiding you closer to the edge of the bed with careful control. His grip is firm but tender, like you’re something fragile, like he’s afraid he’ll lose you if he lets go.

His mouth hovers just above where you need him most, warm breath fanning across your skin. He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—slow, open-mouthed, lingering—then another, closer. And another. He’s not rushing. No, Suguru takes his time, as if every second of this is something sacred. His hands stroke up and down your sides, grounding you, steadying you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “Could spend forever just looking at you like this.”

Your legs tremble under his touch. You whimper his name, a soft, broken plea.

His lips finally meet you where you’re aching, and your world folds in on itself.

The first lick is slow—torturously slow—like he’s tasting something forbidden for the first time, letting the flavor of you bloom across his tongue. His groan vibrates against you, deep and low in his throat, sending sparks flying up your spine. Then he does it again—slower, deeper, more purposeful.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently, and he groans again, like he loves that, like he wants more of it.

His tongue moves in slow circles, soft and rhythmic, never once breaking eye contact when you manage to look down. His gaze is molten—completely undone. You see it in his eyes—he needs this. Needs you. Not just your body but everything. Your warmth. Your love. The part of you that believed in him.

“You taste like heaven,” he rasps between kisses, and it’s almost cruel the way he says it, so tender it makes your chest ache. “Never letting you go. Not after this.”

And then his lips seal around you again, and everything else disappears—his past, his beliefs, the twisted version of justice he’s clung to for years. In this moment, all that remains is you and him.

He’s not just worshipping your body.

He’s holding on to what little light is left inside of him.

And letting you guide him back to it.

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he buries himself deeper, tongue moving in slow, precise motions—too slow. It’s not rushed. It’s deliberate. Worshipful.

He groans low in his throat when you arch into him, his name falling from your lips in a broken whisper. Suguru’s hands tighten around your thighs, keeping you in place, keeping you grounded. But his touch never feels possessive—only reverent.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against you, voice ragged and full of awe. “Let me take care of you.”

And he does.

Each flick of his tongue, each subtle shift of pressure, feels like he knows you better than anyone ever has. He listens to the way your breath catches, the way your hips jerk, the way you moan his name when he hits that perfect spot again and again. He’s learning you like a language—translating every twitch, every gasp, every soft, needy whimper.

You’re unraveling under him.

Your fingers thread tighter in his hair, hips rocking subtly against his mouth as your pleasure builds, slow and steady, like a wave pulling back before it crashes. He hums again—fuck, the vibration goes straight through you—and his tongue speeds up just slightly, chasing your release with more intent now.

“Suguru—” you gasp, chest heaving, the coil in your stomach tightening.

“I know,” he breathes, lifting his eyes to you, gaze dark and full of something deep—want, need, love. “Come for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

And that’s all it takes.

You shatter with a breathless cry, back arching off the bed, thighs trembling around his head as he holds you through it. His mouth doesn’t leave you—not right away—his tongue working you gently through the aftershocks, slower now, softer, until you whimper from the sensitivity and tug gently at his hair.

Only then does he lift his head, lips glossy with you, eyes full of a tender kind of devotion that makes your heart ache.

He leans up, kisses your thigh, your stomach, your chest—until he’s hovering over you again, one hand brushing your hair back from your sweat-slick forehead.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice hoarse, gaze searching yours.

You nod, dazed, lips parted as you try to catch your breath. And then you reach for him again—because even after everything, you still want more.

You don’t give him a chance to move. Not this time.

Your hands slide into his hair, pulling him into another kiss—messy, heated, tasting yourself on his tongue. He groans against your lips, deep and low, hands gripping your waist like he’s not sure if he wants to hold you still or pull you closer.

But you’re already moving—rolling your hips up into his, feeling how hard he is against you, how much he’s holding back.

“Let me,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “I wanna take care of you now.”

He looks at you like you just reached inside his chest and held his heart in your hands. There’s awe in his eyes. Something close to disbelief.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” You hush him with another kiss, softer this time. “Please.”

And how could he ever say no to you?

You push him back until he’s laid down on your bed. Your hands roam over his body and you watch the way his muscles flex under your fingers, every inch of skin revealed like something sacred. You trail kisses down his throat, his collarbone, dragging your nails down his chest just enough to make him hiss.

“Fuck,” he breathes, head tilting back when you nip at his skin.

You kiss lower. Slower. Tasting every inch of him, every scar, every dip of muscle like he’s something divine—your god now.

By the time you’re undoing his pants, he’s panting, watching you with a look that’s all-consuming. Like he still can’t believe you’re real. That you’re here. That you want him.

And then you’re straddling him, hovering above him, dragging yourself down slow—so slow—until he’s seated inside you and both of you are gasping, clinging to each other like the world outside doesn’t exist.

“You feel like heaven,” Suguru groans, hands digging into your hips. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

You lean down, kiss him again. Rock your hips in slow, deep rolls, your body matching his rhythm like you’ve always known it. His hands slide up your back, one slipping into your hair as his lips find your neck, kissing, sucking, whispering your name like a prayer.

“You’re everything,” he breathes. “You—fuck—you make me want to be good again.”

You ride him slowly. Sensual. Every grind, every moan, every kiss dragging the moment out. This isn’t just need. It’s something more.

Something that makes his eyes blur and his hands tremble.

Because for once, Geto Suguru isn’t drowning in hatred or vengeance or ideals.

He’s drowning in you.

You’re still moving above him, hips slow and languid, a rhythm that isn’t rushed. A rhythm that worships.

And Suguru… God, he’s unraveling beneath you.

Head tipped back, lips parted, breath ragged—like he’s holding on by a thread. Every time you roll your hips, his fingers dig into your skin just a little tighter, like he’s scared this is a dream. That he’ll wake up and find you gone.

But you’re not.

You’re here. You're real. And you’re touching him like he’s something beautiful, something worthy.

“Look at me,” you whisper, breath catching as your hand cups his cheek, thumbing the curve of his lower lip. “Suguru…”

His eyes flutter open. And when they meet yours—it’s devastating. There’s so much feeling in them. Raw. Unfiltered. Like he’s never been seen so completely.

“God, you’re so—” your voice catches, fingers splayed across his chest as you ride him, pace stuttering and breath shaking.

“So what?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing, but there’s a strain there too, like he’s barely holding himself back.

You swallow, eyes dragging down his body. “Big,” you whisper. “You’re so big…”

His breath stutters—just for a second—and then he leans in closer, lips brushing your ear. “And you still take me so well, sweetheart. Made for me, yeah?”

And then he’s kissing you again, lips brushing yours in soft, desperate strokes. “Oh my God,” he breathes against your mouth. “Fuck, sweetheart—you’re gonna ruin me.”

You rock your hips again, slow and deep, moaning into his kiss. “Maybe I want to.”

Your hands slide down his chest again, feeling the way his abs tighten under your touch. His hands travel your back, your waist, your thighs—like he’s memorizing every inch, every curve.

He’s whispering now, between every kiss, every thrust:

“So perfect.” “Don’t deserve this.” “But I’m so fucking glad you’re mine.” “Want to stay like this, want you forever.”

Each word makes your heart ache.

You kiss him again, deeper, letting your tongue slide against his as you move faster—just a little. Just enough to make him groan your name. Just enough to hear that sweet sound he only makes for you.

And when your rhythm falters—when your breath stutters, and your body tightens around him—he knows.

He knows you’re close.

He kisses you through it, hand cupping the back of your head, the other gripping your hip like he’s anchoring you both. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “Let go for me. Come on—come on, I’ve got you.”

And you do—falling apart in his arms with a whimper of his name, your body trembling as the pleasure crashes through you, hard and consuming. You cling to him, face buried in his neck, gasping through the aftershocks.

Suguru follows just after, undone by the sight of you, the feel of you, the love in every inch of you. He holds you tight as he shudders with his release, spilling into you with a moan that sounds like it comes from the deepest part of him.

Like this is everything he’s ever needed.

Like this is home.

You collapse onto the bed beside him, breathless and exhausted.

The silence stretches long between you, but there’s no weight in it—just warmth, just the sound of your breathing and his, the subtle rustle of sheets when he shifts beside you. His arm stays curled around your waist, his fingers splayed across your skin like he’s still grounding himself in the fact that you’re real. That you’re here.

“I had someone,” he says, voice quiet. “Someone who tried to stop me before I became the man I am now.”

You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze in the soft dark. He’s already looking at you.

“Satoru,” he adds. “He was my best friend. We were supposed to protect people together.”

You don’t speak. Just listen. His voice is rough, like each word tastes bitter on his tongue.

“He stood in front of me the day I walked away. Said I didn’t have to do it. That I could still turn back. That it wasn’t too late.”

His jaw clenches, barely perceptible in the pale moonlight.

“I told him it was already done. That the world didn’t deserve saving. That people like you—non-sorcerers—weren’t worth it.”

A pause. A breath.

“I wanted to believe that.”

You reach for him without thinking, brushing your fingers against his hand. He doesn’t pull away.

“But now… here you are,” he murmurs. “Saying the same things he did. Smiling at me like I’m not already ruined. Like there’s something left in me worth pulling back from the edge.”

He’s watching you with something fragile in his eyes. Something old and aching and afraid.

“Maybe I didn’t want to admit I was wrong. That the world still has people in it who are good. Worth protecting.”

Your thumb traces over his knuckles gently.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper. “You’re still here, Suguru.”

He closes his eyes, just for a second, like he’s trying to hold on to that thought. To the hope in your voice.

When he opens them again, his gaze is softer.

“I know now that I can come back,” he breathes. “And it’s all because of you.”

His forehead presses to yours, his breath warm and shaky.

“Only you.”

author's note. just realised this au means no shibuya incident and no one dies. i think.

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

2K notes · View notes

barnacles34 · 5 months ago

Text

Professional Hazard (And Blue Tongues)

Karina x Male Reader

9k words

18+ smut

'I expected you to have...'

'Grey hair? Glasses thick as tank armor?' You lean back. 'Let me guess—ancient and decrepit?'

'Something like that.' She toys with her iced americano, ice cubes clinking.

'Get that more than you'd think.'

'Can't imagine why.'

'Sure you can't.'

She straightens in her chair. 'Well? Are you going to ask your questions or what?'

'Did you have something specific in mind?'

'I thought you'd at least come prepared.' The sharp edge in her voice softens, adapting. 'After that email you sent.'

'I am prepared.'

'Do you know who I am?'

'I know you're Karina. I know you agreed to fund my little Italian vacation.' You keep your voice flat, unimpressed.

She laughs, short and sharp. 'They really sent someone who knows nothing.'

'Biographers aren't exactly growing on trees these days. Most of them are busy dying off.' [1]

'That's comforting.'

'About as comforting as your enthusiastic response to my email.'

'Ah.' She smirks. 'My monument to hubris?'

'Your words, not mine.'

'Christ, you're not exactly sunshine and roses, are you?'

'If only you knew.'

'Oh, I think I do.' She leans forward. 'People like me—we're your bread and butter. Desperate enough to take the abuse just to get that book written.'

'Quick study.'

'Experience, darling.' She draws out the last word like stretched taffy.

'If immortality's what you're after, we're off to a rocky start.'

'Not even grateful for the Italian holiday?'

You meet her eyes. 'Bribery's nothing new. Don't expect it to polish your image.'

'Tough nut to crack, aren't you?'

'I have what I need.'

'Meaning?'

'Let me put this delicately: my last subject bought me a year at New York's finest.' [2]

'Fantastic.' She rattles her ice cubes harder.

'You know what I think?' She sets down her drink with deliberate care.

'Enlighten me.'

'I think you enjoy this. The whole "unimpressed biographer" act.'

You pull out your notebook, unhurried. 'That'd make a great chapter one. "Local girl psychoanalyzes writer, lives to regret it."'

'There it is again.' Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. 'Tell me, do your subjects usually last long enough for chapter two?'

'The interesting ones do.'

'And the boring ones?'

You flip open to a blank page. 'They get a lovely rejection letter.'

'Which I didn't.'

'Yet.'

She leans back, studying you. The late afternoon sun catches the edge of her glass, throwing prismatic shapes across the table. 'You really don't care that I could walk away right now.'

'The door's right there.' You click your pen. 'But we both know you won't.'

'Because?'

'Because you didn't spend three months negotiating with my publisher just to storm off over hurt feelings.'

'Maybe I just like wasting time.'

'Maybe.' You meet her gaze. 'But people who like wasting time don't usually have a dozen designer brand sponsorships.'

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, or respect. 'So you did do your homework.'

'I always do.' You position your pen over the blank page. 'Now, shall we begin with the real questions?'

'Shoot.' She shifts in her chair, the late afternoon sun warming the cafe corner we've claimed.

'Tell me about your sister.'

Her eyebrows lift slightly. 'Not starting with the obvious questions?'

'Would you prefer those?'

'No.' She smiles, genuine this time. 'She's a nurse. Like our mom.'

'Close?'

'Very. She's the only person who still calls me Jimin.' She stirs her americano. 'Probably the only person who can get away with it, too.'

'Why's that?'

'Because she knew me when I was just the quiet kid who'd rather read in corners than talk to anyone. Before all of...' She waves her hand vaguely. 'This.'

'Still prefer corners?'

'Sometimes.' She considers the question. 'There's this tiny bookstore in Seongnam. When I go home, I still visit. They have this perfect spot by the window.'

'What do you read?'

