#fear and hunger smut

[dadsbongos]

I NEED MORE RAGNVALDR SMUT THIS MAN IS MAKING ME GO CUCKOO

you n me both you n me both you n me both you n me both like!!

warnings - randomly lost the spark for this at the end and you can… tell lol, not proofread, fem body, whiny pathetic big man with big tits >>>>>, unprotected piv but liek cmon… what is the protection in that era youre lucky rag’s washed

845 words

~~~

“You’re very close.”

“You’re more comfortable than the bed.”

Ragnvaldr snorts a laugh, eyes fluttering shut as he grins, hands winding tighter around your waist and squeezing the soft fat, “You’re obsessed with flattering me, elskede.”

“You’re worth the flattery,” you lift your chin and settle it between his collar bones to stare up at the man.

Auburn strands of hair burn like gold in the pouring sunlight, soft sage eyes gooey as they return your gaze. Morning birds sing outside the gaping window, fresh air chilling through the bedroom. Last night, you’d fallen asleep side-by-side only for the man to pull you atop his chest in the dark. Or maybe he did it as the sun first rose, staring at your lax face through bleary eyes; determined not to wake you. 

Wringing both arms under Ragnvaldr’s head, you pull your face closer to his and earnestly giggle at how his cheeks go ruby red. 

“Hm, blushing is a good look for you,” you dance the blade of your nails across his sharp cheekbones, feeling the warmth from his face lick over your fingertips, “So bashful.”

“Bashful,” he scoffs at the mere notion, “I’m the strongest warrior in Oldegaard, I am not bashful.”

“No?”

“No.”

“So, then, if I do this…” you sit up slowly, making a show of petting your palms down his chest and curving your back to push out your chest, perhaps -- just by mere coincidence -- grinding your pelvis into his, “You’ll feel nothing?”

“Nothing,” the tremble in his muscles says otherwise. So does the upward, smitten twitch of his lips. His hands tighten around your waist.

Ragnvaldr is as much a lovestruck fool as he is a warrior, he’s big and simple and so, so tender in your hands. 

“Do you lie to me?” you pout, and though he knows it’s fake Ragnvaldr is tempted to smear it off your face.

He beams up at you, a chuckle rumbling low in his throat, “Of course, I’m lying. Have you seen yourself?”

You shrug coyly and he laughs again. 

“Beautiful,” Ragnvaldr stretches his neck to press his lips to your neck, “So very beautiful.” 

“Now who’s full of flattery?” you tease as hands larger and bolder than your own peel off the gown you’d slept in; Ragnvaldr lifts his hips while you fumble off his trousers.

Warmth lathes up your spine, washing over your skin in time with the softness of Ragnvaldr’s palms. He pulls and squeezes the fat of your hips in appreciation as your slick envelopes his cock. Tossing his head back in a throaty whine, Ragnvaldr bucks his hips up -- settling both feet on the creaky straw and pelts to better thrust into you. Slow and thorough, he curls both arms around your waist and binds you both chest to chest; earnestly moaning at the squish of your bare breasts against him. Leaning his head against yours, Ragnvaldr lovingly molds his lips against your forehead.

“I love you,” he proclaims, “Love,” he whines, high and pitchy and snapping into the back of his throat, “My love, my good love, sweet girl…” he shudders under your hands, pace quickening, “Please, sweet girl, kiss me.”

You should’ve known -- if you weren’t preoccupied with whimpering and wailing his name, you’d probably giggle. Ragnvaldr loves to kiss during sex, no matter how contradictory his wrapping and hugging says otherwise. You have to wiggle up from his sweaty arms to worm your face by his, kissing along his jaw just to tease your lips against the corner of his mouth.

“Please,” the big man huffs pathetically, arms cinching tighter around your body and hips rocking the thin mat below you, “Don’t be cruel to me.”

“Rag’,” you croon, finally giving him the pleasure of your lips locked to his, now mumbling against him, “My precious man, big, big man. You’re so good to me.”

His face flames beneath yours, only growing hotter the longer you speak, “Uh-huh?”

“Yes, yes,” you gasp, his cock driving harder into the spongy spot that makes you weep, “Fuck me harder, Rag’! Rougher, my love, don’t be gentle…”

“Uh-huh…” he nods weakly, and continues nodding against you -- skulls thumping dully in time with his fucking, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh…”

Fire rips up the seams of your tangled limbs, scorching up the loose ends of the building knots in both of your guts. Ragnvaldr tears his face back from yours, groaning and crying mixes of your name and gibberish. Gibberish until he finally crackles out,

“Can I- !" he's broken by a shiver and moan, "Can I cum inside, elskede?”

He wriggles one arm off you and in between your bodies to flick wetly around your clit. You burrow your face into the bend of his shoulder, biting the meat of his neck to muffle your swelling moans. You snag your nails into his broad chest, his soft hair tangling under your fingers, spurring you for an eager reply.

“Yes, yes, yes!” you chant dumbly, decisively numb to everything except Ragnvaldr and the ecstasy he brings.

BOOM bomb explodes you DIE!!!

[kentosbento]

Pavel Yudin

Mentions of prostitution. AFAB. Smut 18+

He is oddly familiar. 

A prim and proper uniform; the only mess being the flat tresses of his hair that tangle from what seems to be a constant tousling done by the man himself. There’s also a creasing between his brows like he’s thinking, or maybe reflecting, arms and legs crossed with a stern poise. His whole look can cut through you; especially the shine of a metal eagle that is glued to the head of his lieutenant’s hat– a straight-out-of-the-handbook Bremen officer. 

A Bremen pig. 

You had found your seat first on the train, and he had made his appearance quite loud and clear with the sharp stomping of his boots against the wood of the floor. There was one other face that you had seen from him, which was the flirtatious smirk that he had given you upon choosing his seat across from you. 

Handsome, yet horrifyingly so, evident in the scars and muscles that he seemed to wear with pride, alongside his medals and pristine Lugr. 

“A sight for sore eyes.” was all he had said before looking you up and down, as if undressing you with eyes, and then flitting his attention to the scenery outside of the window, almost as if you were never there in the first place. 

It is the second time that you meet him, where you witness his more grimy flirtations, climbing out of the bunker with Abella. 

“The pretty girl from the train,” he smiles at you, “and the mechanic I see...both are welcome tastes for my palette.”

Abella had tried to intimidate him, but the mention of his ‘itchy trigger finger’ had quieted her down. 

“As for you pretty girl, what a sweet thing, found the key huh…such a good girl for me.” 

You breathe in when you hear him say that, gripping at the hem of your skirt. 

‘Amusing’, he thinks. “Lieutenant Pav, at your service. Remember that name well.” 

He was alluring; a loud distraction to the horrors of Prehevil, well until he opened his mouth to threaten you. 

It isn’t until the second day of the festival at the town’s shopping district, where you meet him again. Both of you are more roughened up since the last meeting–you had lost Abella, and had encountered Karin who spat at the ground when hearing you mention Pav. He, on the other hand, had a few smaller and fresher cuts, with the occasional bandage here and there. 

“Truly miraculous that we see each other again isn’t it doll? I honestly thought you’d have been long dead by now.” 

You finally decide to say your first words to him; “And I thought you’d have found the Kaiser by now, colour us both surprised.” 

The safety flicks off his gun, a shot rings out but it never reaches you. 

“Now how do you know about that?” he snarls. 

Wild and erratic laughter fills the streets.

Pav grabs hold of you and pulls you both into what looks like a speakeasy, gun pointed at the foggy surroundings until the doors close and lock. 

He flings you into a sofa, and he takes a gander at the drinks at the bar, picking out a scotch and pouring himself a glass, making himself at home. He reloads his gun. 

“Answer my question, or I'll put a bullet in your head.” 

You try to keep still and emotionless, putting your fear into gripping the armrests of your seat. “The beggar. For a shilling she told me of a green soldier headed for a goal with the Kaiser– didn’t know she was telling the truth till you pulled the gun out fucker.” 

“Foul mouthed wench, you’re lucky you interest me.” 

“Thank you for your mercy.” You spit back. 

He chuckles then takes another swig of scotch, leaning closer and closer to you. 

“You’re familiar to me…I never forget a face, but I’m having trouble with yours.” he says, grabbing at your chin and inspecting. 

Then it clicks in his head. 

A prostitute from his time in Rondon. A soldier had made an unsavoury advance and he had shot the fuckers hand off. 

What a small world. 

“Far from home aren’t we?” he smiles, but you say nothing in return. 

Another swig, “I want to kill the Kaiser.” 

“And how on earth do you plan to do that?” you prod. 

“Sheer will and determination doll. If I kill him, I’ll avenge my family. If I don’t, I join them. Either option is fine, but if the chance to kill that thing is there…well I’ll sure as hell take it,” Another swig, “and what might you be doing here in Prehevil?” 

Your hands clasp together in your lap, and the candles waver slightly.

“Running away.” 

“No one bought you out yet? Shockingly cruel of them.” 

“But it’s exactly that! I am still a thing you can buy!” you scream, rising from your seat and heaving slightly. 

Another swig. “Well can I not pay for your company then?” His hands brushing against yours. 

“If you don’t pay, then I get to do whatever the hell I want.” 

-

Underneath the tiles of the speakeasy were the heavy breathing and hurried kisses between you and him. He kissed with such fervour; like you were a lifeline he had to hold onto, while his hands travelled to unbutton your shirt and grip at your sides. Your hands did the same, feeling up and down the grooves of his chest and abs, teasing at the building bulge in his pants. 

“Will you…hah…put less effort in… if I don’t pay you?”

You silence him with another passionate kiss. “Mmm…Whatever the hell I want…hah… remember?

Finally unbuckling his belt and tossing it aside, your fingers deftly move up and down the thick vein on his shaft–teasing, which makes him let out a moan against your neck, “S-so fucking good."

Your hand begins to fasten its pace against his whole cock now, all while the two of you continue to feel up against each other. 

“S-shit s-stop…please…” he groans, pushing away your hand. 