'Whatever catches my eye. Last week it was about sharks.'

You raise an eyebrow. 'Sharks?'

'Don't look so surprised.' She laughs. 'They're fascinating. Everyone thinks they know them, but they don't, not really.'

'Speaking from experience?'

She takes a long sip of her drink instead of answering.

'You don't have to do that, you know.' You set your pen down.

'Do what?'

'Deflect. Turn everything into a metaphor.'

She meets your eyes for a long moment. 'Force of habit.'

'Bad one.'

'Says the person who's been matching my deflections word for word.' A half-smile plays at her lips. 'We're quite the pair, aren't we?'

'Difference is, I'm paid to be difficult.'

'And I was raised to be.' The words slip out before she can catch them. Her fingers tighten around her glass.

You wait.

'You're good at this,' she says quietly.

'At what?'

'Making silence comfortable.' She looks out the window. 'Most people try to fill it.'

'Most people aren't trying to understand.'

She turns back to you, something shifting in her expression. 'Is that what you're trying to do? Understand?'

'Would that be so terrible?'

'No,' she says.

'Progress.' You pick up your pen again. 'Though I've just realized something deeply troubling.'

'What's that?'

'Your americano's been empty for ten minutes, and you're still pretending to drink it.'

She glances at her glass, caught. 'Method acting.'

'Ah yes, the classic "I'm too invested in this conversation to pause for a refill" performance.' You wave to catch the barista's eye. 'Oscar-worthy.'

'Says the person who hasn't touched their...' She leans forward to peek at your cup. 'What even is that?'

'Green tea.'

'Pretentious.'

'Says the person who ordered an iced americano in winter.'

'It's barely spring.'

'Case in point.'

The barista arrives with fresh drinks. Karina raises an eyebrow at your cup. 'Still green tea?'

'I'm consistent.'

'Boring.'

'Strategic.' You take a deliberate sip. 'Can't blame caffeine jitters for whatever honesty slips out.'

'Sneaky.'

'Professional.'

'Same thing.' She stirs her new drink, ice cubes clinking. 'So what's next in your strategic interrogation?'

'Thought we agreed to drop the deflection thing.'

'Old habits. Ten seconds at a time.'

'That's oddly specific.'

'It's how I learned to swim.' At your questioning look, she continues, 'Ten seconds of courage. Then you can panic all you want.'

'Does that work?'

'Got me here, didn't it?' She gestures between you two. 'Letting a stranger with a notebook and suspiciously consistent beverage choices pick apart my life.'

'You could always run.'

'To where? Croatia?' She laughs at your surprised expression. 'What? I have dreams.'

'Of Croatia specifically?'

'Of anywhere that doesn't know my name.'

'That's rather poetic for someone who just called me pretentious.'

'I contain multitudes.' She mock-bows in her seat.

'Walt Whitman now?'

'See? You're not the only one who can be insufferably well-read.'

You make a show of writing something down.

You flip to a fresh page. 'Tell me about Croatia.'

'Nothing to tell. Just a place.'

'There are plenty of places that don't know your name. Why that one?'

She traces the rim of her glass again, a habit you've started to recognize as her thinking gesture. 'Have you ever seen those old coastal towns? The ones with narrow streets and buildings that look like they're having conversations with each other?'

'Been to a few.'

'I want to get lost in one.' She looks up. 'Properly lost. No GPS, no itinerary. Just... walking until my feet decide to stop.'

'Most people want to be found.'

'Most people haven't spent years being findable.' The sharpness in her voice surprises both of you. She softens it with a smile. 'Sorry. That sounded more dramatic than intended.'

'Don't apologize. It's the first time you've stopped performing since we sat down.'

'I haven't been—' She stops. Laughs. 'Okay. Point taken.'

'Progress. Again.'

'You're keeping score?'

'Always.' You tap your notebook. 'It's kind of the whole point.'

'And how am I doing?'

'In being honest or deflecting?'

'Both.'

'You're averaging about fifty-fifty.'

'Generous scoring.'

'Strategic encouragement.'

'You're good at that.' She stretches slightly. 'Making people think they're in control of the conversation.'

'Are you not?'

'Please. We both know you've been steering this ship since you sat down.' She pauses. 'Though I will say, you're the first interviewer who hasn't asked about my routine yet.'

'Your routine?'

'You know. "What time do you wake up? What's your skincare regimen? How many hours do you practice?" That whole song and dance.'

'Would you like me to ask?'

'God no.' She grins. 'But I'm curious why you haven't.'

'Because routines are what people do. I'm more interested in who they are.'

'And who am I?'

'Still figuring that out. But I know you crack your knuckles when you're nervous.'

She stops mid-crack, caught. 'Observant.'

'Professional hazard.' You lean forward. 'Tell me something real. Not about routines or schedules or practices.'

'Like what?'

'Like what you think about at three AM when you can't sleep.'

She's quiet for a long moment. 'Sometimes I forget what my natural speaking voice sounds like.'

'What do you mean?'

'You spend so many years modulating everything—your voice, your laugh, your reactions—until one day...' She shrugs. 'One day you catch yourself using your "public" voice to order coffee at 3 AM in an empty convenience store, and you realize you can't remember what you used to sound like.'

'And that bothers you.'

'Wouldn't it bother you? Losing something that fundamental without even noticing it was gone?'

'Is that why we're here? Trying to find it again?'

'Maybe.' She smiles, but it's different now. Unpolished. 'Or maybe I'm just tired of having "public" and "private" versions of everything.'

'Including your voice.'

'Including my entire existence.'

'Right.' You snap your notebook shut. 'We're getting gelato.'

—

[1] The suspicious rate at which biographers are "dying off" has become something of an industry joke. Three prominent biographers mysteriously retired after attempting to write about a certain K-pop company's CEO. Totally not suspicious.

[2] The Plaza Hotel, to be specific. Said subject was a tech billionaire whose autobiography mysteriously never made it to print. The hotel suite, however, maintains legendary status among New York's housekeeping staff for its impressive collection of empty green tea bottles and rejection letters.

—

She blinks. 'What?'

'We're walking.' You stand, gathering your things. 'Unless you have somewhere to be?'

'Are you actually asking, or is this another strategic move?'

'Both. Neither. Whatever. Does it matter if there's gelato involved?'

A genuine laugh escapes her. 'Fair point.'

The early evening air hits your faces as you step outside. She pulls on a cap—more habit than disguise.

'Left or right?' you ask.

'You're the one who lives here.'

'Technically, I've been here three days.'

'And you already know where to get gelato?'

'First thing I do in any city. Professional secret.'

'Ah yes, the biographer's handbook. Chapter One: locate ice cream immediately.'

'Chapter Two: never reveal your sources.' You turn left. 'Unless they're wearing a questionably large cap and hiding from their own voice.'

'Low blow.' But she's grinning. 'Also, my cap is perfectly sized.'

'For what? Smuggling library books?'

'That's... oddly specific.'

'Says the person who just quoted Walt Whitman in a cafe.'

You find the gelato place tucked between a bookstore and a vintage shop. The owner, an elderly Italian woman, lights up at your approach.

'Due?' she asks.

'Sì,' you reply, then turn to Karina. 'What's your poison?'

She studies the flavors intently. 'What's the most unusual one?'

'Professional or personal answer?'

'There's a difference?'

'Professional would be something elegant. Personal...' You point to a vivid blue flavor. 'That one tastes like your childhood imaginary friend made a pact with a Smurf.'

She doesn't hesitate. 'Two scoops of that, please.'

'Really?'

'What?' She raises an eyebrow. 'Scared of a little blue tongue?'

'More scared of what my editor will say when the interview notes are stained cerulean.'

Ten minutes later, you're both leaning against a stone wall, gelato dripping in the warm evening air. Her tongue is, indeed, impressively blue.

'Yah! Why are you taking a picture?”

'Your tongue. I need photographic evidence for my editor.'

She complains, ‘self-respecting people would’ve walked a long time ago.’

‘And let me guess-’

‘Correct. Take a picture if you want.’

'Pulitzer worthy.' You take another bite of your considerably more dignified pistachio. 'So tell me about the sharks.'

'You're still on that?'

'You brought up marine biology in a cafe and then mysteriously changed the subject. I'm invested now.'

'There's nothing mysterious about it.' She licks a drop of blue from her knuckle. 'I just think they're neat.'

'That's the worst deflection yet.'

'Fine.' She pushes off the wall, starting to walk. 'When I was younger, I used to think they were lonely.'

You fall into step beside her. 'Sharks?'

'Mm. Always swimming, never stopping. Everyone afraid of them.' She shrugs. 'Stupid kid logic.'

'And now?'

'Now I think they're just... misunderstood.' She grins. 'That was terrible, wasn't it? Like a bad movie line.'

'Terrible. But honest.'

'You and your honesty fetish.'

'Says the person who just admitted to emotionally relating to sharks.'

She snorts, nearly dropping her cone. 'When you put it that way—'

'Oh, I'm definitely putting it that way. It's going in the book.'

'Absolutely not.'

'Chapter title: "The Shark Whisperer”. I can see it already'

She tries to hip-check you, but you dodge, protecting your gelato. 'I'm revoking your creative license.'

'Too late. The mental image of baby Jimin crying over shark documentaries is seared into my brain.'

'I did not cry over—' She stops. 'Okay, maybe once. But it was a very sad documentary.' [1]

The sun is setting now, painting the cobblestones gold. You pass a street musician playing something soft and acoustic.

'Your sister know about the sharks?'

'Of course. She bought me the books.' Her smile turns fond. 'Still does, actually. Sends them to me randomly.'

'Recent ones?'

'Last week.' She finishes her cone. 'She has... interesting timing.'

'Interesting timing?'

'Mm.' She wipes her hands on a napkin. 'Right after I told her about the interview. She sent me one about great whites. Said something about facing fears.'

'Subtle.'

'About as subtle as your interview techniques.' She eyes your notebook, still tucked away. 'Not writing anymore?'

'Memory's better when I'm walking.' You tap your temple. 'Also, harder to write about blue tongues while walking.'

'Still blue?'

'Devastatingly so.'

She sticks her tongue out at a passing window, checking her reflection. 'Oh god, it's worse than I thought.'

'Crisis?'

'Please. I once had to perform with my hair half-green because of a dye mishap. This?' She gestures to her mouth. 'This is nothing.'

'Half-green?'

'Not going in the book.'

'Already mentally drafting the chapter.'

She groans. 'I'm starting to regret this whole walking thing.'

'Because of the blackmail material or the exercise?'

'Both. Neither.' She pauses by a small fountain. 'It's just... nice.'

'Nice?'

'Yeah.' She sits on the fountain's edge. 'No schedule. No plan. Just... walking and talking and eating questionably colored gelato with a stranger who probably thinks I'm having a quarter-life crisis.'

'Are you?'

'Having a crisis or eating gelato?'

'Now who's deflecting?'

And she pauses again, caught.

She dips her fingers in the fountain water, watching the ripples. 'Maybe I just wanted one normal evening. One conversation that wasn't prepackaged and pre-approved.'

'Mission accomplished, I'd say. Your tongue is literally blue.'

That startles a laugh out of her. 'You're never letting that go, are you?'

'It's going to be a running metaphor throughout the book. Deep, meaningful parallels between blue gelato and the human condition.'

'You're terrible at your job.'

'I'm excellent at my job. I got you to walk around Rome with blue teeth.'

'Is that the measure of success?'

'For this chapter? Absolutely.'

The street lamps are starting to flicker on, and the air has that peculiar Roman evening warmth that begs for a drink.

'Know any good bars?' she asks, as if reading your mind.

'Thought you'd never ask[2]. Fair warning though—my Italian's terrible.'

'Better or worse than your interview skills?'

'Much worse. But I can order Aperol Spritz in seventeen different ways.'

'Useful life skill.'

'More useful than relating to sharks.'

She shoves your shoulder lightly. 'One more shark joke and I'm leaving.'

'No, you're not.'

'No, I'm not.' She grins. 'Lead the way, worst Italian speaker.'

You find a tiny place tucked away from the main streets. The kind tourists don't know about, with mismatched chairs and a bartender who looks old enough to have served Caesar himself.

'Due aperol spritz, per favore.' You ask.

The bartender raises an eyebrow. 'Americano? Il tuo italiano è buono!' (your Italian was… apparently… good.)

'Peggio,' you say. 'Giornalista'

(‘Worse. Journalist.’)

He laughs, already reaching for glasses. Karina slides onto a barstool, looking around with genuine curiosity.

‘He seems pretty impressed by your Italian.’

‘Oh trust me—he wasn’t. He just wanted to be nice. That’s all. The inflections are quite easy to catch.’

‘Alright, whatever you say. Giornalista—.'

You grin at her cute prod.

'How'd you find this place?' She asks; needless to say, she likes it here.

'Got lost my first night here––five years ago. It was either come in or keep pretending I knew where my hotel was.'

'And?'

'Woke up knowing exactly where my hotel was. And how to say "I'm sorry" in Italian.'

She laughs. 'That bad?'

'Let's just say there's a reason I stick to green tea now.'

The drinks arrive, vivid orange against the dark wood of the bar.

'To blue tongues,' you raise your glass.

'And bad Italian,' she clinks hers against it.

—

[1] The documentary in question was "Blue Planet II." Her sister still has the receipt for three boxes of tissues and a plush shark from the aquarium gift shop. The plush shark now sits in her studio, wearing a tiny version of her debut outfit. Her company has tried to mass-produce it twice. She's vetoed it both times.

[2] You were never this humble about your Italian until you talked to an Italian nonna. "Qui giace la dignità di un giornalista" (Here lies a journalist's dignity).

—

'Speaking of bad decisions—'

'We weren't.'

'We are now. Tell me about the green hair incident.'

'Absolutely not.' She takes another sip of her spritz. 'Some secrets I'm taking to my grave.'

'Come on. Half-green hair? There's got to be a story there.'

'There is. A great one. You're still not hearing it.'

'I'll trade you.'

'Oh?' She turns on her stool to face you fully. 'What could you possibly have that's worth my green hair story?'

'Remember when I said I learned to say sorry in Italian?'

'The plot thickens.'

'Let's just say it involved a fountain, three angry nuns, and a very patient carabinieri.'

She nearly chokes on her drink. 'You're making that up.'

'Want to bet your green hair story on it?'

'You know what?' She signals the bartender for another round. 'Fine. But if you're lying, you're buying drinks for the rest of the night.'

'Deal.'

'And no taking notes.'

'Now that's just cruel.'

'Professional hazard,' she mimics your earlier tone, then grins. 'Okay, storyteller. Dazzle me.'

The bartender sets down fresh drinks, and you lean in conspiratorially. 'So picture this: my first night in Rome, about five years ago...'

'Wait.' She holds up a hand. 'We need to establish stakes. If this story doesn't involve all three elements—fountain, nuns, and police—you're not only buying drinks, you're telling me where you actually learned to say sorry in Italian.'

'Counter-offer. If my story checks out, I get the green hair story plus whatever happened at that music show in Busan.'

Her eyes narrow. 'What music show in Busan?'

'The one you just reacted to.'

'That's... that's actually impressive.'

'Five years of professional nosiness at work. Deal?'

She clinks her glass against yours. 'Deal. Now stop stalling.'

'Right. So. Five years ago. I'd just finished an interview with this ancient countess at the bar. I mean, it’s the bar. Who else gets to interview a countess at a bar? That’s like crazy Bourdain-level shit right there.’

She nods along. 'Of course you did.'

'Anyway, she invited me to this wine cellar...'

'Oh no.'

'Oh yes. And mind you, I was already quite drunk. And she was very, very insistent about hospitality...'

Twenty minutes and much laughter later, you finish: '...and that's why you should never trust Google Translate to help you apologize to Italian law enforcement.'

She's wiping tears from her eyes. 'The part with the cat—'

'Hand to god. Still have the scars.'

'Okay.' She catches her breath. 'Okay, you win. That was worth it.'

'Time to pay up. Green hair. Spill.'

'Can I have one more drink first?'

'For courage?'

'So I can blame it on the drink.' She waves at the bartender. 'I still can't believe you showed those nuns your interview notes to prove you weren't a street performer.'

'Desperate times.'

'Speaking of desperate...' She takes a fortifying sip of her fresh spritz. 'Ever tried to fix green hair with grape juice?'

'No.'

'Don't.'

'There has to be more to this story than grape juice.'

'Oh, there's so much more.' She settles into her seat. 'Picture this: it's two hours before a live broadcast. I'm sitting in the makeup chair, feeling pretty good about life. You know, like that particular moment where your face just… shines. Then my stylist walks in, takes one look at my hair, and just... screams.'

'Screams?'

'Full horror movie scream. Turns out the hair dye we used was... let's say "not exactly approved by management."'

'Let me guess. DIY job?'

'Worse. My sister's friend's cousin who "totally went to beauty school."'

'Oh no.' You snort, taking a hefty drink of the remaining spritz.

'Oh yes. So there I am, one side of my head this bizarre shade of swamp-thing green, and everyone's running around like it's the end of the world.'

'Which is when someone suggested grape juice?'

'Actually, that was my idea.' She grimaces. 'I'd read somewhere that grape juice could neutralize green tones. What they failed to mention was that this works for swimming pools, not hair.' [1]

'So what happened?'

'Picture a very expensive wig, three cans of dry shampoo, and me trying to explain to the camera director why I couldn't turn my head to the left.'

'Did it work?'

'Define "work."' She takes another sip. 'If by "work" you mean "did I make it through the broadcast without anyone seeing the grape-juice-tinged disaster," then yes. If by "work" you mean "did I maintain any dignity," then absolutely not.'

'The fans never found out?'

'Oh, they did. Someone leaked a backstage photo three months later.' She grins. 'By then I'd managed to fix it. Mostly.'

'Mostly?'

'My sister still has a strand of green hair she saved. Threatens to post it whenever I don't answer her calls.'

'Effective.'

'Terrifying.' She raises her glass. 'Your turn again. What's the worst interview you've ever done?'

'Besides this one?'

She kicks your chair. 'I'm delightful and you know it.'

'You're something, all right.'

Three drinks in, and the bar's emptied enough that her laugh echoes a little too loudly. She covers her mouth, but it's too late – the old bartender shoots them an amused look.

'Sorry,' she stage-whispers.

'For what? The laugh or the fact that it just shattered three ancient Roman wine glasses?'

'Shut up.' She kicks your chair again. 'I don't always laugh like that.'

'Let me guess – there's a public laugh and a private laugh?'

'There's a whole taxonomy.' She sits up straighter, counting on her fingers. 'Interview laugh, variety show laugh, fan meeting laugh, oh-that's-not-actually-funny-but-you're-my-sunbae laugh—'

'Please tell me you're joking.'

'I wish.' She slumps forward, head on her arms. 'I once had to attend a laughing seminar.'

'A what now?'

'A laughing seminar. Professional instruction on the art of the public giggle.' Her voice is muffled against her sleeve. 'There was a PowerPoint and everything.'

'You're making this up.'

She lifts her head. 'I spent three hours learning about laugh-adjacent breathing techniques while a woman named Mrs. Kim hit a triangle every time someone laughed "inappropriately."'

You stare at her. She stares back.

'That's the most horrifying thing I've ever heard,' you say finally.

'I know.' She dissolves into another too-loud laugh, this one definitely not seminar-approved. 'God, I can still hear that triangle.'

'Is that why you're here?'

'Getting drunk with a biographer in Rome? No, that's just poor life choices.'

'Speaking honest truths to a stranger?'

'Oh.' She straightens up, but there's still something loose in her smile. 'Maybe. Or maybe I just really needed to tell someone about Mrs. Kim and her triangle of terror.'

'Triangle of terror.' You shake your head. 'That's going in the book.'

'Along with the blue tongue and green hair? You're really painting a picture here.'

'It's called character development.'

'It's called character assassination.' She signals for water. 'What else are you putting in there?'

'Wouldn't you like to know.'

'Actually, yes. That's literally why I'm asking.'

'Fine.' You pretend to flip through your mental notes. 'Chapter One: Sharks and Empathy—'

'Oh my god.'

'Chapter Two: The Grape Juice Incident—'

'I'm starting to regret everything.'

'Chapter Three: Laugh Taxonomies by Aespa’s Karina—'

'I hate you.'

'Chapter Four: Why Romans Don't Trust Her With Fountains Anymore—'

'That was you! That was literally your story!'

'Was it? Everything's getting a bit fuzzy.' You tap your temple. 'Must be all that professional memory I was bragging about earlier.'

She throws an olive at you. The bartender clears his throat.

'Sorry,' you both say in unison, then look at each other and start laughing again.

'You know what's really funny?' she says, once you've both contained yourselves.

'Mrs. Kim's triangle?'

'Besides that.' She accepts the water from the bartender. 'This is probably the worst interview you've ever done.'

'Oh, definitely.'

'And yet...'

'And yet?'

'It's the most honest one I've given.' She pauses. 'God, that sounded way less cheesy in my head. Must be the spritz talking.'

'Blame it on the altitude.'

'We're at sea level.'

'Blame it on the sea level.'

'You're ridiculous.' She's grinning though. 'Is this how all your interviews go?'

'Usually there's less gelato. More gravitas.'

'Gravitas is overrated.'

'Says the woman who attended a laughing seminar.'

'Hey, I'll have you know my triangle-approved giggle is very dignified.'

'Prove it.'

She sits up straighter, arranges her features into something serene, and lets out the most artificial laugh you've ever heard. It's so pristine it's almost disturbing.

'That was horrifying.'

'That was three hours of professional training.'

'I'm concerned about your profession.'

'Join the club.' She relaxes back into her natural posture. 'We have meetings every Tuesday. Bring your own triangle.'

The bartender slides over the check with a knowing look. Last call came and went without either of you noticing.

'Well,' you say, reaching for your wallet. 'I suppose this is—'

'Wait.' She puts her hand on your arm. 'I have a confession.'

'Another one? The green hair wasn't enough?'

'I read your book.'

'Which one?'

'The one about the ballet dancer who quit to become a motorcycle mechanic.'

'Ah.' You sit back. 'And?'

'And I maybe, possibly, completely changed my mind about this whole interview when I read it.'

'Because?'

'Because...' She fidgets with her empty glass. 'You made her sound so... human.'

'As opposed to?'

'A story. A headline.' She traces a pattern on the bar top. 'Most people would've written about the scandal, the career she "threw away." But you wrote about how she names each motorcycle she fixes. How she still dances in her garage at midnight.'

'Ah. That.'

'That.' She looks up. 'Is that why you haven't asked me about any of it?'

'Any of what?'

'Don't play dumb. The headlines. The speculation. The—'

'The triangle-approved responses you've probably rehearsed?'

She laughs, caught. 'Something like that.'

'Here's the thing about headlines.' You start gathering your things. 'They're usually more interesting than the truth.'

'And what's the truth?'

'That sometimes people just want to eat blue gelato and tell embarrassing stories in a bar and talk a biographer’s ears off.'

She kicks your chair again, barely noticeable. 'Even if those stories end up in a book?'

'Especially then.' You stand, offering her jacket. 'Though I might need you to sign a waiver about the grape juice incident.'

'I knew it! You are using it!'

'Chapter title: "The Perils of Amateur Chemistry: A Cautionary Tale."'

She shrugs on her jacket, shaking her head. 'You're impossible. That AI flair was so intentional'

'Says the woman who legitimately attended a laughing seminar.'

'I'm never living that down, am I?'

'Not as long as I have a functioning memory and a publishing contract.'

The Roman night is warm as you both step out of the bar. She stumbles slightly on the cobblestones.

You offer a hand which she quickly grabs.

'Don't you dare put that in the book,' she warns.

'Put what? The graceful interpretation of contemporary dance you just performed?'

'These streets are rigged.' She steadies herself. 'Also, your hotel's this way.'

'How do you know where my hotel is?' You’re not exactly one to remember locations, probably the reason you were able to gain such a repository of ridiculous stories.

'Because it's my hotel.' She grins at your expression. 'What? You think you're the only one who does research?'

'I'm concerned about your stalking tendencies.'

'Says the person who somehow knew about the Busan incident.'

'Professional hazard.'

'You really need new catchphrases.'

The walk is quiet, comfortable. Rome at night feels like a different city—all golden lights and shadow play. A cat watches you pass from its perch on a window sill.

'Don't even think about it,' she says.

'About what?'

'Making some poetic comparison between me and that cat.'

'Please. I'm a much better writer than that.'

'Sure you are, shark whisperer.'

You reach the hotel entrance. She pauses.

'Well,' she says. 'This has been...'

'Professionally catastrophic?'

'I was going to say enlightening.'

'That too.'

The hotel lobby is all marble and soft lighting. Your footsteps echo slightly.

'I have a balcony,' she says suddenly. 'And a really pretentious coffee machine I can't figure out.'

'Is this a cry for help with appliances?'

'This is...' She fidgets with her room key. 'This is me not wanting the interview to end yet.'

'The interview ended somewhere between blue gelato and the triangle story.'

'Then what's this?'

‘Believe or not, some people just like having fun on their Italian vacation.’

‘Haha. Very funny.’

'This is...' You pretend to consider. 'Two people who might be friends if one of them wasn't writing a book about the other.'

'Complicated.'

'Professional hazard.'

'There's that phrase again.' She presses the elevator button. 'Come on. I'll teach you how to laugh properly.'

'With or without the triangle?'

She steps into the elevator. 'Depends on how good you are at making coffee.'

'Now who's the impossible one?'

The doors start to close. She holds them.

'Coming?'

You join her in the elevator. 'For the record, I'm excellent at coffee.'

'For the record,' she mimics your tone, 'that's going in the book.'

Her room is on the top floor, with a view that makes you understand why people write poetry about Rome.

'So,' she says, fighting with the coffee machine. 'This button makes it angry, and this one makes it hiss.'

'Move over, amateur.' You reach around her to press a combination of buttons. The machine purrs to life.

'Show off.' But she's smiling as she heads for the balcony. 'Bring your coffee wizardry out here when it's ready.'

The balcony is small, just enough room for two chairs and all of Rome spread out below. She's curled up in one chair, shoes off, looking more real than she has all day.

'Your professional opinion,' she says as you hand her a cup. 'Is this going to be a good book?'

'Depends.'

'On?'

'On whether you let me keep the shark metaphors.'

She laughs into her coffee. 'You're never letting that go.'

'Never.' You take the other chair. 'Though I might be willing to negotiate.'

'Terms?'

'Tell me something nobody knows. Something that won't make the book.'

She's quiet for a moment, looking out at the city lights. 'I sing in the shower.'