“W-what’s wrong? Am I not doing good?” 

“No! Gods no…but if you kept at it I definitely would’ve cum. The only place I wanna do that is on this though…” softly running his fingers across your navel. 

“Then do it.” you challenge. 

He wastes no time in spreading you wide– “fuck, already so wet for me…so perfect…”, pushing his long and thick fingers into your pussy, prodding at indescribable pleasure. 

He takes his fingers out which make you whine, however they are replaced with a sharp thrust of his hips, pressed impossibly deep into your own. 

“So fucking tight…beautiful…so good for me.” he groans, setting an animalistic pace, as though he were marking you. His touches were rough and harsh, but it was passionate and feisty which made you reach your climax faster and faster. 

“P-pav…I’m gonna cum…!” 

“F-fuck baby, do it…do it on my cock please…” 

After that, you release with a loud moan, back arching off of the bed. He follows suit, pulling out and cumming on your stomach.

He holds you close, and lays by your side, playing with your hair. 

For now, you and Pav can pretend like the world only exists within the confines of PRVHL Bop, and that everything you two needed was the space shared between the two of you. There was no Kaiser and there was no Termina.

-

First fear and hunger fic! love pav sexy sexy man.

[lefarte]

Uhhmmmm O'saa and Marcoh size kink please? If you cant do both of them, just O'saa is enough. I love you writing💙💙💙

Sure! This one is only Osaa but I got another request very similar for marcoh, so I decided to do them individually.

I wrote this with an afab reader I’m so sorry if that’s not what you wanted 💔💔

18+ ONLY!!! Please don’t read if you’re under 18 ☹️

O’saa

Your fingers were interlaced together, beginning to sweat already. His other hand held your hip steady. O’saa pressed his tip against your entrance, gently rubbing his precum into you.

“You’re a bit inexperienced,” He tilted his head. “I see.”

He pressed a little deeper, making a low grunt as his head slipped in. You could feel his warm chest pressed up against yours. Could feel the heat radiating up from your thighs as your body tried to hold out from under him. You squirmed and bucked against him, the wait becoming nearly unbearable.

“Tsk,” He clicked his tongue. “No need to rush.”

He leaned down to kiss you. His lips pressed against yours firmly. The heavy scent of sandalwood and incense overtook you. He held you close in an embrace while you to tried to rut against him as much as you could take with your little hips.

He released his lips from yours. “You must need a little help.”

“It won’t fit.” You panted.

“It will.” He held your hand. “Slowly, now… I can teach you, but you must listen carefully…”

Osaa watched in fascination as your smaller frame bent to his shape, your lips parting and your chest rising and falling quickly. He levered your hips down further, stretching yourself more and more to the halfway point. He groaned.

“You’re… very tight…” he closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation. “Relax… I won’t hurt you… you can relax…”

The pressure bearing down on your walls was so heavy that your body nearly trembled from the first thrust. You could hardly process your own moans and squeals from the deep overstimulation.

“See, it’s as I told you.” He slowly pressed you into him, watching with amusement as you squirmed. “If you had just listened in the first place…”

Your hips twitched on their own. “Keep going… faster… I need it faster…”

He rolled his eyes. “Did I not tell you to relax? You are too tight.”

Seeing you wriggling and fucking yourself on him, he huffed in amusement, taking a little pity on you. He propped your legs up over his shoulders, pressed his cock in to get a firm grip, and thrusted. You cried out, pleasure hitting you in shockwaves. Every thrust made a wet sound.

“Not yet,” He grunted.

He slammed hard into you. You felt like your body was splitting in half from the size of it, pressing as deep as physically possible. He was balls deep inside of you. You were sure that if you looked down, you could see it bulging from the outside of you. You couldn’t even process what you were doing with your body anymore, it was all animal instinct. Squirming and clawing the sheets and gripping at whatever you could find stability on. You might have been drooling.

“I can’t take it,” You gasped. “I’m gonna -“

You nearly choked as your back arched, your moans getting louder without meaning to.

Just as heat overtook your face, you felt a sudden emptiness. A lack of fullness, leaving you stretched and sensitive.

Dazed, you tried to pull him back.

“Ah, you’re not getting it…” O’saa hummed. “I said not yet…”

He spread your lips to admire the inside of you. You needily tried to hump his hand, but he moved away deftly. Only barely touching it to tease you.

“I guess we’ll have to start over, from the beginning.” He put a finger inside, playing with you. “This time, try to do as you’re told. I intend to take my time.”

[jet-set-go-go]

LOOKING FOR BETA READERS FOR A FEAR AND HUNGER ENKIVALDR FIC!!!!! More info below cut

Ok so, i’m writing a smutty stupid enkivaldr fic, i’m making them both as weird and odd as possible. The basic plot goes as follows:

Ragnvaldr has devoured a dark priest, leading to the possible loss of a few soul stones and talismans. Enki, of course, absolutely blows up and screams at him in typical Enki fashion. He calls him a stupid Oldergårdian, and that makes Ragnvaldr snap and try to beat the shit out of him.

The crow mauler (or maybe another enemy, i’ll figure it out then) gets to them because of all the noise, and they’re forced to barricade themselves in a random room. They fight more, at some point Ragnvaldr bites Enki and the pathetic little stick man whines, and stabs him. This goes on for a bit and oh shit they’re making out, blood licking stabbing blah blah blah. First its really messy and angry, but the only reason Enki cums is because Ragnavaldr says some cornball shit like “you look so beautiful like this” like he wasnt cursing his bloodline five minutes ago. Fic ends with them agreeing to never speak of this again.

So far i’m almost at 1k words, but thats barely the start of the fic. If interested please reblog or comment! I’ll send you the link to the doc

[mara-xx217]

Patreon Post!

I write for different fandoms and mediums, including film, video games, TV series and my own original content!

The genres I typically write for are erotica and horror in nature. Thriller, mystery, from slow build ups to quick and explosive action or just simple, cute things or even totally mundane.

Some fandoms I've written for include:

Mouthwashing

Halloween

Silent Hill Games

Resident Evil Series

Baldur's Gate

Dead by Daylight

Fear & Hunger

...and there are many others that I either have written for in the past or will gladly write for in the future!

[gwaruuu]

hi tumblerians happy late new years, i hope yall had a great 2024- and if not, 2025 will be better :P i will try and get back to making layouts for profiles.. do ya'll got any suggestions like from fandoms, games, animes, idgaf ill rlly do anything as long as it's respectful and not some cancelled ass fandom.. please write ideas.. will be tons of help ty

[ittorule34]

i also want muffins

I’ll drop some in your enclosure tomorrow

[bibyassociation]

Wedding Bells on the Dungeon Floor

Nsfw funger fic posting, remain respectful and don’t interact if you’re underage. Thank you.

(Repost)

Wedding Bells on the Dungeon Floor (Formerly known as D’arce’s Spear) is a fic I wrote based on a joke. It’s not a joke anymore. It’s a smut collection of oneshots surrounding marriage of the flesh.

Each chapter has its own pair and situation leading up to forming a marriage and it had been quite fun to write. Each chapter is around 1-2k words and all sex acts are fully consensual. Bit scuffed, bit of a fuck-or-die, but I tried to make each chapter fit with the characters involved and still remain hot and disgusting all rolled into one.

This fic and researching it has caused me to settle that I like men.

“ Their minds seemed to melt away like their bodies through the act.

Their affinity with the Sylvian has grown stronger. ”

[dadsbongos]

pleasure for the moon god

382 words / warnings - you have vagene

summary - you and your lover, Ragnvaldr, engage in the ultimate act of mutual pleasure: jerking each other off.

kinktober: day sixteen - mutual masturbation ~~~

Ragnvaldr has you perched on his lap, one hand cinched tight around the fat of your thigh and the other wetly clicking into your cunt. His mouth is open with no room for sweltering teases between moans of his own -- your hand twisting over his thick erection. 

Long, silky strands of auburn hair cling to his sweat-slicked face. Cheeks flaming red and thick lashes batting up at you so pathetically.

“More, mannejente, I need more of you, my love,” he croons.

Sloppily slanting your mewling mouth over his, you let your tongue drip into his gums and he sucks it up like a man parched. 

Grinding down onto the plump meat of his palm, you squeak at the sudden callous graining your clit. As a reward you slump back to spit onto Ragnvaldr’s tip just to get things messier, exactly how he likes.

Ragnvaldr loves the wetness, the clinging webs mixing with sweat and the reddening, violet drags of evidence from clawing nails. He loves digging teeth into the side of your neck and down your shoulder, and he loves when you do the same -he loves showing off in the village, manners and proprieties be damned.

Beneath the cool moonlight pouring through shuttered windows, Ragnvaldr can’t help but to stare openly despite returning to your kiss. His eyes are low enough to be disarming, though the obsessive watching cannot be totally ignored. He’s usually desperately sentimental, though, so you can’t even pretend to be surprised.

He wriggles back enough to worm a second finger inside you before curling them toward your stomach with fervor. You sigh and moan, wetting his lips with saliva -he’s completely obsessed- and speed your strokes along his cock. The slit fucking weeps over your fingers and his hips jerk up into your palm, stomach muscles flexing and tensing with euphoria.

Untempered and unreasonably beautiful, Ragnvaldr is over eager to sing and give and howl and he is utterly unashamed begging for more.

“Oh, my love, my love,” he pants, “You’re so warm and soft,” fingers crook in and out, slipping easier than a fiery blade through fresh butter, “And wet, tight- oh I adore you, mannejente.”

Moonlight praises his exhibition with more soft light. An ivory cradle. You can’t help but agree he’s deserving- absolutely gorgeous.

[faithsmadhouse]

In the pines||Remmick x reader

MDNI+18

Summary—You wake up soaked from a dream you shouldn’t have had—one where Remmick had his fangs in your throat and his cock buried deep inside you. But it wasn’t just a dream. He’s real, watching, waiting… and when he lures you into the woods in the dead of night, there’s no turning back. You’re his. Body, blood, and soul.