'Everybody knows that.'

'No, I mean...' She turns to face you. 'I sing the old songs. The ones I used to practice when I was just some kid in Bundang with a dream too big for my voice.'

'And?'

'And sometimes I still feel like her. That kid. Especially at night, in foreign hotels, when the city feels like it belongs to someone else.'

'Especially at night, in foreign hotels, when the city feels like it belongs to someone else.'

'Wow.' You let out a low whistle. 'That was incredibly profound.'

She groans, covering her face. 'I know. I'm sorry. That was straight out of a drama script.'

'I was thinking more indie movie. You know, the kind where people have deep conversations on balconies in Rome at—' you check your watch, '—one in the morning.'

'Oh god, we're living a cliché.'

'Complete with coffee and two chairs overlooking Rome.'

'Quick,' she straightens up, 'say something unprofound. Save us from ourselves.'

'My tongue is still kind of blue.'

She peeks at you over her coffee cup. 'Mine too.'

'Better?'

'Much better.' She slouches back in her chair. 'Though now I'm thinking about how this would look in your book. "Two idiots with blue tongues have existential crisis on expensive balcony."'

'Don't forget the part where one of them somehow charmed a coffee machine.'

'And the other one used to sing in her shower.'

'Still,' you correct. 'Present tense.'

'Still,' she admits. 'But if you put that in your book, I'll have to tell everyone about your fountain incident.'

'Mutually assured destruction. I like it.'

She yawns, then looks embarrassed. 'Sorry. It's not the company, it's—'

'The five Aperol Spritzes?'

'That. And the emotional toll of remembering Mrs. Kim's triangle.'

'Tragic backstory,' you nod solemnly. 'Very character-building.'

'Speaking of character-building...' She sets down her empty cup, turns to face you fully. 'This is usually the part in your books where something significant happens.'

'Is it?'

'Mm. Chapter twelve. Always a turning point.'

'You really did read my books.'

'I told you that already.' She's closer now, somehow. 'What I didn't mention was that I figured out your pattern.'

'My pattern?'

'The way you write moments like this.' Her voice is soft. 'When everything gets quiet, and the city's just background noise, and someone's about to do something...'

'Inadvisable?'

'I was going to say brave.'

'Brave is just inadvisable with better PR.'

She laughs, barely a whisper. 'You're deflecting again.'

'Professional—'

'If you say "hazard" right now,' she cuts in, 'I'm going to throw you off this balcony.'

'That would be...'

'Inadvisable?'

'I was going to say "terrible for my book sales."'

She's definitely closer now. 'Your book sales are about to be the least of your problems.'

'Because you're going to kiss me or throw me off the balcony?'

'I haven't decided yet.'

'Well,' you murmur, 'for what it's worth, one of those options would make a much better chapter twelve.'

She closes the distance between you, smiling against your lips. 'Professional hazard.'

You and Karina shared an instant spark that neither of you had experienced. Ever. The moment that first tease left your mouth, it was over.

—

[1] The sentiment of grape juice being able to eliminate green tones turned out to be completely unfounded. Despite this, wine sommeliers around the world have complained about Koreans with their distinct accent asking about grape juice’s ability to change colors.

—

The kiss tastes like coffee and Aperol and something sweet—probably the remnants of that ridiculous blue gelato. It's soft and quiet and perfect, the kind of moment that would sound made up in a book.

She pulls back slightly. 'Your editor's going to hate this.'

'Definitely.' You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. 'Completely unprofessional.'

'Thoroughly inadvisable.'

'Absolutely perfect for chapter twelve.'

She kisses you again, and Rome keeps existing below, indifferent to your small moment of magic. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimes twice.

'You know,' she whispers, 'this is usually where you'd write something profound about the city of love.'

'That's Paris.'

'Now who's deflecting?'

'Still you. But I'm starting not to mind.'

She laughs, soft and real—definitely not triangle-approved—and rests her forehead against yours, your breaths intermixing, plenty of intimate eye contact. 'Is this going in the book?'

'What do you think?'

'I think...' Her fingers find yours. 'I think some stories we get to keep for ourselves.'

'I think some stories we get to keep for ourselves.'

'Even after I charmed your coffee machine? That's cold.'

She makes a face. 'You're really bringing up coffee machine prowess right after—'

'Right after you thoroughly compromised my journalistic integrity? Yes.'

'Your journalistic integrity was compromised the moment you let me eat blue gelato.'

'My journalistic integrity was compromised the moment I saw you.' You run your thumb across her knuckles.

Her eye contact wavers and her voice falters, ‘Gosh, you’re such a player.’

‘Flirting has never come so easily before.’ You whisper against her mouth.

'Oh really?'

'Obviously.'

'Which was?'

'Stare at that blue tongue some more.’'

She shoves you lightly. 'You're terrible.'

'And yet.'

'And yet.' She settles on your lap, the forehead to forehead more natural now. 'So what happens now?'

'Well, traditionally, this is where I'd write something about dawn breaking over the eternal city—'

'Please don't.'

'—with golden light catching on ancient stones—'

'I'm begging you to stop.'

'—as two souls find each other under the Roman sky—'

She claps a hand over your mouth. 'I will literally pay you to not finish that sentence.'

You kiss her palm before she pulls it away. 'Isn't that technically bribery?'

'Add it to the list. Right after "compromised journalistic integrity" and "suspicious coffee machine expertise."'

'Speaking of compromising situations...' You glance at your watch. 'It's almost three AM.'

'Worried about your reputation?'

'Worried about your triangle-approved schedule.'

'Bold of you to assume I ever sleep.' She stands, stretching. 'Want to order terrible room service and you can tell me about all the other journalists you've scandalized?'

'That's a very short list. Very enticing regardless.’

'Good.' She holds out her hand.

The night air has turned cooler, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from somewhere below. Her fingers trace the collar of your shirt, hesitant but deliberate.

'What happened to room service?' you murmur.

'It can wait.' Her eyes meet yours, playful but wanting. 'I'm conducting my own interview first.'

This kiss is different from the first. Slower, more certain. The city hums below, a distant lullaby of late-night cars and echoing footsteps. When she sighs into the kiss, it's the softest sound you've ever heard. When she falters against your forceful touches, it’s the softest you’ve ever felt a woman.

She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against yours. Her heartbeat is quick under your palm.

'Better than chapter twelve?' she whispers.

You catch her lips again in answer, feeling her smile. The wind stirs her hair, sending strands brushing against your cheek. Everything smells like jasmine and coffee and her perfume—something subtle and expensive that you'll probably spend the rest of your life over-romanticizing.

Because that’s what Karina deserves.

Rome stretches out endless and ancient around you, but all you can focus on is how perfectly she fits against you, how real she feels away from cameras and crowds.

Your lips find hers in the dark, soft and certain now. Her fingers trail up your neck, threading through your hair, pulling you closer. There's an art to the way she kisses—deliberate yet desperate, like she's trying to memorize the moment. Your hands settle at her waist, and she makes a small sound that you know you'll remember forever.

Her lips part against yours, deepening the kiss until you're both breathless. The balcony railing presses into your back—when did that happen?—and her body is warm against yours, fitting perfectly in all the spaces between.

Her teeth graze your bottom lip, teasing. You respond by trailing kisses along her jaw, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. When you find that sensitive spot just below her ear, her sharp intake of breath makes you smile against her skin.

She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. Her lips are slightly swollen, her careful composure beautifully undone––hair spread everywhere, but just so that she looks ethereal rather than messy. You brush your thumb across her lower lip, and she catches it with her teeth, playful even now.

‘Still planning to put this in chapter twelve?’ she whispers, breathless.

Your answer gets lost somewhere between her lips and… her lips.

Her laugh vibrates against your lips when you finally break apart. ‘We should probably—’

‘Go inside?’ Your lips find the curve of her neck again.

‘I was going to say breathe.’ But her head tilts back, giving you better access. Her pulse flutters under your kiss like a trapped bird. ‘Though inside works too.’

You pull back just enough to look at her. Hair mussed, eyes bright, that perfect composure completely undone. She's never looked more beautiful than she does right now, with the city lights catching in her eyes and her professional smile nowhere to be found.

‘What?’ she asks, suddenly self-conscious.

‘Just thinking.’

‘About?’

‘How this definitely isn't going in the book.’

Her smile turns mischievous. ‘No?’ Her fingers trace patterns on your chest. ‘Not even a little mention of how you completely forgot about journalistic integrity the moment I—’

‘Then chapter 12 would entirely consist of me betraying my profession in order to catch your lips with my teeth.’

‘Wow. You’re bad. Like, real bad.’

‘You have no idea.’

You cut her off with another kiss, swallowing her laugh. Her hands slide up your chest, around your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. The world narrows to just this: her lips on yours, her body pressed against you, the soft sounds she makes when you run your fingers down her spine.

‘Inside,’ she murmurs against your mouth. ‘Before we really give Rome something to talk about.’

You let her lead you through the balcony doors, both of you stumbling slightly, unwilling to break contact. She tastes like promises now, like stories yet to be written. Her hands are everywhere—your hair, your chest, your face – like she's trying to read you by touch alone.

‘Wait,’ you manage, as her lips find that spot below your ear that makes thinking difficult. ‘What about—’

‘If you mention room service right now,’ she warns, ‘I'm going back to my original plan of throwing you off the balcony.’

‘I was going to say 'what about your triangle-approved image?'’

She pulls back, eyes dancing. ‘Oh, that?’ Her lips brush yours, teasing. ‘I think we thoroughly compromised that at the first meeting.’

"Professional hazard?"

"Shut up," she whispers, and kisses you again.

She sighs into your mouth, a soft, vulnerable sound that makes your heart stutter.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp, sending shivers down your spine. You walk her backward until she's pressed against the wall, her body arching into yours.

You trail kisses down her neck, learning her— the spot beneath her jaw that makes her gasp, the curve where neck meets shoulder that makes her fingers tighten in your hair. Her pulse races under your lips, a rapid drumbeat that matches your own. When you find a particularly sensitive spot, her sharp intake of breath is the sweetest sound you've ever heard.

She tugs you back up to her mouth, kissing you like she's trying to tell you something words can't capture. Her lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. One of her legs hooks around yours, pulling you even closer, and you groan into her mouth.

Her hands frame your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks as she kisses you deeper, slower, like she's trying to memorize every second. You respond in kind, pouring everything you can't say into the kiss—how beautiful she is like this, how real, how perfectly she fits against you.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen. You rest your forehead against hers, sharing the same air, neither of you willing to move away.

"Still thinking about the book?" she murmurs, voice husky.

You answer by catching her lower lip between your teeth, gentle but playful, and feel her smile against your mouth.

Her smile against your mouth turns into a soft laugh. "I'll take that as a no."

‘Take it as whatever you want.’ Your lips find her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. ‘I stopped thinking about the book long ago.’

She hums contentedly, her fingers tracing patterns on the nape of your neck. ‘Good.’ Her other hand is still tangled in your shirt, keeping you close. ‘Because I have a confession.’

‘Another one?’

Instead of answering, she kisses you again, slow and deep. Her tongue traces your lower lip, and you respond by pressing her further into the wall, swallowing the small sound she makes. One of her legs is still hooked around yours, and when she shifts slightly, the new angle makes you both gasp.

‘That wasn't a confession,’ you murmur against her lips.

‘No?’ Her teeth graze your earlobe. ‘I thought I was being pretty clear.’

Your hands slide to her waist, steadying her. She's intoxicating like this, all careful control abandoned, her public persona nowhere to be found.

‘Jimin,’ you breathe, and feel her shiver at the sound of her real name.

Her response is to pull you closer, kissing you like she's trying to say everything without words. Her lips are soft but certain against yours, and you lose yourself in the feeling—the warmth of her body, the subtle scent of her perfume.

The city continues its nighttime symphony outside, but in here, the only sound is your shared breathing and the soft, desperate noises she makes when you find that sensitive spot on her neck again.

She pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light, her gaze is soft, unguarded. Her thumb traces your lower lip.

‘What?’ you ask, voice rough.

‘I'm trying to decide something.’

"Whether to throw me off the balcony? Because I thought we moved past—"

She cuts you off with another kiss. Her hands cup your face, holding you there as she explores your mouth with a thoroughness that makes you dizzy. You respond by feeling her firm and perky ass.

‘No—,’ she moans when you break apart for air. ‘I'm trying to decide if this is real.’

Instead of answering, you trail kisses down her neck, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. Her head falls back against the wall, giving you better access. When you reach her collarbone, she makes a sound that's half-sigh, half-moan.

‘Feels real enough,’ you murmur against her skin.

Her laugh is breathy, unsteady. ‘I meant—’ She gasps as you find a particularly sensitive spot. ‘I meant this. Us. This whole night.’

You lift your head to look at her. Her lips are swollen from kissing, her carefully styled hair a mess from your fingers. She's never looked more beautiful.

‘If you think I did all of this for the fun of it, you’re clearly missing something.’

‘A gear in the head?’

‘Definitely—’

‘Gosh, how do I allow this sort of petulance?’

‘Because it’s me.’

‘You’re a player.’

‘Only for you.’ You catch her lips, even more wanting—and she forfeits it all.

You pick her up, mussing up her perfect outfit, mussing up her perfect lips. And you finally throw her against the bed.

‘You’re really roughing up Prada’s global ambassador.’

‘And ambassador to a dozen other brands worth billions—couldn’t care less.’’

She smirks, and her arms open, waiting, pliant, obedient.

You rip off your buttoned shirt, tear off your pants; now, there’s truly no way of going back.

‘Wow. That scar is a lot larger than I imagined.’ She’s referring back to the scar that you received during that drunk haze of a night.

‘It was dark. Might’ve even been a lion.’

‘Mm. Heroic. Come here.’

Now, who could ever resist that?

You rip off her clothes, each layer even more decadent than the other. And then, she was there. bra barely containing her breasts, and a layer of dampness along her sexy panties.

‘That was expensive, by the way.’

‘I’ve got a payment plan on course.’

‘Mm. Enlighten me.’

You pull her panties to the side.

She’s dripping wet, nectar spooling right on her pink core. A glorious sheen that makes you stare far longer than you should’ve. She’s red-faced at this point, and her forearms cover most of her sight, and yet, she doesn’t move, doesn’t retreat.

The first lick you place, just a brush against her engorged clit, crumbles every self-regulated triangle-approved behavior she has. Two pants turn fifty, one lick crumbles everything. Her hips coax you in ways gymnasts can’t even replicate, and of course, you oblige.

Soft licks, teases around her outer lips, swollen from all the anticipation and arousal; tonguing at her inner lips, just at the crux of her clit, gets her screaming in ways her deep voice would never register; and above all, she’s orgasming, squirting, losing every pretense in favor of her built up lust.

‘Oh~fuck—’

Her fingers find purchase in your hair, and she softly pulls you in—rides your face like it was all that she ever desired: her eternal wish.

‘Ohmygod! Imcumming!’ Her voice turns mousy, and her pupils go back in pure pleasure, coupled with hip movements thought impossible: this was the greatest pleasure of her life.

You grab her chin, squeeze softly, her cheeks molding to your grasp, and you press a soft kiss right on her kiss-bruised lips. You let her taste herself on your tongue.

‘Good. Right?’

And she nods. A complete personality switch from the playfulness she displayed earlier. Delicate.

Her hands land on your boxers as she melted into your kiss. Once you felt her palm your cock, you groaned right in her ear. She starts softly, stroking. But her strokes grow more all-encompassing as you press harder into the kiss.

‘Fuck. You��re so good for me.’

She mewls back, on the gradient slide of unadulterated pleasure.

Softly, you release your shaft from the boxer. And you press your cock right on her core. Feeling the wet heat, the sticky nectar that pooled to a mindbreaking degree.

‘It goes without saying.’

‘That I’m head over heels for you?’

You grin, ‘Well, that too, but you’re hopeless.’

‘Maybe if we weren’t so compatible.’

You grab a breast, palming it, ‘Well that, that too, goes without saying.’

She smiles, so warmly, every trace of everything else melted off her face––the sort of smile you’d never forget, and the sort of smile you’d want to wake up to… forever.

Finally, you press into her, and her wet heat envelops you, enough to make you groan, enough to make her moan like there’s no greater pleasure––because really, there’s nothing else.

Her pussy clings onto you, a wet suction that is immeasurably soft and yet, a vacuum-seal-like tightness that gets you groaning after every thrust.

Her arms cling to you, and her eyebrows knit, her small face full of emotion—all of it processing how good you fuck her.

‘Oh god. Would it be bad that I want you to declare to the world that you own me?”

‘Chapter 12—’

She cuts you off, ‘Something along the lines of: “Chapter 12: Karina is my fuckslut”’

‘I don’t tolerate Karina disrespect.’ You say, truthfully.

‘Even if it’s by myself?’

‘Especially for that case, sweetheart.’

‘Oh… you’re too good.’

‘You’re blind.’

Most popular idol in the world, and… she’s hopelessly down bad for you.

‘If I’m blind. Then you don’t have eyes—complete darkness.’

‘We’re two of the same.’

‘I’m your biggest fan.’

‘We’re two of the same.’

‘I love you.’

‘You have a way with words, Karina.’ You reply, pressing soft kisses along her jaw, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, thrusting into her harder, sharing breaths.

‘You’ve inspired me.’

And you lock lips with her, the thrusts were becoming a blur, and her moans music to your ears—it was all just… heaven.

There was no technique. Nothing too purposeful. It was all just pure affection, pure love guiding all your actions. And the fact that she’s cumming again was no coincidence.

‘Oh. My. Fucking. God!’ Her head goes back deep into the pillow and you follow suit. Pressing soft kisses that covered every square centimeter of her beauty, kisses that made her giggle even in her most orgasmic moment of her life.

‘If I knew anything that felt like this… I’d be doing it constantly.’

‘Well—’

‘That’s right,’ Karina gives a soft peck, ‘I have you now.’

You could feel her heartbeat, her skin precipitate, and her cunt pulse—it’s just heaven at this point.

‘Are you trying to convince me to follow you?’

‘2 years, finest in New York.’

‘Deal. Though you overbid a little.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Means anything you want, dear.’

The soft slick of her cunt made it nearly frictionless, just pure pleasure for both parties. Her hips gave way every time, an identity of its own, retreating when you thrust too hard, giving in when softer.’

‘Is this like a sugar mommy situation?’

‘Two words I never expected you to say.’ You both share a laugh.

‘I mean that’s what it is right?’

‘A power imbalance? Please. I can get you to buy a New York penthouse for me at this point.’

‘Well. You’re right. But—’

You bring your cock to the hilt inside of her, whilst stealing her lips for a deep kiss. She moans and mewls and gasps—music to your ears. You change positions. You bring her legs to your shoulders, and you begin kissing along her ankle while thrusting inside of her.

This time, you can see the full view. How her breasts bounce against the thrusts, how her slick has completely covered your entire length at this point, and how beautifully her face is framed between it all.

Her mouth’s agape, moaning, giggling intermittently with the jokes shared through eye contact. You bite softly at her ankle then down her legs, to her calves, then releasing her legs altogether to kiss her again.

She fits perfectly against you, small and delicate but the perfect puzzle piece under you. She’s absorbent, aware of your needs, placing soft kisses along the ridges of your eyebrows, rubbing away the day’s fatigue along your jaw and temple.

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

‘I didn’t hear.’

You press against her, feeling her breasts spool against your chest, bring your thrust to the hilt, the wetness of her loins pressed against yours, all of them vividly apparent. ‘I love your beauty. I love your humor. I love how clever you are. I love how authentic you are. And I could continue on and on but I’m about to cum.’

Karina sniffled, ‘God, I was about to cry and then you say that.’ She softly smacks your shoulder, ‘just cum inside me and let’s cuddle.’

You oblige, the thrusts turn into a haze of pure pleasure, a desperate moment chasing the local maxima, and finally, you burst inside of her. Cum spooled, all inside her, and she moans so gracefully, staring at you with all the affection in the world.

‘We can worry about this tomorrow.’ She palmed your jaw.

‘Of course.’ You fall onto her, cuddling her.

Both of you are a mess, gross, bodily fluids spread everywhere, and yet, the both of you fell into a deep slumber.

A/N: I'd like to apologize for switching up styles so much (But if you enjoyed this dialogue-heavy work, then lmk!)

#smut #kpop smut #fanfic #male reader #kpop #aespa #aespa smut #karina smut #aespa karina

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kathaynesart · 11 months ago

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RECOMMENDED MUSIC: Boom Goes the Donnie-mite (Mikey/Donnie/Raph vs the Sweeper) - "The Red Zone" by Mitsuoto Suzuk

Finally! This big ol' update is out! Thank you everyone for your patience. Hopefully the next one will be much sooner since I already have parts of it drawn out. We're nearing the end of... uh, lets just call it the "Holiday Special."

BEGINNING || PREVIOUS || NEXT MASTER POST

Also couldn't get this out of my head as I was drawing this update:

Mikey's Ninpo:

Donnie's Ninpo:

Anyways, have some long winded deep dive into Donnie and Mikey's powers below the cut:

Mikey and Donnie are interesting because I feel these two are the ones who truly reach the full potential of their gifts. Mikey isn't there as of yet in the story but he will be by the end of Replica. Where as Leo and Raph had a lot of other things to focus on (leading, planning, and dealing with colony drama), Donnie and Mikey took the time to really focus on themselves and their abilities, choosing to distance themselves from a lot of the drama that the leaders of the family have to deal with.

Mikey's Ninpo

I always found it interesting how Mikey's weapon (the kusari-fundō) seemed to be the only one that had an actual entity within it. While they never address it, it's obviously some sort of flame demon/spirt. It could also help explain Mikey's dramatic increase in strength knowing that the spirit of his weapon is literally able to help him lift boats and buildings. I like to think that Michelangelo formed a connection with the spirit, especially since he looked so crushed when the Shredder destroyed his weapon in a way that none of the other brothers had.

Shortly after the victory against the Shredder I imagine he comes across his destroyed weapon in their old lair (probably while they're gathering thing to move to their new home) and he can still feel the sad little remnants of the spirit clinging to life in the broken object. I feel this would be the turning point that would lead to Mikey's first dip into the mystic arts. He would bring the weapon back to Barry for guidance and Barry would explain that the spirit has been bound to the object for so long that it can no longer survive on its own. Normally it could be bound to a new object but in it's dying state it would not be able to attach properly.

It is Mikey who suggests that maybe if it was bound to a person rather than a inanimate object then maybe the person could help the spirit survive. Barry admits the reasoning is sound and after much coercing finally helps guide Mikey through the steps, allowing the fire spirt to bind itself to Mikey's being (think something similar to Howl and Calcifer in Howl's Moving Castle, sans the heart losing). At first, not much seems to comes of the union. The spirit is still too weak to be able to do much of anything, but over time it regains its strength in tandem with Mikey and is able to gift him with similar abilities, becoming an integral part of Mikey's arsenal as well as a new spiritual connection to the Hamato family line. That is what we get a peek of here in this chapter.

Donnie's Ninpo

Just as Mikey canonically will go through a sort of mystic and spiritual enlightenment, Donnie too will have a similar scientific revelation. It always bothered me in the movie that his "firepower" (guns, missiles, etc) never seemed to be very effective, or at least not as effective as his ninpo designed physical constructs (such as the jet packs and the giant drill he uses on both the Krang and the Shredder). I believe this is because with physical constructs like a drill he has a sense of the weight and velocity needed to understand how hard it should hit. This properly visualized weight and damage is then made into reality.

But it's different with firearms and bombs. Up until the movie he really doesn't have a lot of real world experience around artillery and projectiles outside of what he sees on the internet and film. He does not know how a megaton bomb should feel or even the damage a bullet can create. And don't get me started on the the imaginary ray guns he uses on the Krang that don't seem to even leave a scratch. Without proper knowledge it's all just a light show. Very flashy, but not very effective.

When he realizes this it comes as a heavy hit to Donnie early on in the war. ...However, if there's one thing he is going to be exposed to in this bad timeline it's weapons of all kinds, even mass destruction. He will know exactly how it feels to get hit with a bullet, the blast of a projectile, and even an atomic bomb. He will then take this real world knowledge and recreate it in the same realistic way he can recreate his battle shell or drill staff. It takes a lot of work, sweat, and literal blood but this exposure to the worst of mankind's creations will help make him a walking encyclopedia of destruction. Over time, he will no longer need to make actual constructs of "bombs" or "bullets." He'll be able to simply create the pure raw power desired, no radiation or nuclear fusion needed. That's exactly what we see here.

We also see his use of shields, which is just as important as his ninpo arsenal. Specifically his ability to create shields to contain his own blasts, dramatically reducing the collateral damage from his own weapons of mass destruction. This makes him highly effective at taking down large enemies, but the shields sap his strength even more than the weapons (for it is easy to destroy, but hard to protect and preserve). This makes him often times a liability. He's often a sitting duck after pushing himself too hard and it can take him a decent amount of time to build these heavy hitting bombs. It's a double edged sword to be sure.

NOTE: these are stories I do plan to address further in my Patreon, with proper illustrations, but I wanted to give a little taste of what to expect! Haha. Very soon....

#rottmnt replica #replica #rottmnt #kathaynesart #save rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #unpause rise of the tmnt #donnie #raph #mikey #leo #tmnt

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sketchy-scribs-n-doods · 2 years ago

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i very much ship lokius but i just KNOW ima be back in the sylkie trenches again for loki s2 bc ppl are lame and are against fucking your clone for some reason

#this is the clone fucking website idk wtf happened back in 2021 #like yea marvel is a coward for making loki's love interest a woman right after the bisexual conversation like cmon #but i personally think it's hilarious that loki immediately falls for an alternate version of himself #also the themes of loving yourself are very tasty #and all that doesn't negate how much i want mobius and loki to smooch sweetly and fuck nasty #loki has two hands and i contain multitudes #anyway this is mostly a joke ima be out here shipping sylkius bc i am enlightened like that #meanwhile im ready to get queerbaited by marvel yet another time #how much u wanna bet neither sylvie nor mobius get to kiss loki this season #i can just feel it #ima be handed a double L this season #but we stay delusional #sketchy speaks

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screampied · 1 year ago

Note

whiny toji was something i did know i needed till now🧍🏼‍♀️

now what about whiny sukuna👀👀 in his domain👀👀

-👁️

riding sukuna until he whines ★

warnings. fem! reader, unprotected, whiney sukuna, brief choking, praise, dirty talk, premature ejaculation, mdni.