SMUT WARNING (18+ only): This is a dark, explicit one-shot featuring Dom!Remmick and a sub!reader. Includes trance/dub-con, voyeurism reference, predator/prey dynamic, biting, bloodplay, venom/aphrodisiac drool, rough sex (doggy style and missionary), overstimulation, chain kink, degradation & praise, multiple orgasms, light breathplay, dirty talk, possessive obsession, and deeply feral energy. Read responsibly.

A/n the was requested by an anon on @ice-man-goes-bwoah

@abriefnirvana @spikeyfearn

The sheets were soaked.

You jolted awake with a strangled gasp, thighs clenched and pulse pounding between your legs. Your skin burned. Your tank top stuck to you with sweat, your panties utterly ruined. The ache in your core throbbed like a bruise.

Dream. You blinked at the ceiling. But it hadn’t felt like a dream.

You could still feel his hands on you.

Remmick.

A laugh, low and cruel, echoed in your skull.

You thought you were safe.

You thought I’d stay away.

You were wrong, darlin’.

Your breath hitched. The air in the room had changed. He was here.

You sat up. The window was open.

Cool wind spilled in from the woods, carrying the scent of moss and smoke and something darker. Your feet hit the floor before your brain caught up. You didn’t grab a coat. You didn’t even put on shoes.

Something in your body needed to find him.

The forest was pitch-black, but you didn’t feel fear. The night air curled around you like fingers, whispering in a voice not quite your own.

You walked deeper. Through brush and root, over moon-drenched patches of stone. The wind spoke.

“Come on, sugar. That’s it. Come find me.”

There was no thought. Only heat, and hunger, and the echo of a dream you were still wet from.

Then he stepped from the shadows.

Remmick.

Tall. He wore a button-up shirt that clung to his broad shoulders, and his suspenders hung down by his waist. His shoes were caked with dirt, and the thin chain necklace swayed around his throat, glinting as he tilted his head. And those eyes—glowing like red hot coals—devoured you.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he drawled, voice deep, lazy, laced with both Southern molasses and something old and Irish, ancient like the woods. “Knew you’d come crawlin’. You’ve been dreamin’ ‘bout me again, haven’t ya, mo grá?”

You swallowed thickly.

“I—”

“Don’t lie. I smelled it. Watched you fuckin’ grind on them sheets like a bitch in heat.”

Your knees buckled. Your thighs trembled.

He was in front of you before you could blink.

“Felt every little whimper through the trees,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “Felt you clenchin’ ‘round nothin’. Cryin’ for me. So I came to see my girl. Thought I’d give you what you needed.”

His hand slid between your thighs. Your panties were soaked through.

“Aw, hell,” he hissed, grin curling sharp. “You are drippin’.”

A growl rumbled in his throat. “Should’a come sooner.”

You gasped as he scooped you up, your back pressed against the nearest tree. Bark scratched your shoulders as his mouth found your neck kissing it and biting marking you.

Once he was satisfied, he yanked back, fingers digging into your cheeks hard enough to bruise. “Open,” he growled.

You obeyed, staring up at him with your mouth wide. Remmick’s lips curled into a wicked grin, a thick string of drool sliding from the corner of his mouth. He leaned in close, breath hot and heavy, and tilted your head back like you were nothing but prey.

Then the venom spilled—slow, deliberate—onto your tongue, thick and burning as it hit your throat. You went limp with a strangled moan. Dazed. Blown open with heat. His saliva slicked your skin, and the world tilted.

“Mm. That’s it. Let go for me, sugar.”

He dropped to his knees and shoved your panties aside with no ceremony.

Then his mouth was on you.

Remmick ate like a starved man, tongue filthy, slow, teasing.

“So goddamn sweet,” he groaned, voice muffled. “Like honey and fuckin’ sin.”

You were writhing, sobbing, grinding helplessly against his face.

One thick finger slid inside you.

Then two.

“Can’t even fuckin’ wait,” he growled, rising to his feet, licking your slick from his lips like a promise. “Need this cunt now.”

He spun you around, bent you over a mossy boulder. You barely caught yourself in time.

“Back arched,” he barked, grabbing your hips. “Ass up. Show me that fuckin’ needy little pussy.”

You whimpered as he shoved his cock against your entrance, teasing.

“Beg.”

“Please, Remmick,” you cried. “Please fuck me—need it—need you—”

SLAP.

A harsh smack to your ass made you jolt.

“Damn right you do.”

And then he was inside.

All the way.

You screamed.

“Fuckin’ tight,” he snarled, rolling his hips. “Grippin’ me like you’re starvin’. You love this, don’t ya?”

You couldn’t speak—only moan, already clenching around him as the first orgasm slammed through you.

“Shit, already?” he barked, feral. “Just like that? Thought I was gonna have to work for it, slut.”

He didn’t slow.

Thrust after brutal thrust, he drove into you like a man possessed. His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back as he pounded into your soaked cunt from behind.

“You’re my pretty little fucktoy, huh?” he hissed in your ear. “Let me ruin you, sugar. Let me fuckin’ break you.”

Your legs were shaking. You couldn’t breathe.

Then he pressed two fingers to your clit—and you shattered again, sobbing.

He flipped you over onto your back, caging you in the moss.

His eyes were dark now, chain swinging freely over your face as he hovered above you.

“I love watchin’ you like this,” he purred, voice a slurred mix of drawl and brogue. “All wrecked. All mine.”

The chain hit your cheek as he leaned down to kiss you. You moaned around his tongue, tasting venom.

“Open your legs. Wider.”

You obeyed.

“That’s my girl.”

He slammed into you again, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.

“Count your fuckin’ orgasms,” he growled.

“I—uh—two—”

“Wrong.” He snapped his hips. You cried out. “Three. That one on my tongue? That counted.”

You nodded frantically.

He grabbed your throat, gentle but firm, his grip pulsing as he rutted into you.

“You’re gonna give me seven,” he snarled. “That pretty little pussy can take it. You were made for me. Made to be fucked like this.”

You were sobbing, begging, drooling.

His chain bounced with each thrust, smacking lightly against your lips, your nose, your flushed cheeks.

And then—

He bit you again.

You came with a scream, body spasming under his weight.

“That’s four, sugar,” he growled, licking your blood from his lips. “Ain’t stoppin’ ‘til you’re gushin’.”

You lost count.

You came until your thighs shook violently, until you were clawing at his back, until your voice was hoarse from screaming his name.

He praised you. He degraded you.

“Such a good slut for me.”

“Dumb little hole, just made for cock.”

“You’re so perfect when you cry.”

“Mine. All mine.”

When he finally came, it was with a deep growl and his fangs buried in your throat. He spilled inside you, marking you, biting hard enough that you saw stars.

You were boneless, trembling, completely ruined.

He stayed on top of you for a while, pressing kisses to your bloodied throat.

“You ain’t ever gonna dream ‘bout no one else now,” he whispered, voice soft and possessive. “I’m in your fuckin’ blood, darlin’.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked.

He smiled.

“Good girl.”

[lefarte]

para cusando mis headcannons de pocketcat??🤭

hi so I saw you and I’m back and I wrote you a fic 😈

Also please heed the warnings on this one guys, its pocketcat so…. he’s like that

WARNINGS: stalking, pocketcat straight up jerking it but it’s not really smut he just does that*, he also licks you so keep that in mind

*No minors please regardless!

From your days in childhood, you remembered stories of him.

There were several retelling of the story; all with the same vague ideas. The pocketcat was about 7 feet tall, in some variations up to 10. He wore a smiling mask, sometimes of wood, sometimes of rubber. Everyone had a friend-of-a-friend who met him, supposedly, but nobody meets him themselves. People who do meet him don’t come back to talk about it.

They didn’t scare you at all. As a child, you used to feel so invulnerable. Even if something frightened you like an odd shadow in the corner of your eye, or a twig snapping in the woods, you could run home and hide in your bed. It was nothing but a passing thought back then.

Now, you were bleeding out on the floor. Your body ached dully.

You heard the sounds of heels on the tile, approaching your head. They near, and then stop. Then, something strange overtook you. Dizziness. A foggy haze, perhaps caused by dehydration or hunger or pain… and then a deep, low rumbling purr ringing in your ears. You couldn’t hear anything else from any side, it felt as if it was coming from inside your own skull.

“Hello again, my friend.~”

The masked man leaned over you. Behind the purring, you heard a wet, rhythmic noise against your ear.

“You don’t know how much of a pleasure it is to see you here. And here I thought you’d stop by and greet me; but you walked right by me, quite rudely! But you know me, I am a worrier, so I had thought ‘wouldn’t it be my luck that some schmuck come by and get them first’, and then look what happened!”

He kneeled onto the floor, peering down at you. The closer he got, the more it felt that your head was filled with cotton, and the low grumble within your ears was making your body heavier and heavier.

He reached out with a gloved hand. His hand almost seemed to tremble with anticipation. You felt him grab your chin. His hands were cold. He held you for a long, quiet moment, before tilting your head to the right. He stroked your jaw with one finger, admiring the curves of your face. And then the other side.

“I’ve missed you dearly,” You felt him panting heavily against your face. “Very dearly. These days have been so long without you… unbearably so…”

You reached out to grab his hand, and move it off of your face. “I’ve never met you before in my life.”

Your body jolted as a deep pain seared through your side. You bit your lip hard to hush your voice.

“Oh, oh, don’t agitate your wounds, dear, you break my heart! What a cruel fate this is! To have finally found you, and yet be unable to help you…”

Completely ignoring you, his hand went to touch your hair, gently petting you as if you were a doll. He ran his fingers through each strand, admiring them in utter fascination.

“I said,” you scowled. “I don’t know you.”

He lovingly caressed your scalp, his purrs dulling your senses and easing the pain a bit.

His fingers softly trailed down your temple and behind your ears, pushing your hair out of your face. “You are so stubborn. That’s what I love about you, you little imp. I can see right through you, you know?”