“oh, fine. do your worst, brat,” the curse would snicker with a sly grin stretching against the very curvature of his crimson pink lips. he’s not taking you serious.

then again, it’s rare for the sukuna ryomen to ever take you, his precious favorite human serious. you enlighten him so to speak, he cherishes the time he spends with you . . including the moments where you’re entrapped with him in his own domain. you’ve never had the patience though, as you’re straddling his lap— you’re hovering over his leaky tip and his fangs poke out into a mere, wicked smile. “givin’ up now? what’s with the hesitation, little one?” and a hand of his runs down the sides of your waist, a smirk pulling against his lips once he hums in amusement. “scared ‘m gonna stretch you out like last time?”

��no one’s scared,” you reply with an eye roll, pressing a chaste kiss against his mouth. sukuna hums, multiple eyes flickering at you, taking in your beauty. a broad hand of his slings around your waist before giving it a tight squeeze. “just shut up ‘n lie back, ‘kuna.”

“not likin’ that attitude,” he grumps—crossing the upper part of his two arms before parting his legs. he was very beefy, the size difference between the two of you was almost adorable. another broad hand of his brings you closer, a hiss snakes from his lips as he feels your folds gradually swallow his frenulum. “but like i said, do your worst. i’ll be nice ‘n try not to fall asleep, heh.”

you were always annoyed with the smug, complacent smile that’s forevermore printed onto the curses lips. as you’re taking him down, it feels warm. he groans at the way your gummy walls easily clamp down against him.

easy, two of his hands grab onto your waist before he leans back against his throne. “you’re too cocky for your own good sometimes, ‘kuna,” and his eyes flicker at you. the nerve, he’d let you get away with saying almost anything to him.

the only reason why—simply because you were known as his favorite,

“and you’re too bratty for your own good,” he replies back with wit, the roughness in his tone making you throb. sukuna was so close to your ear, you inch closer until you’re met with his chest. perfectly toned pecs—soft toned pecs rubbing against your own, you can feel how perky his nipples were, brushing against the fabric of his cottony made kimono. inside his domain— it was dark, a mere scary glimpse of his own perfect little world. and yet, here he was sharing it with you. he sucks his teeth, your cunt holds him tight, refusing to let go and his head goes back. “my, perhaps you’ve missed me a lot more than you let on.”

so cocky,

with an eye roll, you lean in for a kiss— the demon returns it, a free hand of his wrapping around your throat whilst you’re taking him fully.

your hips start to sway, picking up a decent rhythm before you moan in his mouth. he skims a thumb down the aisle of your throat, feeling the vibrations that’s continuously flees from your voice. so harmonic, the sweet sounds you always made for him was a song he’d constantly listen to if he could.

“ugh,” he grunts, pulling away—a glimmering mixture of his own saliva departs away from your lips as he stares at you blankly. he’s almost in disbelief. with your arched hips in mere constant rotation, a raw groan rips from his lips. he finds it cute. the small prints of your fingers wrap around his throat, never once leaving eye contact. “you’re a kinky little girl today, huh. got no right choking m-me.”

sukuna’s voice falters all of sudden, he lets off a sharp gasp. the plump tip of his dick abruptly thumping against a specific spot deep inside of your swollen cunt. it hits it again, and again, and again,

he’s getting a bit sensitive. sukuna’s caught off guard—especially with how not only you’re choking him gingerly, but resuming to grind your sweet hips against him. so warm, you ride his lap like it’s your own personal throne. the middle parts of his back slumps against his royal seat as he gnaws on his lip. his breaths become significantly heavy and he already sounds like he’s running out of breath.

languidly,

your hips stutter against him—the hefty size of his cock rummages all through your pussy before you conceal yet another moan.

sukuna groans, feeling you lean up close to pierce the crowns of your teeth into the depths of his skin. lolling out your damp tongue, you savor the curses taste. he tastes sweet, almost salty but of course candied. a hand of his reaches near the outer cusps of your ass before a long nail of his carved light against your skin. moaning yourself, you seep your tongue canines into his neck to leave a mark and he grunts— yet this time, instead of his usual gruff tone that booms throughout his infamous, blood-curdling domain, for the first time in centuries or ever, sukuna ryomen whimpers.

it slips out of him easily, and oh is he embarrassed once he sees the dumbfounded expression of yours turn into straight smugness.

the whine spews from his ancient lips and he’s not fond of this feeling at all— he’s so deep into the very pits of your lower abdomen, making you feel every staggering inch of his cock and he sucks his teeth in desperation. a finger of yours slips through his kimono, trailing against his sculpted abs before you lean up close to him to whisper.

“aw,” you giggle with a hum shortly following, the rupture his dick makes within you almost gives your legs a good enough excuse to give up. running a finger down his undercut, you’re met with the meanest glare. “all that sass and you’re a whiny baby, sukuna,” and you thrust your hips against him further. the massive weight of his balls slapping back against your skin and he tenses up. broad shoulders raise before he whines again, although this time— it’s from feeling you kiss near the neglected corner of his lips. “who knew the king of curses could be a cute whiner.”

“s-shut up, mortal,” he groans, the sensitivity of his cock repeatedly thrashes against your g-spot. sukuna’s too caught off guard that he doesn’t even realize he ends up finishing early.. too early,

thick stringy ropes end up shooting into you, it’s warm and sticky. you pause your hips—relishing in the hotness of his spurts of seed that trickles its way into you. sukuna’s spasming out underneath you, it’s so cute to see. his jaw hangs open, the most lewdest whimpers leaving out of his throat before the veins that run within his bulky arms pulse. he’s seeing everything but the vision; the vision of you straddling his lap, staring into his eyes with that cheeky grin.

submissive sukuna,

you lean in to kiss him whilst he’s still dumping an entire gluey load of cum into you. such satiny ropes, he sloppily returns the favor, breath heavy and sheets of sweat pouring down the sides of his face. “goodness,” and his voice— it’s not as confident as it was, you hear a slight tremor in it and it’s cute. he’s still heaving, clingy walls continue to grip around him before his fangs nip at your bottom lip. “a-ah, got me soundin’ like a worthless p—”

“shh, baby,” you purr, and he’s like puffy folding in your hands. once cruel and sadistic eyes—now all droopy and full of heart eyes at your very expense. he calms down from the strokes of your hand against his face and he shudders, trying to pull into another kiss but you stop him. he whines again. “oh, does the demon want another kiss?”

he nods, that same cute grump of a scowl returning to his lips before he sighs. “give me a kiss.”

“not when you ask like that, ‘kuna,” you tease and his eye twitches, again— the nerve..

he feels the way his cum starts to ooze out between your thighs and he glowers at you. such a baby, you lean in to kiss his pout away and his arms go back to being crossed. “say pretty please.”

“perish.”

“fine kiss yourself,” you roll your eyes with a sly smile, preparing to make your way off the demons lap until he holds you tight. two strong arms grabbing you,

so clingy . .

with a scoff, he looks away—a cute tint rising to his face before he mumbles. “give me a kiss, pretty please.”

“that’s a good demon,” you giggle, slinging your arms around him before pressing him a soft, wet kiss. he whines at your taste, wanting nothing more than to savor it. his tongue curls against yours before he feels your hips start to pick up again. he moans, his left thigh twitching before your bouncing accelerates. he was still so sensitive, and yet here he was, like dough mending underneath you.

a while after, you pull away and he pouts— hiding his face into the very crook of your neck. sukuna snarls, nibbling against your skin before whining out a low, raspy, “i- i need a minute,” and he hides more of his sweetened whimpers into your neck. “don’t move. we’re gonna stay like this, f-fuck.”

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muniimyg · 6 months ago

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♡ 01: maybe it's all in my head

series m.list // taglist

note: hihiii ,, this jk has been rotting my mind for a while now ... time to ruin urs !!! enj the tension ,, (i miss being toxic) lmk what u guys think of their dynamic tho <3 excited to share their little story with u ,, mwaaaa

warnings: oc and jk are mean in this fic !!! pls don't comment being whiney abt it :') !!! oc overhears jk fucking someone ,, jealousy ,, banter

“oh. it’s you.”

leaning against the doorframe, jungkook looks at you half disgusted and half disappointed. his arms are crossed with one eyebrow lifted. he blocks your entrance.

“now, now,” you reach over and ruffle his hair. he shifts, dodging your touch. “don’t be so excited. i know your boring life just waits for my presence—oh. i get it. were you expecting someone? usually you’re thrilled to see me.”

jungkook’s expression doesn’t shift, though there’s a faint glint in his eyes.

“thrilled is reaching, don’t you think?”

“is it?”

“yeah.”

you roll your eyes, brushing past him with a teasing smile.

“right, so… which are you today? mr. save the dolphins or professor chem?”

jungkook scoffs at you.

“at least my marine conservation interest and organic chem major help the world. what’s your major again? yap-conomics or bitch-ology?”

“help the world?” you almost burst into laughter. “god, you are such a nerd.”

“nerd? i don’t know about you, but some of us care about—”

“yeah, yeah,” you wave him off. “are you waiting for a nobel peace prize or something? holy shit, jungkook. learn to relax a little. you’re so serious. it’s cute, really… but only when you aren’t so anal about it.”

cute?

jungkook feels his chest tighten.

before he can make a comeback, taehyung calls you to the living room.

“___? is that you? stop trying to edge jungkook! get in here! i need your data for our paper!”

you stick your tongue out at jungkook before turning away and rushing to the living room. your lips curl into a smug grin as you saunter off, leaving jungkook muttering something under his breath. you catch him rolling his eyes just before you disappear around the corner, a small flicker of triumph igniting in your chest.

the living room is warm, filled with the faint hum of taehyung’s lo-fi playlist and the smell of old books—his aesthetic, no doubt. taehyung is sprawled on the couch, laptop open, an arm draped lazily over the cushions. his wide grin grows wider when he sees you.

“i’m here!”

“finally! come on, genius. enlighten me,” he says, patting the seat next to him.

you plop down beside him, legs folded under you, your laptop balanced precariously on your knees. “genius? are you sucking up to me because you didn’t do your part of the project yet?”

“yup,” he says, shrugging, his head tilted lazily to the side. “if you don’t send me that data tonight, though, i might call you something less flattering.”

you laugh, the sound soft and light, and lean into the cushions, already pulling up the necessary files.

“your boyfriend’s in a mood.”

“he always is when you’re around,” taehyung teases. “he only answered the door cos he thought it was his student. your face must’ve pissed him off.”

chuckling at his response, you ask another question.

“where are the guys?”

“they’ll be home soon,” taehyung answers. “said they wanna eat out tonight after jungkook’s tutoring session. you coming with?”

“sure,” you agree.

then, the two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm, bouncing ideas back and forth while taehyung clicks through your notes, occasionally throwing in a sarcastic remark or two that makes you nudge him with your elbow.

a few minutes later, you hear an unfamiliar laugh and footsteps approaching.

jungkook strides in, casual and confident as always, but this time a girl is trailing after him.

she’s pretty.

the two exchange a few murmured words before jungkook’s eyes flicker briefly in your direction. he raises a hand in a lazy acknowledgment, the girl following suit, and say hi. taehyung nods at them and then they’re gone—slipping upstairs in the blink of an eye.

the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut echoes faintly.

and then, it rings in your ear.

you blink, your fingers frozen mid-typing on the keyboard. something gnaws at your chest, sharp and unfamiliar, leaving a bitter taste at the back of your throat. taehyung, oblivious, scrolls through your notes, muttering about formatting errors.

but you… you’re somewhere else entirely.

what was that?

no name?

no introduction?

did she think you were taehyung's girlfriend or something? that jungkook was all for her?

oh god.

there's a weird twist in your stomach. it feels like a prickle of irritation spreading across your skin like an itch you can’t scratch… you shake your head, trying to brush it off, but the image of jungkook—smirking as usual, leaning casually against the banister, that girl so effortlessly fitting into the space beside him—lingers, stubborn and unshakable…

what the fuck.

it’s not like you and jungkook are close.

you’re frenemies, at best.

unsure of when it started exactly—but it’s been happening long enough for it to be routine and well-known in the friendgroup. you two are the kind of people who throw jabs at each other during game nights and compete to see who can make the snarkiest comment without crossing the line. you’re always caught in this stupid cycle of one-upping each other, all for the entertainment of the group. sometimes, more for yourself. life gets boring pretty quickly, and jungkook is your fastest source of entertainment.

yet, why does it feel like you’ve just lost some unspoken game?

your chest tightens, and you lower your gaze to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys. you bite the inside of your cheek, a nervous habit you’ve never been able to kick… this icky feeling begins to take over and your mind races with reasons as to why.

maybe it’s because jungkook’s always been so good at getting under your skin.

maybe it’s because, for all his teasing and relentless bickering, there’s this… comfort in knowing that he’s always there, right across the table, firing back at you like he knows exactly how to push your buttons.

and maybe that’s the problem.

because now, with someone else upstairs, laughing at something he probably said, you’re starting to realize that you might actually care more than you thought.

maybe you care because you’re not the one in his room he’s trying to make laugh.

after a few hours pass, everyone’s stomach beings to grumble.

for the past 20 minutes, the guys have been begging you to go up and call jungkook down. he hasn’t been answering their texts and all argue that if they go up and knock; he’ll just ignore them.

… but if you do it…

he’ll answer.

even if it’s just to insult you.

you glance up at the clock, already mentally calculating the time. you're not really in the mood for another round of back-and-forth with him, but you know they'll just keep pushing you.

"please, please, please, ___!” taehyung cries, pouting. “i really need pad thai. like… so bad. like, i might die. please go get jungkook.”

you hesitate, your eyes flicking to the stairs.

jungkook hasn’t come out at all. you don’t want to disturb anything and he’s a total grumpy-head when his study time is disrupted… what more if it’s a tutoring lesson? the last time you went up there, it ended with you calling him a dumbass and him tossing a pillow at you.

“i think you guys can go get him this time," you say, turning your attention back to your phone, pretending to scroll through a message.

"oh come on," jimin presses. "you know, at the end of the day… he only really listens to you." his voice drips with exaggeration, but it only makes you roll your eyes.

"yeah, that’s true…" hobi adds with a playful smirk, leaning back into the couch. "you’re like his… little bitch or something."

you shoot them both a look. “you think i’m his bitch?"

“either that or he’s your little bitch.”

you scoff at him. “please do not disgrace bitches by associating them with him.”

“fine, fine,” jin says with a dramatic sigh, raising his hands in mock surrender. “we won’t force you to go up… we’ll bribe you!”

your interest piques as you glance up at him, eyebrow raised.

“bribe me? how much cash do you have today?”

yoongi and nam joon share a look. then, nam joon leans forward, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

“milk tea," he offers, his voice low and enticing, like he knows exactly what will catch your attention. "… any boba store you want. any time… for a week, ___.”

you try to fight the grin that starts tugging at your lips.

fuck it.

you nod begrudgingly, slipping your phone into your pocket.

“deal.”

taehyung bursts out laughing. “deal."

with a resigned sigh, you head for the stairs.

as you climb up, you prepare yourself.

you prepare yourself for his death glare and the innocent girl in the background. you prepare yourself for his snarky comments and his sweet tone of voice the minute he turns around to talk to her. you prepare yourself to feel sick to your stomach again.

as you stand in front of his bedroom door and raise your fist to knock—you hear it.

rather, you hear them.

the unmistakable sound of his voice, muffled but clear enough that you can make out the low hum of his tone, followed by a girl’s laugh—a breathy, high-pitched laugh that makes your stomach twist.

you freeze, standing in the doorway, caught between disbelief and something you can’t quite name. your heartbeat picks up in your chest, your body tensing as the reality of the situation settles over you.

you’re not sure what exactly it is—maybe it’s the fact that it’s so casual, or maybe it’s the way the sound of it makes you feel like you’re intruding—but you feel a sudden flush creep up your neck and cheeks.

“oh my god, o-oh my g-god! t-that’s it, jungkook! oh god, baby… f-fuck!”

“fuck—you close, baby?”

“so close, baby. so fucking close. g-god, yes, yes, yes! nghh—fuck! so big, jungkook. oh my god, oh my god! fuck me, fuck me… j-just like that, baby. yes, y-yes–o-oh! mhmmmphhh—”

"shit, shit, shit..."

"fuck me harder, jungkook. please! o-oh? oh! oh my god! yes... yes! thank you, baby. thank you, thank you! ahhh... oh my god..."

you swallow, stepping back, retreating to the stairs.

the guilt of overhearing makes your pulse race in an odd way, like you’ve been caught in something you weren’t supposed to see.

at the bottom of the stairs, you pause, your hand on the banister, unsure whether you should stay or go.

you quickly decide.

you’re already feeling the sting of something sharp and unfamiliar in your chest.

“guys,” you say quickly, trying to keep your tone light, but there’s an edge to it you can’t mask. "y-you know what? i think i’ll just head home. i’ve got a ton of work to do.”

they look at you, confused. taehyung blinks a couple of times, jimin frowning.

“but we—"

"y-yeah,” you breathe. “i… i know. i just… it’s all good. you guys can go ahead without me,” you add, forcing a smile.

“slow down, ___. what—”

“i feel sick,” you confess. “okay? i feel sick.”

“okay… can one of us drive you home or something—”

“no. i’m good. thank you, though… i.. i gotta go.”

they all frown, their confusion morphing into concern, but you’ve already grabbed your things and hurried out the door before they can protest.

the cold night air feels like a slap to your face as you walk away, but it doesn’t quite shake the unsettled feeling in your stomach.

you can’t stop thinking about it.

about how you feel.

about what you heard.

about how much you fucking hate jeon jungkook.

it’s almost 10PM by the time you finish showering. your hair is still damp, hanging loosely around your shoulders as you brush it out in front of the mirror. the soft swish of the brush is the only sound in the room, your thoughts still lingering on what happened earlier. the image of Jungkook with that girl, the sound of their voices together, keeps replaying in your mind, and it won’t leave.

you shut your eyes and try to forget.

taking a breath in—your moment is interrupted by a knock on your door.

you frown, glancing at the clock before moving to the door, towel still hanging from your shoulders. it’s late, and you weren’t expecting anyone.

heading towards the door, you wonder who it is.

then, when you open the door, you freeze.

there, standing in the hallway with a takeout bag in hand, is jungkook. his face is unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—seem to be searching yours for something. you can’t quite figure out what.

you blink, caught off guard by the unexpected visit, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

“uh…” jungkook clears his throat, breaking the silence, his voice lower than usual. “the guys think i did something to piss you off… so i’m supposed to say sorry for… whatever i did.”

“you didn’t do anything,” you lie. “goodnight.”

just as you’re about to shut the door, he takes a step forward.

“___,” he says, tone flat and annoyed. “don’t be a bitch. just tell me what i did so i can apologize, go home and tell them what i did wrong, and we can act like nothing happened—”

“okay,” you shrug. “you wore an ugly shirt today. there. say sorry.”

jungkook winces at you.

“seriously?”

you shrug again.

“what do you want, jungkook? i have nothing to say to you—”

“i don’t fucking understand where all this attitude is coming from. i didn’t do shit to you today. you know i didn’t… so, can you please use your tiny brain to make something up? something more convincing than hating my fucking shirt.”

you nod, pretending to care. then, just as you reach for the door to shut it again; jungkook swiftly moves past you. he lets himself in.

“they’re worried you didn’t eat,” he states. “did you eat?”

you groan at him. “why the fuck do you care?”

“i don’t.”

but his actions say otherwise.

jungkook then takes off his shoes and heads to your coffee table. he sits himself on the floor and begins to unpack the food. silently, you watch as he does so and can’t help but feel like throwing up.

“eat,” he commands.

you glare at him.

“get out.”

jungkook leans back against your couch. “eat, tell me what i did wrong, then i’ll leave.”

“leave first.”

“eat first.”

“get out.”

“holy shit,” jungkook scoffs. “are you even capable of forming a complex sentence, or is that too much for you? ___, this is called a conversation. you’re supposed to—"

“get out.”

jungkook sighs heavily.

a silence falls upon you two.

jungkook has had difficult days with you before.

this is nothing new… but for some reason, right now feels harder than the other days. partly because most days he knows when he’s being an asshole—but today? he has no clue.

he’s in the dark.

jungkook clears his throat.

“i didn’t yell at you today,” he starts. “i didn’t call you names. you called me a nerd but that was it… your face ruined my day but i guess it made the others pretty happy since they were so pissed at me for being the reason why you left… so, hey… how about this? you tell me what i did wrong for the guys. not for me.”

you raise an eyebrow at him.

his eyes plead.

then, a moment passes.

instead of answering him, you pick up your feet and sit on the floor beside him. you look at the door and take the utensils from the bag. poking at the food, you contemplate on telling him what’s going on in your head.

just as you’re about to eat a spoonful of the food, you suddeny feel jungkook close to you. without saying a word, his fingers brush lightly against your cheek, making you hold your breath. his hand moves to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear, carefully pushing it out of the way so it doesn’t fall into your food.

the gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that it catches you off guard, and for a second, you’re just left there, staring at him.

he looks at you sincerely. in his eyes, you can see his defeat.

you don’t know if it was the gesture or the look in his eyes—but your words slip out of your mouth faster than you can think to stop it.

“she was too loud.”

he tilts his head at you.

“oh,” jungkook connects. his expression stiffens for a split second, then he schools it back into calm. “overheard, did you?” he asks, leaning in slightly, voice a low murmur.

“oh, i definitely heard,” you reply, folding her arms, feigning thoughtfulness. “don’t act so cocky… she sounded like she was faking it.”

he stares, jaw flexing, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something challenging in his eyes.

“that’s cute coming from someone who couldn’t even stay for dinner.”

suddenly that pang of jealousy again hits again.

you know you should just brush it off… keep your cool and act nonchalant about it—but something about jungkook just makes you feel so off balance.

“maybe i had better things to do,” you retort.

“like what?”

you shrug.

“like leave.”

“you should’ve knocked,” jungkook smirks. “i would’ve opened the door. we don’t mind an audience usually.”

there it is again.

the sick, sinking, icky feeling.

“you two fuck often?”

jungkook looks away, taking a moment to think.

“yeah,” he admits. “what? surprised nerds get laid?”

you stay quiet.

“i mean.. it’s not really any of your business…" he mutters, though there’s a tension in his voice that doesn’t match his casual shrug. you can tell he's trying to brush it off, but the way his jaw tightens betrays him.

you feel your stomach tighten, the words you threw out lingering in the air between you, each one heavier than the last. you weren’t expecting him to react like this—maybe a joke or a deflecting comment—but not this…

tension.

"right," you reply, your tone softer than you intended. you glance down at your food, suddenly losing your appetite. the casual air you were hoping for is long gone, replaced by an uncomfortable silence that neither of you seems willing to break.

jungkook shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck before clearing his throat.

"look, it’s not like that," he adds quickly, but the words sound almost too defensive. "she’s just... i don’t know. it’s nothing serious."

you don’t respond immediately, still caught up in the strange mix of feelings his words stir in you. the way he said it—like it was nothing serious—feels too much like an attempt to distance himself from whatever was going on.

you’re not sure what you wanted from this conversation, but now all you feel is a growing knot in your chest.

"yeah," you mutter, trying to sound indifferent, but the weight of his words hangs in the air, making your throat feel tight. "whatever you say—”

“why do you care anyway?” jungkook’s voice is sharp now, a slight edge creeping into his tone as he looks at you, his expression shifting from defensive to something you can’t quite place.

you’re caught off guard by the question.

you weren’t prepared for that, weren’t prepared for the way it makes your chest tighten. why do you care? it’s not like you have any right to, right?

you open your mouth, but the words don’t come out. Instead, you just shrug, trying to play it cool, but you can feel your pulse quicken.

"i don’t. i just—"

"you just what?" he interrupts, his brow furrowing, as though he’s not buying the act. "you’ve never cared before. why start now?"

you clench your fists at your sides, feeling the sting of his words more than you want to admit. There’s a part of you that wants to tell him—tell him how seeing him with her, hearing them laugh together, makes something ugly twist in your stomach.

but you can’t.

"i don’t know," you finally mutter, your voice quieter than before. “it's weird. like, of course i knew you weren't a virgin but... are you actually that good? then again… doesn’t take much to fake sounds like her.”

jungkook’s eyes flicker to yours, something unreadable passing through them before he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. then, he smirks.

it’s more calculated, though… like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

"curious?"

"disgusted, actually."

a beat.

"what, you wanted it to be you?" he asks, his voice smooth, a challenge in his tone.

you almost choke on your breath, but you recover quickly. "me? sleeping with you? please."

he lets out a low laugh, but it’s not playful this time.

it’s more mocking.

“yeah, i mean, i don’t even want you that bad…" he takes a slow look at you, like he's mentally assessing you, deciding if you’re worth his time. "not even close."

the words sting more than they should, but you keep your composure.

you try to look unbothered, but his next words twist the knife a little deeper.

“fuck you.”

"you wish i’d fuck you," he remarks, almost casually, like it's no big deal. "would make things easier, huh?"

your chest tightens, and something about the way he says it makes your blood run cold. It’s not just teasing anymore—it’s a jab.

but you refuse to let him see how much it affects you.

"i’m not interested in you," you shoot back, your voice betraying none of the discomfort you’re feeling.

he leans in a little, eyes never leaving yours.

"really?"

“really.”

his smirk widens, and you can feel the tension crackling in the air.

“guess what? i think you care more than you're letting on. you act like you don’t give a shit, but it’s so obvious you’re just pissed it’s not you in my bed."

you bite your lip, trying to keep your voice steady, but something betrays you in the way your heart races.

"i’m not pissed," you mutter, the words coming out too quickly, like you’re trying to convince yourself as much as him. "why would i be?"

jungkook watches you for a moment, taking in every little reaction.

"i don’t know, ___," he says, his tone low and teasing, like he’s enjoying every second of this. "but it’s cute. you’re all flushed, trying to act like you don’t care, but i can see right through you."

you grit your teeth, wanting to snap back, but instead, you just look away.

"shut up," you mutter, frustrated with yourself more than anything. "you’re such an asshole sometimes, you know?"

he laughs again, but this time there’s something darker in it, almost like he's reveling in your frustration.

“i don’t think you’re as immune to me as you pretend to be," he says. "but hey, don’t stress about it, baby. i’m not that interested either. i mean, what’s the fun in fucking you? it’d be harder getting rid of you than getting in your pants.”

you feel the sting of his words hit harder than they should.

“are you done?” you mutter, forcing a nonchalant tone. "and don't call me baby. you called her baby. i don't want to be associated—"

"you think you'd fold as fast as she did?"

jungkook’s eyes flicker with something that could almost be amusement—or maybe something else. he clears his throat.