You bit your tongue to try to preserve your energy. You could feel the blood pooling onto the tile under you and then getting cold and clinging to your shirt. You’re far beyond the point of running away now. You don’t think you could even crawl.

“How tempted I am…” He cocked his head right next to your ear and whispered. “To pick you up and drag you away…”

You froze as you felt something wet on your face. His tongue. He dragged his tongue across your cheek. It was icy cold.

He paused his stroking, as if in deep contemplation. He sounded disappointed. “And yet, my master forbids me.”

You suddenly released a breath you had been holding, erupting into violent coughs and sputters, every single one of which burned like fire. He shushed you and petted your hair affectionately.

“And yet, it’s no good at all for you to die like this… what am I to do? Tell me, what is an old cat like me to do? What a dire situation…”

His hand ran down to your shoulder, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “I know it hurts, my dear~ I’m not allowed to fix you, no… but how would it sound if I, perhaps, accidentally ran my mouth to somebody who can? Say, if another contestant finds you, what happens here won’t be considered meddling at all~”

“You’re going to send someone to find me?” Your eyes widened hopefully.

“Don’t I deserve a bit of praise for that one? It was smart, wasn’t it? Good enough for you to…. Pet my head or something, and call me a good cat….”

“Just go!” You wheezed.

“A joke, of course, it was just a joke! You are such a tease, dear…”

He gracefully stood up, stretching on his legs like a real cat would up to a dizzyingly tall height. He grinned down at you one last time before shifting on his legs. Your breath lurched. You realized what the constant wet sound in your ear had been.

“Farewell for now, my darling~.”

You touched your ear. Thankfully, it was dry.

“Take care of yourself. Perhaps, if we’re lucky, my master will allow me to come for you after the festival. Ooh, isn’t that a nice thought…. If not, I’ll have to sate myself with just watching again~.”

[mara-xx217]

Ending H (Fear & Hunger) Ch. 9- Just a Little Comfort

You've only known them for a few hours, maybe less, but they are probably the most genuine person that you've ever met... You wouldn't mind sharing a moment of comfort with them... You certainly need it...

Warnings:  Strangers to Lovers, Porn w/o Plot, Nosramus is Polite, Potions as Lube, Fingering, Oral, Needy Sex

You shifted in place, slightly embarrassed from the proposition that was offered to you but not at all offended or turned off by it. The person that sat opposite of you, Nosramus, gave you a soft smile that warmed you to the core. You fiddled with your gloves as you cleared your throat, nervously breaking the intense eye contact that they have held with you since the moment the two of you first met only hours earlier in the abandoned mines. 

“I… hehehe…” You almost couldn’t believe it to be true. The silvered haired stranger giggled a little too, placing the back of their pale wrist to their lips. Nosramus’s long, thin fingers curled as they smiled again. 

“Perhaps I was a bit too direct with such a request? Forgive me, I have been alone for quite some time… It appears that my manners are little to be desired-” You shook your head with more vigor than you intended but it was already far too late to hide your eagerness. 

“N-No… No, that’s not true… I am… flattered.” You scooted a little closer to them. 

A part of you was greatly nervous. Genuinely, you didn’t believe this Nosramus to be ill intended. You couldn’t help but to stay a little guarded, both for survival's sake and so you wouldn’t utterly embarrass yourself in front of them. They shifted so that their sides were flushed against yours. Their body was somehow soft and boney, thin but not emaciated… though it was difficult to tell from underneath those thick robes.

“Hmm… I never thought myself adept with flattery…” Nosramus tilted their head down as they looked at you. Their long, white hair was soft and smelled clean, with a slight undertone herbal spice that tickled your nose. You bit the inside of your cheek as their clear, grey eyes wandered across the features of your face. 

“I believe I excel more with truth speaking. And you are lovely and someone I would rather enjoy sharing myself with.”

Oh. 

You were already charmed before, but now you were utterly smitten. Perhaps under more normal circumstances, things wouldn’t have progressed as they had. You wouldn’t have been so at ease, so willing and excited… But down here in this terrible place, you were in desperate need of relief and comfort… and if another person that showed you kindness in this place wanted that same kind of comfort and relief… Well, you wouldn’t mind sharing a moment of weakness with them. 

The kiss was a chaste one but one that was full of passionate need. Their lips were softer than you anticipated, far softer than your own chapped and scabbed ones, but it didn’t dissuade Nosramus in the slightest. A large but thin hand was placed onto your thigh as another gently slid its way over your temple and to the back of your head. The skin of their hands was rough from several lifetimes of work and calloused, but still dexterous and gentle. Nosramus pulls away from the kiss but kneads both the back of your head and your thigh as you contemplate on chasing their lips for another kiss.

Nosramus carefully untangles their fingers from the back of your head. You instantly missed the contact, but were satisfied when they placed a gentle peck to your partially parted lips. 

“I would like-” You cut them off with a kiss. Rather than be taken aback, Nosramus giggles softly and kisses you back, although briefly, before pulling away once more.

“-to grab something that would make things more pleasant for you.” Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you nod, somewhat surprised that they cared for such a thing but overall pleased that it seemed that you were justified in placing trust in this person that you hardly knew to fuck you with at least some dignity and grace. “How thoughtful…” You removed your gloves and tossed them aside as Nosramus reached for a vial that contained a sort of bluish-grey liquid. Oh, that- Your heart slammed against your ribcage. They would use something so expensive on you? Foreplay has hardly started and you already feel like you are about to explode. They smiled and laughed softly to themself. You felt your face and your loins heat up and you had to look away from them. 

It was like looking at some divine being, not laughing at you, not with you, but in genuine self joy and contentment…  

“Would you remove your clothing for me?” Nosramus’s hand was on your raised knee. Your legs were still slightly apart from when they were leaning on top of you. Can you really get naked in a place like this, in front of someone you hardly know? 

You were already removing the light armour that you wore and kicking off your shoes. Perhaps your eagerness was foolish and spoke ill of your character, but the alchemist said nothing and seemed pleased with your willingness to participate in this intimate activity. It was somewhat of a relief to be rid of your grime and gore soaked clothing. It was somewhat unnerving to be so vulnerable in front of another in this place, yet it was also arousing, too. Like willingly playing a dangerous game and enjoying the high of adrenaline and uncertainty that coursed through your veins… You never really thought much of yourself, but Nosramus enjoyed what they saw and it was evident on their face and in how their hands immediately began to wander your body. 

“You are lovely, indeed…” Their voice was soft but loud enough so you could hear them clearly as they leaned down to kiss you once more. Again, the kiss was fleeting, but you hardly minded as their lips left a trail from the corner of your mouth down to your neck. 

It was impossible not to cringe away from the contact. Nosramus instantly stopped, pulling away as they searched your face with furrowed brows. You quickly pulled them back down, muttering how you’ll tell them to stop if you didn’t like it. Satisfied with this answer, they leaned back down and placed their grey lips to your heated skin. 

You arched your back and sighed as the overwhelming sensation of fear and uncertainty swiftly morphed into tingling pleasure. Your whole body was sensitive, twitching and jerking as Nosramus’s fingers gently mapped your collarbone, your ribs, your sides, your hips… Their kisses shift further down to your heaving chest. You screw your eyes shut and bite back a moan as they take one of your nipples into their mouth. The warmth of their mouth and the softness of their tongue on your clammy skin was a pleasant contrast that made a throbbing heat pool between your thighs. 

“H-Hmm…~” 

The taste of blood hits your tongue as you rip open a scab on your lower lip. You allow Nosramus to part your legs further, blushing and ultimately covering your face with your forearms as they kiss their way down your abdomen. 

“I hope you can forgive me… I am rather… out of practice in this regard…” As if they need to apologize to you. You would have said as much if the sudden sensation of their wet lips and warm tongue against your sex hadn’t taken you completely off guard. 

“O-Ohh…!” 

For a brief moment, you felt guilty for bucking your hips into the alchemist’s face, but when they hummed softly and grabbed your hips, shouldering your legs over either of their shoulders as they enveloped you fully… S-Shit-! 

Shamefully, you reached climax rather quickly. It built up so suddenly…! You grabbed two handfuls of silver locks and pulled harder than you intended as you were cumming, but Nostramus only groaned softly into you as their tongue worked its wonders… They didn’t pull away when you finished, rather, they took the vial they grabbed earlier and popped it open, coating the fingers on one of their hands before swiftly lining it up with your entrance. 

“A-Ah-? O-Oh… s-shit…” 

It didn’t hurt at all. You were very aroused but your body was still incredibly wound up and unable to relax. You could feel how tight you were but there was absolutely no discomfort as Nosramus slowly thrusted their fingers into you. All the while, they still worked on you with their mouth, licking and sucking on you in just the right way, in all the right places, that another orgasm quickly rose inside of you and was pulled forth from the alchemist’s thin fingers.

Even as you were winded and still shaking from your climax, you knew that it wasn’t fair. You want to make Nosramus feel good too… It was hard to think clearly as they continued to rub that blue liquid all over your nethers, but you managed to grab both their wrist and the front of their robes. 

“I- I… I- I want-” You tug at their clothing once more. Nosramus, mostly obscured by their thick hair, smiled and nodded. 

“Oh, how selfish of me…” They chuckled to themself. 

The silvered haired alchemist pulls away from between your legs, a soft whimper escaping you as you were left empty and still wanting. You waited in anticipation as Nosramus pulled their robe over their head. They were particular in carefully folding the garment and placing it aside before turning back to you.

The candlelight was rather dim but it was as though they held a soft glow in this light. Or perhaps you’ve gone a bit mad… Even completely bare, you struggled to discern their gender. Their shoulders weren’t quite broad but they weren’t a soft slope either. Their chest was soft but not full. Their hips aren't wide yet not narrow… You struggled to take your eyes off of them as you raise to your elbows, toes curling and legs tensing in anticipation. They are so… beautiful… And handsome! You could take them now… But- No, no, you want to give what you have received. 

“H-Hey…” You started as Nosramus moved closer to you. They paused, looking at you as they tilted their head to the side. So much hair… You mindlessly grab a few locks of their hair and rub it between your fingers. 

“Would it be okay if I…” You lick your chapped lips as your eyes trailed down their body, settling on their lap and their partially hidden erection. The corners of Nosramus’s eyes crinkle in aroused amusement as they giggle. 

“Oh! I would love nothing more…” Their voice lowered to a purr as their eyes became hooded. They fluttered their long, white lashes as they traded places with you. 

Nosramus had no reservations about sharing their naked body with you. In a way, you envied how comfortable they were with stretching out before you, spreading their legs apart so that nothing was left to your imagination. And… Oh…? 

Something had caught your eye, but instead of jumping straight to it, you scooted your way between their legs and leaned down to give them a kiss. Your stomach fluttered pleasantly as Nosramus wrapped their delicate arms around your neck. You flicked your tongue out and hummed to yourself as the alchemist parted their lips, deepening the kiss while pressing their thighs against your hips. 

You slip one of your hands down their side, gently grabbing their skin and squeezing it as you make your way to their hips. Nosramus shudders softly as your thumb caresses the skin just above their pubic area. You break the kiss and nearly pause to make sure that they are okay, but swifty resume your movements as they sigh and spread their legs further apart so you have more access to their nethers. 

“Hmm… Your skin is so soft…” The alchemist chuckles breathlessly as you mouth at their neck. You slide your palm towards their erection, curiosity still burning hot in the back of your mind as you feel a soft mound slightly give way before the edge of your pinky finds their length. 

“Mmhmm…~”  Nosramus watches you shift down towards their lap, watching you keenly as your eyes widen slightly in realization. 

“Oh?” So you weren’t wrong then! This is… interesting. 

It gave you pause only because it was so… different to you. The alchemist’s cock was like any other you had seen: a bit on the lengthy side but average in girth, matching the paleness of the rest of their body only instead of being attached to a set of testicles underneath, the underneath base their shaft splits open, into what is very clearly a fairly ordinary looking vagina. Their lips were puffy and mostly closed, but you could see wetness shining in the dim light and in the midst of your fascination, you had grown silent. 

“Strange, isn’t it?” You blink, a knot forming in your stomach as you realize you’ve likely offended them. Nosramus’s tone is gentle and even and their face is as relaxed as it has been since the beginning of your little sexual adventure. Their fingers brush against yours and travel against a part of their length, all the way down to their puffy, pink lips. You almost shook your head, but you paused as they pulled one side of themself open, revealing more of themself to you. 

“A little…” You confess. It felt wrong to lie to the alchemist, especially now, given that you’re seeing a part of them that they likely haven’t shared with many others.

“It’s not unpleasant in any way though. It’s…” You reached out and brushed your fingers against Nosramus’s hand. It was pretty, in a way. It was…-

“Oh, you will make me blush…” Your heart jumps up to your throat as your bed companion’s hand gently pulls you closer to their sexes. Did… you say that outloud? You worried your sore lower lip as your finger traces the swell of their arousal. 

“Would you- Is it okay if I-” Your nethers begin to tingle as Nosramus breathlessly says ‘yes’. 

You had a mind to use the rest of the blue vial they had used on you. You didn’t need to make sure they were okay with it. Their hips shifted in anticipation as you coated your fingers. Excitement was getting the better of them but you liked the change in their demeanor. It was subtle, but their body couldn’t hide how much they craved your touch. As you traced their soft lips, their cock twitched and jumped. Nosramus gasped softly, then sighed, as you brushed your lips against their leaking tip. As you enveloped their head with your lips, you gently pressed your fingers into their warm entrance. 

“A-Ahh…~” 

Your fingers were sucked up to the hilt inside of them. The alchemist’s walls were soft and smooth, tight but willing to flow with the movement of your fingers. It proved to be a little difficult to sync both your mouth and your hand at once but Nosramus didn’t mind. They ran their hands over your arms and shoulders, cradling the back of your head as they tilted their own back with a moan rising to the back of their throat. 

“Oh… Y-Yes…”  

Like you, it didn’t take them long to reach their peak, but it satisfied you deeply to feel their walls clench around your digits and their length to throb and swell in your mouth. The taste of their semen wasn’t as bitter as you expected, nor was it as thick or sticky as anticipated. You swallowed it easily and dragged your lips down their length, sticking your tongue out and lapping at the thin skin that connected their still stiff cock to their wet cunt. 

Nosramus released a noise that went straight to your core. Something akin to a mewl that turned into a wail as they cummed again. They didn’t finish before you were pulled up by your hair and into a toothy kiss. 

You followed Nosramus as they pulled you into their lap. You didn’t hesitate to raise your hips, fumbling as you clumsily lined their cock up to your entrance. Fuck, you needed this…! The blue potion had relaxed your insides completely, allowing you to take the alchemist to the hilt in one smooth and complete motion. 

Ohhh shit-! You’ve never taken a cock like this before…! The skin of their cock was smooth and soft, gliding inside of you with ease. You would have thought yourself a slut in any other circumstance, but this time you were fucking relieved to feel only pleasure and the closeness of another warm body that held you securely in their lap as they rocked you rhythmically. 

You could actually forget about all the terrible things that you saw, even if it was just for a fleeting moment. Maybe you would end up dying in this shitty place, but for now you only had to focus on holding on tight to the alchemist that took pity on you and decided to share one last moment of comfort with you before you faced the dark of the dungeon of Fear & Hunger for the last time. 

Ending H- Just a Little Comfort

@prettycutebunny, @infinitewhore, @kennbb, @slutwithadegree, @dead-bxxxtch-walking, @space-arsonist, @pink-soft-shadow, @sinlessdesire, @hoemine

[chuluoyi]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐋𝐘 (𝐔𝐍)𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋

- sylus x reader

master and servant. man and his right hand woman. you and sylus are labeled many things, but does love exist in many labels of your relationship?

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—angst, fluff, unrequited love, explicit smut, fwb, jealousy, hurt/comfort, description of major injury, blood loss, gore, assassin!reader (not l&ds mc), spoilers! takes place throughout long-awaited revelry

note: my very first love and deepspace fic! :') w.c 5.2k ! i have a severe brainrot omg

Everyone knows of your relationship with Sylus.

The leader of Onychinus and his notorious lady assassin, you two strike fear into his foes and allies alike. You are as deadly as you are beautiful, and that's more or less why he keeps you around.

What everyone doesn't know, however... is that behind closed doors, you too share his wealth and his bed.

“I don't mind to spend the whole night with you,” he’d whisper in your ear seductively at nights, deft and veiny hands roaming your body all over. He often made you ride on top of him, dark burgundy eyes hazed with lust, knowing full well that you desired the very same goal he did.

And you’d respond his hunger with the same fervor, crashing your lips into his, your tongues intertwining, your hips moving vigorously against him.

“Ahh... ah!” Before you knew it, his cock—thick and long in size—slid inside you in such a snug fit, making you throw your head back and dig your sharp nails into his skin.

“Keep me going with your voice, kitten.” Sylus growled, eyeing your wobbling lips and tightly-pressed eyes as he sank even deeper inside you. “Yeah, just like that...”

Sylus always began roughly, seemingly not minding your breathless moans and wishes, and you liked him that way too—

“Is this... all you've got?” you panted in a hoarse voice, sweat lining your neck and forehead, the coil in your belly tightened so deliciously each time he thrusted into you. “Surely... y-you can do better...”

“Ha,” he gave a low snort, his red eyes blazing as he grabbed your bum and squeezed it, making you gasp. “Careful what you wish for... sweetie.”

And then your vision literally tilted upside down—Sylus gladly flipped your position so he could see you even better. This way, he also had even better access to you, intertwining your hand with his, spreading your legs wide so he could rut into you.

“—!” Breath was knocked out of your lungs as immeasurable pleasure washed over you, crashing and receding in an instant. You almost screamed as your back arched.

He broke into a satisfied smirk. “Let it out,” he murmured against your neck, biting gently into your skin, voice muffled. “You never hold back with me, do you, hmm? So, don’t start now.”

“You b-bastard...” you looked up at him with a breathless smile, knowing how close you were to losing your wits.

He simply made your nights worth remember. His allure was undeniable, with a voice that was naturally sultry. And his hands... fuck, they did heaven's work.

It didn't take you long to finally reach your climax, and once you did, your moans were the nastiest all night as you continuously lined his back with scratches.

You could feel how he was chasing his own orgasm all the while, before pulling out right at the last minute and made a mess on your belly, falling beside you.

“Tired?” Sylus’ chest rumbled with laughter as you laid sprawled there in a haze. His eyes narrowed at the sight of your burning cheeks. “I really like this look on your face right now.”

You rolled your eyes, catching your breath and shivered. “I bet you tell that to all other women you manage to lure to your bed.”

“How presumptuous.” He sent you a sour scowl. “I have a high standard— you should consider yourself lucky.”

Well, you do. Holding back a smile, you changed the topic. “I’m cold. Clean me up already.”

“Now, now… what a spoiled little thing you are…” Sylus chuckled, his voice deep and low, yet wrapping his arms around you nonetheless, hoisting you up.

Nights of passion. Mutually beneficial relationship. Nothing more and less.

No strings attached.

This is thrilling. Intimacy without commitment is more than enough to spice your checkered life. After all, what could be better and more rewarding than fucking the hottest man in N109 Zone and getting away with it?

At least, you thought so.

. . .

“Damn, you’re going to make me sore…” you grumbled, letting out a deep sigh as you sank into the sheets after he had cleaned you up, still basking in the afterglow and ready to drift off to sleep. “Ahh...”

Sylus’ lips curved into a wry smile as he watched you make yourself comfortable on his bed, slipping on his black shirt. “Well, I’m just that good, and you did ask for it.”

“Are you going out?” you asked in a small voice, teetering between sleep and wakefulness as you noticed him taking out his favorite gun. “It’s midnight.”

“Luke and Kieran said she has arrived.” Sylus said in low voice, not even sparing you a look. “After all, she has gone through all that trouble to come here, it is only right that I greet her myself.”

The woman. Sylus had told you several times, how a woman with Aether Core and powerful Resonance Evol would eventually come to N109 Zone. And that when the time came, he would make her resonate with him.