“shit, ___. i’m sorry—”

“yeah?”

you don't know why, but something inside you snaps.

you shift your body close to him. so close that you glance at his lips, then back up to his eyes, as if you’re weighing something—daring him to make a move.

jungkook’s body tenses, his breath shallow, like he's ready to close the distance… to make some sort of move. his lips part slightly as if he's about to speak, but before he can, you push him away.

now, he’s tongue tied.

“shit, jungkook... i'm sorry," you mock him. "but you're wrong... this is fun."

#bts fanfic #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #jungkook f2l #jungkook e2l #jungkook x yn #jungkook x reader #jungkook series

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 6 months ago

Text

eyes on the prize

a/n: me writing a fic where rafe is actually wholesome and nice? i didn't see it coming either... this idea just came to me when you were all voting for the kinktober fic a while ago, and i was prepping that it maybe could go in this direction and then ended up falling too much in love with the fantasy, so i simply had to get it out of my system.

summary: “in a week, when we’ve turned in the assignment, and everything is over, I want you to come watch me fight… watch me win…” a cocky smirk twitched at the corner of his lips as he awaited your answer.

warnings: mma!rafe cameron x reader, smut, college au, study buddies to lovers, soft!rafe, autumnal vibes, takes place in the beginning of november, studying, friday the 13th references, scaredy cat!reader, violence, mma fights, kissing, semi-public sex, clothed sex, dirty talk, manhandling, ripping pantyhose, size kink, spit kink, hole inspection, penetrative sex, unprotected sex

word count: 2626

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“So,” you hesitantly broke the silence that had fallen over both you and the partner that had been assigned to you on this current project, “did you get up to anything fun on Halloween?”

Glancing up from the thick book Rafe’s bored gaze was rushing through, it instead lingered on you for but a moment as his mutter reverberated in the quiet corner of the university’s library, “uhm, yeah. I popped by a party for a bit.”

“The one at delta neu?” a glint flickered in your eye as soon as he offered you a nod, “me too! Though I went home kinda early, so we might have missed each other… what did you going as?”

“Jason,” he simply uttered.

“Jason who?” the soft smile didn’t fade from your lips as his short answer hadn’t landed the way he’d hoped.

“You know,” his brows furrowed slightly at your cluelessness, repeating once again as if the name alone should be enough for you to understand, “Jason.”

“…Jason Statham? Jason Momoa?” your eyes squinted as you quietly attempted to hit the bullseye, “uhm… I can’t really think of any other famous Jasons right now…”

“No, Jason from Friday the 13th. You know, the dude with the hockey mask and the machete.”

“Ah, him… yeah, I haven’t watched those movies,” you shrugged, “but, cool costume.”

“Wait, you’ve never seen Friday the 13th?” he tilted closer to where you sat across the table from him, “not even the cheesy remake?”

“Nope,” you simply returned your gaze to the textbook beneath your fingers.

“Seriously?” his eyebrows didn’t float back down yet, “well, I don’t know if I should be offended that you’ve never watched that masterpiece before or jealous that you get to experience it for the first time, but either way, that’s a problem we need to fix.”

At first, you thought you’d entered the wrong building.

That was until you rounded the corner, and your gaze fluttered up from the map still open on your phone, guiding you to the mysterious address your study partner had texted you, asking you to meet up with him there before the rest of your plans could unfold, that you discovered that you hadn’t stumbled into the wrong place.

Though that wasn’t the only thing you discovered in that moment as the culmination of that enlightenment was spotting Rafe in the middle of the industrial and cold gym, going through the tail end of some drills with his trainer.

As he went through the combinations and grunted like a guard dog, sweat dripped down from his brow and rolled so low that it cascaded over his already glistening and bare chest.

You hadn’t really noticed how your feet had stopped or how your pulse had picked up so fiercely that you could feel it between your thighs before his own eyes located you and he flashed you a smile.

“Hey!” his voice cut through your trance as he patted his coach on the shoulder and began to near the edge of the ring.

“H-hi,” you blinked, shaking your fuzzy head slightly to clear it, “I didn’t know you were into this sort of stuff,” you briefly waved a hand to the gym around you and tried your best to rip your stare away from his heaving chest.

“Yeah,” he began to loosen a glove, “sorry I asked you to meet me here, I’m just really busy these days cause I’ve got a fight coming up.”

“Oh, well we don’t have to have a silly movie night if you don’t have the time,” you averted your gaze, recalling how before you’d been paired with him on the assignment for Callahan’s class, you hadn’t even been sure of what his name was. You’d just known him as the hot guy, three rows behind you.

“No, no, I want to, unless of course you’ve changed your mind.”

Blinking back up into his eyes, you smiled, “definitely not.”

“Well, great,” a grin spread across his lips, “then just give me a second,” he cast a brief glance over his broad shoulder at the locker room, “and then we can head back to my place,” a notion you hadn’t expected would have ended with you up on the back of his motorcycle, a terrifying concept that you’d somehow been unable to deny as the crush that had blossomed and bloomed within your heart for him had made it near impossible for you to say no to a single one of his suggestions.

“You never told me what you went as,” Rafe hummed beside you, causing your eyes to tear away from the horror movie buzzing on the TV.

Blinking over at him next to you on the leather couch, your fingers began to fiddle with the blanket you’d slumped over yourself, “oh, well I didn’t wanna buy anything new, so I just went through my closet and ended up going as Britney Spears because I found the skirt of my old school uniform. I don’t even remember why I brought it with me the last time I went home, but–, ah!” a shriek suddenly shuttered through your form as your eyes accidentally fluttered back towards the screen just in time to witness the villain sink a large blade into the head of one of the drunk teenagers, “oh my god!” your frame couldn’t help but jump at the fright, nearly tossing the blanket across the room as you instinctively hid your features in the mass of Rafe’s bicep.

As your heart raced and thumped in your chest, you felt Rafe’s shoulder begin to move before you heard his laughter.

“Shut up, it’s not funny!” you smacked him lightly in the chest, though kept your vision darkened by his shirt, “so I’m not desensitised to the horrors of scary movies, big whoop!” a mutter then slipped out of your lungs, “fuck, why did I agree to this? I’m probably gonna have nightmares for weeks…”

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s just a movie,” you felt his palm find your arm in a soothing rub as his voice hummed directly above the crown of your head, “and the scene is almost over.”

“I can’t look…” you felt yourself lean more into his touch.

“…do you want me to describe it to you?”

“No…” you lingered in the security of his warmth and felt the terror slowly melt from your bones. Cupping a hand on the side of your face to shield your eyes from the horrors on screen, you carefully plucked your face just shy out of his safety before you uttered, “…just tell me when it’s over…”

The blaring light from the television reflected against the side of Rafe’s face as he gazed down into your eyes and breathed, “okay,” his stare slowly dipping and fluttering down towards your lips.

It wasn’t till now that you noticed how close you’d accidentally scooted to him as you weren’t far from just sitting in his lap.

Sharing his breath, your mind went entirely blank and only switched back on when you’d closed the distance betwixt your lips and now found yourself kissing your study buddy.

Thankfully, your brain didn’t get a chance to begin spiralling as it only took Rafe half a second to reciprocate the sudden move and kiss you back.

His strong hands found the small of your waist buried beneath the woollen blanket before he began to drag you closer, pulling you so near that you actually did wind up sitting in his lap, your fingers fluttering against his buzzcut as his own scooped down over the curve of your ass.

When the movie gently humming from behind you was long forgotten and your soul instead had drifted straight to heaven, you felt Rafe tilt his head back to breathlessly utter, “come watch my fight…” his forehead still pressed against your own.

Scarcely picking up on the words behind his honied hum, you breathed, “what?”

Reeling back just enough for his eye to catch your own dazed pair, he said, “in a week, when we’ve turned in the assignment, and everything is over, I want you to come watch me fight… watch me win…” a cocky smirk twitched at the corner of his lips as he awaited your answer.

You’d never seen a fight in real life before.

Not boxing, not mixed martial arts as this was, not even a juvenile one in a schoolyard.

At one point, when you thought all hope seemed lost, when Rafe got pinned by his opponent and blood was trickling down from the cut at his brow so clearly that you could make it out from the second row seat you found yourself planted in, he somehow managed to turn the tides and capture the boulder of a man in a lock so fierce it made them nearly melt into one pretzel-like being.

As he flexed his arm around the other’s throat with the rest of his limbs restricting him as well and rendering an escape near impossible, Rafe’s eyes then flickered up to catch your wide ones in the crowd. A grin appeared on his features as he held your stare a moment longer, watching as you shyly began to mirror his smile, before he tightened his hold and squeezed till the opponent opted not to bruise his pride and tap out, instead going limp in the grasp.

Once the trophy was in his gloved hand and he’d leapt out of the ring, on his way back towards the locker room, he zigzagged through the cheering crowd and caught onto your arm, dragging you with him as he exited the buzzing hall.

“That was insane,” you heard yourself babble as he pulled you through the corridors down towards the backroom he’d been in prior to the fight, “I mean, I know I went into it kinda blind, but I had no idea it would be like that,” adrenaline still rushed through your veins as he tugged you over the threshold and closed the door behind you, swiftly dropping his trophy to one of the long benches, “sure, it was as insane as I probably imagined, but the way that you moved, the way you slipped in and out like you were made of water or something, I mean, that was beautiful–,” the fighter then suddenly cut your rambling short as he yanked you to his sweaty form and pressed his lips to your own. However, as his feet shuffled and your spine collided with the back of the door to the small locker room, your fingers fluttered over countless of the spots where he’d been hit, causing you to jerk back and ask, “wait, shouldn’t you have someone check you out?” your eyes flickered from the cut splitting his brow to the various fresh bruises already beginning to blossom and reveal their true colours, “are you okay?”

“I’ve never felt better in my whole life,” he tried to lean back in to capture your lips once more, though you tilted away just in time for him to miss.

“You sure? Because–”

But your words were quickly snuffed out as his hands then flew up to grasp the sides of your face to force you to notice the glint in his eye and the desire dripping in his tone, “just shut up and kiss me,” he commanded before he practically devoured you whole.

As Rafe’s tongue danced against your own and made you feel dizzy in his tight embrace, his fingers then blindly fumbled for the lock and twisted it with a click that harmonised with the throbbing that had appeared between your thighs as soon as the fight had commenced.

A low growl rumbled deep within his chest and melted into your mouth as he then plucked you off of the ground and lifted you into his arms. Broad palms spreading wide below your bottom, he brought you as close as possible, causing the skirt you wore to ride up and crumble at your hips. The thin barrier of your pantyhose and the underwear beneath nearly incinerated from the heat that sparked as his hips greedily rocked against your covered core, lending you to feel just how hard he was in his shorts.

“I want you so bad,” he groaned between pecks, his fingers digging into your softness.

“Shouldn’t you be out celebrating your victory or something?” a light giggle bubbled out of you.

“I thought that was what I was doing,” he smirked before dropping you back down onto the ground, making you gasp at his sharp movements as he suddenly spun you around to face the closed door, “unless you have a better idea of how we could celebrate,” he nipped at your neck, making your eyes flutter.

“I–…” your teeth briefly captured your bottom lip as his front pressed against your back, and your spine instinctively arched back into him, “no, yeah, this one’s g-good…”

“Good,” he murmured in your ear before his fingers found your pantyhose in a pinch and ripped a big hole in them, nearly splitting them in two as he exposed your underwear, “do you want it?” he gripped your hips and titled them for his hard-on to perfectly nudge against the soaked cotton.

“Y-yes,” you panted, even just that one word haven been a struggle to utter through the fog he’d cast you into.

“How bad?”

“So bad–, Rafe, please,” he made you squeak desperately, “I just–, please…”

Cheek smooshed against the door, you glanced over your shoulder and watched as he then kneeled down behind you. Both hands still firmly planted on your hips, keeping you in place for him, they only strayed for a moment in order to shove your skirt the rest of the way up and letting him see the wet spot decorating your panties.

“Oh, shit…” he groaned as he tugged the gusset of your underwear all the way to the side, a string of your glossy want clung to the fabric till it snapped back against your aching core. Nearly salivating as he inspected your holes, his fingers dented your ass as he pulled you apart, splitting you open that much further and watching intently at the way your drooling cunt throbbed in anticipation for his touch.

As if your pussy’s embarrassingly leaky state wasn’t enough, a dollop of his spit then roughly landed upon your folds, the lewdness causing you to let out a moan as he swiftly rose back up to his full height without as much as a tickle to your tingly petals.

The next thing you knew, the adrenaline coursing through you both drove Rafe to free his length from its confines and, without as much as another kiss, slammed inside of your weeping pussy in one fell motion.

Balls nuzzled tightly against you, the very tip of him nudged against a part so deep inside of you that it made you lose your breath as he took a moment to savour the sensation, freezing up within you and huffing against your cheek as you gasped for air through your whimpers.

“Oh my god!” one of your hands curled back to crawl at his waist, “Rafe!”

“Now,” his hips slowly drew back, dragging his fat girth back out of you and letting you feel every little detail of him, “you just gotta be a good girl, stand right here for me,” only the bulbous head of his cock remained, keeping you plugged up as he purred in your ear, “and take it like the perfect little prize you are,” he then buried himself once more with such vigour that his heavy sack tapped sloppily against your puffy clit, “can you do that for me? Will you be my reward?”

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