A part of you didn’t really know what to feel about this vague plan of his. “Will you bring her here too?”

“I’ll have her stay here until we have reached resonance,” he responded casually while shrugging on his coat.

Sylus valued others depending on their worth. He said it so himself—he isn't a philanthropist. He saw potential in your evol—the Speech Manipulation—which is why he rescued you three years ago, even after you had swung a blade to his throat.

This time must be the same. You played with the edges of your hair. “Well, consider me jealous then. Seems like I’ll have a rival soon.”

Your quip finally caught his attention, as he finally turned to you, one side of his mouth upturned.

“Ha.” Sylus strolled over to where you lay on the bed and placed a hand under your chin, letting out a throaty chuckle. “Is there even anyone brave enough to go against you?”

You shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “We shall see about that.”

Little did you know, the coming of this new girl would be the start of the undoing of your mutually beneficial relationship.

You would've expected the woman bearing Aether Core inside her to be way more interesting than that clueless, weak and easily spooked hunter from Linkon City.

But your and Sylus' definitions of interesting clearly differed though, as you caught him smiling after he pulled the most outrageous stunt on himself— having her shoot him right in the heart.

“She is funny,” he said to himself, almost snickering even as you wiped the blood off his toned body. “She was shaking so much the moment I pulled the trigger.”

“Is that your only finding—” you snapped as you wrapped the bandage around his bare chest, fuming. “—after shooting yourself just to mess with her?”

Luke and Kieran told you how he had used his Evol to pull the hunter girl onto his lap, then handed her a gun and made her shoot him. You couldn't believe it at first, until the sight of Sylus staggering to his bedroom, his shirt bloodied and clutching his chest made you almost scream in horror.

“Is that really necessary?” you scowled, tightening the bandage with more force than needed. “Or are you just trying to get her attention?”

Sylus’ sharp gaze settled on you then, seemingly not taking your comment well.

“What’s got you so worked up about this, hmm?” he asked, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he observed your cross expression. “Last I checked, we agreed not to get involved in each other’s personal affairs.”

Personal affairs, he said? Everything you two had done had long past breached all personal boundaries.

But the fact remains that you two are nothing more than—

“Fine.” You tied the bandage abruptly and about to storm off, making no effort to conceal your ire. You couldn’t say you were worried or that you hated seeing blood smeared across him. That was never in the agreement.

Until you felt a hard tug on your arm—

“And where does the angry kitty think she is going, hmm?”

Before you could discern it, your back was pressed against the wall—your left arm pinned beside your head, with Sylus filling your view.

His sculpted abs were right in front of you for the taking, his scent permeated the air, and his unsettling swirls of crimson eyes had you completely captivated.

“Have I ever told you that you look beautiful when you’re angry?” Sylus laughed as he leaned in, gripping your chin with his other hand. “If I didn’t know you were more than capable of slitting my throat in my sleep, I’d want you to look at me like this every day.”

It struck you how your heart raced wildly under his intense gaze. With his perfect face so close, the only sound that seemed to be most prominent was the pounding of your own heartbeat.

“What’s wrong? We’ve been closer than this,” Sylus taunted with a wide grin, his breath warm against your ear as he pressed his body against yours. “What’s making you so nervous?”

If you knew anything about Sylus, it was that he took pleasure in seeing you squirm in his hold. You glared daggers at him. “I hate you.”

“How lovely.”

“You’re infuriating,” you spat, devoid of any amusement.

He barked a satisfied bout of laugh once again, before releasing your chin. However, to your surprise, that very same hand groped your chest roughly—

“Then perhaps...” he hummed, a wicked glint in his red eyes, whispering to you with sultry voice right before he pulled you into him and devour your lips in heat: “You can help to fix me, sweetie.”

His kisses were hot as his tongue and hands made his mark on your body. Pressed against his bare skin, you gripped his strong, broad shoulders as he lifted your legs to his waist.

As always, he managed to dissolve all your lingering thoughts with lust. You just never knew one day you would finally reach the last straw though.

. . .

"Are you going out again tonight?" you muttered, tracing your fingers along his abs as you lay in his arms, still a bit giddy after your passionate session.

"No, I'm sleepy," he replied quickly, his voice low as he pulled you closer and closed his eyes. "Go to sleep already, kitten."

"I can't sleep."

"Poor you. I can though."

You quirked a frown at him. "You're so annoying these days."

"Oh?" Sylus cracked his eyes open, a smirk on his lips. "If you find me so disagreeable, you can always make me obey you, no?"

Your speech manipulation could make people do your bidding and it was a pretty useful talent. Apart from the first day you met Sylus three years ago in the wasteland of N109 Zone, you had never tried using it on him again.

"I won't, you idiot." You sighed and turned away, your back facing him. The idea of bending him to your will somehow didn't sit right with you. It was against your conscience now.

"Why are you facing away? It's freezing," he grumbled almost in a petulant voice. You nearly rolled your eyes, until you felt his strong arms wrap around your middle from behind.

"Why are you hugging me? We’re not usually this touchy after sex."

"I'm telling you, I'm cold, and you're my heat pillow."

"You're so damn insufferable..."

Despite your sharp retort, a smile found its way to your face. Moments like this were rare, and when he was the one seeking you, you couldn't help these butterflies in your stomach. Still...

You two are not in love, dammit. Sometimes it confused you a great deal. What is love anyway?

“Caw, caw, caw!”

“Mephisto, shush.”

Sylus’ robotic pet crow had surprisingly taken a liking to you shortly after you began living in the base. He obeyed your commands just as he did with his owner. The same couldn’t be said for Miss Hunter though, as Mephisto seemed to have a strong dislike for her.

You were idling at the living room with the crow when you realized how close it was to dawn.

“Luke, Kieran,” you called to the twins, who were bickering over a crate of oranges, frowning. “Where did Sylus go?”

Both stopped and looked at you, and Kieran blurted out, “Boss? Oh, he went out with Miss Hunter!”

You supposed you shouldn’t be surprised, but you were nonetheless. “And he still hasn’t come back?”

“Ah, yeah... but I think they just went on a short errand. He’s probably back or already on his way?” Luke mused, and you clicked your tongue.

It irritated you, it gnawed at you—how Sylus had been spending so much time with that hunter these days. He was trying to make her resonate with him, but still, the way you saw it, he was going through his playbook—

Just as he had done when he pursued you.

Calling her “kitten”, “sweetie”... everything he did with her seemed like a replay of the first year you spent in this place.

Deep down, perhaps you had hoped that, in some way, Sylus would see you as you saw him. Love might be out of reach in your bleak existences, but you at least wished he would consider you an irreplaceable presence.

You were petty, and you knew it.

“Mephisto,” you whispered to the cooing crow as it turned to you pliantly. “Go find and bother her, okay? Don’t let her out of your sight,” you added, letting the bird fly away on your command.

Deciding to rest in his room, you left the living room with a sense of exhaustion. You had stayed up for Sylus on a whim, as he had promised to share his plans for the upcoming auction soon. However, sleeping at dawn was giving you frequent headaches, and the habit was wearing on you.

You took a bath and then headed to his bedroom, and you would have never guessed what scene you'd walk into—

Sylus, in his bathrobe, and that girl… nestled against his chest on his bed. The very same bed where you two made out just the other night.

“Y/N?” Sylus looked at you over the girl’s shoulder, and you were frozen on the spot, feeling an indescribable rush of emotions washing over you.

In the next moment, the hunter girl scrambled away from him in panic, her face flushed with shame. “I-it’s not what it looks like! I swear! Sylus— I was just trying to find his brooch and—!”

In that instant, something inside you turned ice-cold. Her frantic explanations—none of it registered to you. The fact that he let her into his bed was enough for you.

You weren’t sure if Sylus noticed, but your eyes darkened, your fists clenched, and a storm raged within your chest.

“Sorry for intruding,” you said frostily, cutting her off and casting a contemptuous glance at both of them before turning on your heel and slamming the door shut.

It was no use, you finally realized. In this twisted relationship you two shared, there could never be anything more than hot sex and flirtations.

Somehow it hurt more deeply than you expected, as though your heart were being scorched. Yet, you couldn’t even find the tears to cry—as you weren't allowed to do so.

Sylus noticed the change in you immediately.

You vanished from the base and returned in the evening, not sparing him even a look and he could tell then that you had come back a different woman.

And it was the part he hated the most. These days, he couldn't read you at all.

"Luke and Kieran, keep an eye on her tonight," he instructed his two underlings as the two of them were getting ready.

"Who? Miss Hunter?" Luke questioned.

"Or the missus?" Kieran supplied.

Both of them liked you as well. Unlike him, you’d spend your free time indulging their nonsense, and over time, they even gave you that friendly moniker.

They didn't really know the nature of your physical relationship though. Or at least, didn't really know fully.

"The latter," Sylus gruffly replied, and then he went to the hunter girl to prepare her as well.

He had a justified explanation. If you had asked him, he would tell you nothing had happened. Your ire was better than silence, definitely a hundred times better than this.

But why didn't you come to him?

And why does he want you to come and demand him for an explanation?

However, tonight was the auction for the Aether Core. He had to finish this first before he could get a word with you later.

At least that was what Sylus had thought... until he saw you at the auction venue.

You were stunning in that black cocktail dress. He didn’t know when you had your hair done, but you looked as if you had spent the entire day preparing for this occasion despite having barely two hours after coming back. You were definitely a head-turner, drawing the attention of many vermin as you navigated the ballroom with grace and everlasting smile.

And it grated at him. Severely. Sylus's eyes were locked on each lowlife hell-bent on taking his life and desperate to get into your pants, knowing he would end them all tonight.

...and as if it wasn't enough, he then saw you entertaining one of them with that sort of smile you used to reserve for him.

. . .

"Mm-hm, really?"

"Yes, I've heard they are inside the safe number 209."

You coyly smirked, looking the man with mask in front of you, whom you had led to a deserted hallway, who had been complying and smiling at each and every question of yours.

"Thank you then." You flashed him your best smile, about to go back to the main hall.

"And uh, miss," he suddenly turned to you in a flurry. "I believe I haven't gotten your name—"

You chuckled, facing him again. "Oh, you want to know my name?"

"Very much so!"

This was like bread and butter to you. You effortlessly wrapped an arm around the man's neck, standing on your tiptoes, and whispered in his ear:

"Halt."

He went rigid the moment the command left your lips, and you could feel his panic rising as you pulled away.

"W-what happened—!?" he thrashed against the invisible hold manifested by your Evol in pure panic, to no avail, whereas you regarded at him with a cold smile.

"What a shame. I planned to let you be, but then you gave me the perfect opportunity." You maintained your eerie smile as you pulled out a thin, needle-like blade from the hem of your dress. "You have been a great help. Thank you."

With that, you slit his throat, and blood splattered onto the ground in a continuous pool as he jerked, collapsing like a broken statue.

You felt nothing at the sight, but you knew you weren't alone as you felt his presence.

"You started the party without me?" Sylus' deep voice resonated through the hall. "Didn't know you have that much of bloodlust this early, sweetie."

The clench of your heart was still there, even when you had decided to discard all your lingering feelings for this man. Still, you put on the perfect poker face when you met his eyes.

"I want this to be over and done with quick. I'm exhausted already."

Sylus eyed you calmly, yet somehow it felt as if the depths of those red eyes were trying to assess your soul. "Your actions said otherwise. Is flirting with him necessary?"

"You're one to talk, Boss," you scoffed at the last word. "As long as it entertains me, why isn't it?"

Sylus didn't deign you with an answer, and you decided to pour more oil into it.

"Strictly professional, no?" You lifted your chin defiantly. "Last I checked, we were not supposed to meddle in personal affairs—"

You didn't realize it until he did, because the next thing you knew, his right eye suddenly glowed with that terrifying shade of crimson. "You—!"

He has seen it all. In the three years since he took you in, Sylus had never used his Aether Core-infused right eye on you to peek into your mind. The first and only time it had happened was when he restrained you from attacking him on the day you first met.

This was the second time. And now, he knows. Of your petty feelings, of your deepest, truest desire.

At first, Sylus remained silent, but then his eyes narrowed at you, low voice booming through the hall.

"Jealousy is unbecoming on you, Y/N."

And after all that he knew, that was the only thing he could come up with?

You felt shame wash over you. You wanted to run from him. This was too much because he most definitely didn’t reciprocate your feelings, did he?

"I don't want to hear it," you resolved, the space around you felt constricting all of a sudden. You walked past him, about to break into a sprint—

Sylus immediately caught a hold of your arm though, sending a glare at you. "You—"

"It ends here," you blurted in heat. "I don't want it anymore. We're through, Sylus."

"Listen to me!"

He snarled at you, and it was the very first time he did so. However, you paid him no mind and pulled out your ace card, staring hard into his eyes. You could feel the start of his black and red mist, but your Evol was faster—

"Move."

His hold on you loosened, and he jerked back several foot away from the impact. You kept your manipulation on him, avoiding his fury-blazed eyes, bolting away before he could catch you.

. . .

The night escalated so much worse than you had imagined. Explosions and a sudden appearance of an Arbiterwings threw the whole auction into chaos.

You were fighting off the sudden wave of wanderers alone, relying solely on your blade since your voice was too hoarse to use your Evol. When one of them struck you and sent you crashing into a wall, you just sat there in a daze.

It was exhausting. Usually, Sylus would be by your side, covering your back at the very least. He wouldn't let a single scratch get to you. His black and red mist of doom would dominate the battlefield, offering you protection while at it.

You loved that bastard. It was so beyond stupid. Why did you have to ruin everything by having these feelings? If your heart was gone, would these feelings go with it too?

You got your answer sooner than you thought.

White-hot pain engulfed you when something impaled you right in the chest. The searing agony was mind-blinding, the only thing you could discern was your own wails.

No, the feelings didn’t go. Even as you teetered on the brink of death, that damned love only evolved into many regrets.

And in your final moments, you could've sworn you felt the exact moment your heart stopped beating.

"Oh my god! Luke! She is here!"

"Kieran...! Is she alive?!"

"So much blood—! Luke, call Boss! Call Boss here!"

"Boss! We found her!"

"What do we do?! Shit! It's right... in her heart..."

"What!? Boss! S-she is...! Oh lord..."

You had a dream, and it was of your first meeting with Sylus.

Three years ago, in the wasteland of N109 Zone, you were a mere scavenger until he found you. You had thought he was a threat much like others in this lawless city, so you unwittingly showcased your Evol before him in defense, until he pinned you down on the hard ground, crimson eyes holding you in place.

"I'm giving you two options: go with me and live, or die here in vain," he had told you then, a smug smile on his face. "I assure you, so long as you're still useful to me, you won't have to worry about food or roof above your head ever again."

What kind of homeless person would refuse that tempting offer?

Since you followed him, Sylus had never been untrue to his word. He made good of his words, idly engaged you in his circle, showered you with gifts, and at one point—

"You're... trying to tempt me, aren't you?" he growled amidst kisses, pinning you on his desk. Apparently, seeing you up close and personal every day in his home had worn down his patience. He was just a man, after all.

You wickedly giggled, even breathless, cradling both sides of his face and admiring those ruby eyes of his. "What if... I am?"

"Then consider me tempted, little kitten," he chuckled, his baritone voice casting a spell over you. "Remember though, curiosity can kill most cats."

Thus began your thrilling relationship, and you knew you would gladly stay with him just to have a taste of that heaven. And you knew too, he wouldn't cast you easily this way.

And of course, so long as you are useful to him, that is.

When you came to, you felt warm, and your position was so comfortable that you were almost lulled back to sleep.

At first, it didn't register to you where you were. The scene before you was so familiar, but you were so lethargic that you were late to recognize it.

"Awake?"

Sylus' bedroom. The realization dawned on you as that deep, low voice questioned you flatly. You jerked instinctively, looking up at him as he came into view, holding a glass of wine.

He was still the same. Even with you out of commission, he would still indulge himself with his wine. Somehow you couldn't really pinpoint what you should feel about it.

However, Sylus then did the thing you didn't expect him to. He went back to his pantry to get a glass of water, and then he came to your side to prop you up.

"Drink," he commanded, positioning the glass on your chapped lips. You complied and did so, feeling relief for your throat. Once you were finished, he gently laid you back on the bed and tucked you in, never once taking his eyes off you.

"How are you feeling?"

"Have been better," you quipped dryly. Then it dawned on you that he had never been this gentle with you before. He was showing care, which confirmed one theory you had about him: Sylus could be considerate when he chose to be.

The very fact that you ended back here didn't really faze you much, because in the end, you belonged to him out of all people. Just one thing that still didn't make sense in your mind: "What did you do?"

His burgundy eyes squared at you. "What?"

"There’s no way I could've survived that," you mumbled, trying to gauge his reaction. "You must’ve done something."

“Ha, when it comes to these things, you’re sharp,” Sylus said with a light scoff, and you frowned.

"Answer me."

"Aether Core," he supplied. "It was now in you, repairing your coronary system."

"You..." you were rendered speechless. "You—what? You infused my heart with a Protocore...?"

Just like the one in his eye, he had implanted you with that dangerous fragment that was from something as horrific as a Wanderer. The very thought made your breath hitch.

"Stay calm," he commanded, his hand found yours when he noticed your horrified expression, squeezing it as if to provide some sort of reassurance. "You'll be fine."

"H-how... why..."

"That was your only chance, or you would’ve been dead." Sylus' tone was harsher now, his jaw set firmly. "I keep telling you not to rush in carelessly, and yet you did. Did you even know how bad your state was when I found you? No, you didn't."

The way he spoke made you feel as though you were being blamed, and overwhelmed with your frustration, you retorted sharply, "No one asked you to save me."

Awkward silence lingered for a good one minute after your jab. You turned away from him, feeling conflicted, because you knew you should be grateful that he did so, because it meant the Aether Core inside you now was the one he had been looking for in that auction.

He gave it up to save you.

Still, it confused you.

“If I died...” you began, bitterness creeping into your voice. “Then it just means I’m no longer useful to you. You always discard things that no longer serve your purpose.”

You turned back to him, meeting his impassive gaze. “So why? Did you pity me after discovering my feelings? Is that why?”

There are many labels in your relationship. Master and servant. Onychinus leader and his right-hand woman. But you were also his lover, even unsaid. Was that fact that did it? Or a mere charity for the weak, you?

Suddenly, Sylus placed his palm over your chest, right where your heartbeat pulsed. You stiffened, bracing for some sort of impact.

But no, it wasn’t anything sensual like he usually did. His hand—large and warm—was a comforting presence, resting on your chest and feeling the steady rhythm of your heartbeat.

"Haven't I told you that I never act out of pity?" Sylus' voice was strained but softer than usual, his deep burgundy eyes holding yours. "Do you really need me to spell it out?"

You didn't dare to look away, for the moment of truth was right in front of you.

"My only regret is not being able to pull you back," he said quietly, his tone somber. "I shouldn't have let you get hurt."

Oh. You blinked, taking in his sincere words, something inside you softening and warming at his words.

You had noticed it too. Despite his roguish exterior, he had always looked after you during your time together. It was just that you hadn’t dared to hope for more.

“The naughty little kitten has managed to worm her way into me, it seems,” he chuckled then, flashing you that cocky smile. “So now, she has to be held responsible for her actions.”

His red gaze narrowed as he added. “Moreover, since I have saved your life— you owe it to me not to throw it away so easily. So you can’t rush into danger carelessly again, you hear?”

Those playful remarks were enough to dispel your doubts and insecurities. They answered everything you had been questioning, and knowing it, finally you let out a relieved sigh and exasperated snort. “You shameless bastard...”

And when he leaned in to place a fleeting, innocent kiss on your forehead, you realized that, in his own way, he saw you just as you saw him, even if only a little.

Sylus settled into the bed beside you, wrapping his arms around you and letting your head rest on his arm. Tonight, there were no passionate kisses, no steamy foreplay, or dirty talks— just you being alive and well in his embrace.

“How long have I been out?”

“Three weeks, woman. Luke and Kieran keep mourning you everyday.”

“Three weeks?! How did you manage without me for that long?”

Sylus glanced at you, a contented smile on his face as he held you close. “It’s been horrid.”

Neither of you would be caught dead saying “I love you”, and yet, regardless, you knew that right this moment meant so much more.

[calebpups]

May I request dragon Sylus having sex with his mate (reader) for the first time and reader is super nervous cause they need did this before?

PAIRINGS. . . dragon!sylus x dragon!reader

CW. . . smut, mutual virginity loss, praise, softdom!sylus, gentle/slow penetrative sex

you’re already beneath him, breath caught in your throat, wings curled tight to your back like you can make yourself smaller—like maybe the heat rolling off him won’t reach you if you just hide enough.

but he’s not letting you hide.

sylus leans in, one palm braced beside your head, the other tracing the curve of your thigh, slow and patient. his voice is a low purr, threaded with warmth. “you’re shaking.”

“i’m not,” you lie.

he chuckles, lips brushing against your neck. “you are.”

you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. you’ve wanted him—ached for him—for so long. but now that you’re here, bare beneath him, his chest pressed to yours, his maroon eyes dark with hunger, you’re suddenly nothing but nerves.

“it’s just…” you start, voice barely a whisper. “i’ve never—”

“i know.” He cuts you off gently, lifting your chin so you have no choice but to look at him. “me either.”

“what?”

a smirk curves his lips, lazy and teasing. “what, that hard to believe?”

“kind of,” you admit, flushed.

his smile softens into something deeper. “there’s only one mate i’ve waited centuries for.”

his words strike something low and molten in your stomach.

then his hand slides between your thighs, gentle and reverent, but it still makes you gasp. he watches your face as he touches you, as you twitch and gasp under his fingers, and you swear he looks more in awe of you than he ever has before.

“you’re so soft here,” he murmurs, brushing slow strokes along your slick folds, circling where you’re throbbing. “so warm.”

you let out a trembling sigh, thighs trying to close—but his hips slot between them easily, spreading you open again. “don’t hide from me, little flame,” he says, voice low.

he takes his time. he kisses your neck, your collarbone, your chest. he touches every part of you like you’re sacred. like you’re his. and it eases the nerves, melts the fear into something that hums low and needy.

by the time he lines himself up, your body is aching for him, but your mind’s still fluttering with doubt.

“sylus…”

“it might hurt. a little.” he brushes your cheek with the back of his fingers. “tell me to stop if it gets too much.”

he pushes in carefully, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time. the stretch stings, but he soothes you through it—soft praises, kisses at your temple, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on your hip. “that’s it, baby. you’re doing so good for me.”

when he’s finally fully inside, both of you stilled, your breath comes out in a shaky moan. he’s big, and it feels like too much and just right all at once.

“you okay?” he whispers.

you nod, eyes glassy. “yeah. don’t stop.”

he starts to move—slow at first, gentle, dragging every inch of him along your sensitive walls. his pace is tender, controlled, but there’s a fire building behind his eyes like it’s taking everything in him not to let his instincts loose.

you wrap your arms around him, clinging to the heat of his body, your claws just barely digging into his back. “sylus…”

“i got you.” his voice is rough now, cracking with restraint. “you feel so fuckin’ good. like you were made for me.”

every thrust sinks deeper, coaxing your body to open for him, to take him easier, and when you finally moan his name with no fear, only pleasure, sylus growls deep in his chest.

“that’s it, my sweet girl. let go.”

you do—your first time unraveling around him, feeling so full and so claimed you don’t know where you end and he begins. and when he follows, spilling into you with a deep, possessive growl, you realize he’s been holding back for your sake the entire time.

now he’s trembling too. kissing you like you’re the air in his lungs. whispering things in a tongue older than time, sweet and guttural and yours.

masterlist ⋆˚꩜ send me a kofi !

[alygator77]

.ೃ࿐motherhood and matrimony I ch 9 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, smut, fluff, some angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, triggers of prior domestic abuse » 【note, this chapter contains possessiveness, naoya is yandere and not in a hot way, lol. suggestive content and fluff.

ꨄ words: 14.3k

ꨄ a/n. hello darlings, i know it's only been a week but happy early valentines day, here is my gift to you, hehe. it's time to say hi to naoya. this chapter gives you a few different perspectives, but most of it is satoru's! see you at the bottom ♡ (art by @/dmsco1803 on X )

ꨄ taglist: open (ao3)

♬ playlist

series masterlist ꨄ︎ previous chapter ꨄ︎ next chapter →

ch 9 // blood and betrayal

"We have a couple of hours before they come back," Remi murmurs, her manicured nails pressing into the polished wood as she eases the door open, just enough for a figure to slip inside.

And Naoya steps over the threshold without hesitation, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

Gojo’s estate.

It’s even more extravagant than he imagined—pristine marble stretching out beneath his feet, ceilings so high they seem to loom over him, the decor screaming wealth in a way that makes his teeth clench. Everything here is polished, excessive, a testament to the kind of power Satoru Gojo wields without even trying.

Naoya’s fingers flex at his sides, hidden beneath the sleeves of his jacket.

Tch. Flashy bastard.

Adjusting the brim of his cap, sunglasses shield the sharp glint of his gaze as he sweeps the space. He moves with caution, but not fear.

"Where’s the brat?" he mutters.

“Playing,” Remi replies, flicking a dismissive hand before slinking closer, nails skimming along his arm like she’s entitled to touch him.

Those brown eyes of hers glow with a desperate hunger—wide, hopeful, pathetic. Pressing in, her lips are just shy of Naoya’s ear.

“She won’t bother us…” she murmurs.

Exhaling sharply through his nose, he resists the urge to shove her off.

Lapdog.

She’s eager, too eager—always hanging off him like she’s something more than just a convenient distraction. He indulges her, when it suits him. And when it doesn’t? She’s still useful.

With a slight turn of his head, he allows his lips to almost graze the shell of her ear as he murmurs flatly, “The office.”

Remi shivers, mistaking his cold disinterest for something else.

“Right this way,” she hums, syrupy sweet, pleased with herself. “I’ll keep the kid busy, don’t want her recognizing you.”

Naoya doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at her as he steps past. Why would he waste breath on something insignificant? No. His mind is elsewhere, locked on a singular purpose.

Leverage. Dirt. Anything he can sink his teeth into.

When he enters the office, it’s eerily still—clean, untouched. It’s clear that Gojo’s staff keep it impeccably tidy. His gaze sweeps over the space and he catalogues every detail—rich mahogany bookshelves, a sleek black leather chair, floor-to-ceiling windows. The space feels open, exposed. Naoya’s lips curl slightly.

Tch. Everything about this room screams control. No paranoia. No signs of disarray. Just an effortless sense of power. Cocky bastard.

As he moves further inside, his eyes zero in on a single framed photograph, placed at the center of Satoru’s desk. With slow, measured steps, he rounds the desk, fingers trailing lightly over its surface before he lifts the frame into his hands. Immediately, his smirk vanishes.

You. Holding that little brat in your arms, smiling like you belong here. Like this life fits you. Like you’re—

Happy.

You should be his.

His jaw tightens as his fingers curl around the frame, the glass creaking under pressure. For a split second, an ugly thought slithers into his mind—he should shatter it. He should put his fist straight through the grinning faces staring back at him.

But instead, he exhales sharply through his nose and flips the frame face down, watching as it lands with a muted thud against the desk.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Moving on, his fingers trail along the desk’s edges before he crouches slightly, pulling open the first drawer without resistance.

Folders. Contracts. Documents marked with Gojo Corp’s insignia.

Naoya’s smirk twitches.

Idiot.

His phone is out in an instant, the soft click of the camera breaking the thick silence of the office.

Click. Click. Click.

He doesn’t bother reading them. No need. He just snaps photos of anything that might be useful—financial records, legal paperwork, contract renewals. Everything is neatly labeled, categorized, almost too easy to find.

Fucking cocky bastard.

And Naoya moves with purpose, each movement fluid, efficient. This isn’t his first time going through someone’s private affairs—but it is the first time he’s had to do it himself. Normally, this would be a job for someone else. A grunt. Someone disposable.

But things have changed.

With Toji rotting in prison, the damn Yakuza have begun distancing themselves ever since he got released, treating the Zenin like liabilities rather than assets. Their once-limitless resources are dwindling, and with every door that closes in his face, Naoya only feels his hatred grow.

His fingers tighten around the handle of another drawer, yanking it open. He can’t wait to bring Satoru Gojo down. But when he reaches for the last drawer, the one at the bottom—his grip stills. It doesn’t budge.

Locked.

His smirk sharpens.

What are you hiding, Satoru Gojo?

Kneeling slightly, his fingers brush along the handle as he pulls a small, thin tool from his pocket. The lock isn’t complicated—nothing particularly advanced, and it takes seconds. The soft click of the latch releasing is almost satisfying, and as he pulls it open, his smirk widens. But the moment its contents are revealed, he immediately looks down to find—

Nothing.

His eyes narrow as his amusement flickers.

Hm... a distraction? Which means whatever matters isn’t here.

Rolling his shoulders, Naoya exhales sharply before straightening to his full height. He’s wasting time. If Gojo was smart enough not to keep anything incriminating here, then whatever he is keeping must be somewhere more personal.

Upstairs.

His gaze drops to his Rolex watch, then to the door. He still has time. He’ll just have to go deeper.

The house remains unnervingly silent as he ascends the staircase, the kind of quiet that isn’t natural. Most of Gojo’s staff have been paid off for their silence, their loyalty nothing more than a transaction.

Money makes everything easier, doesn’t it?

His fingers trail the smooth banister, and once he reaches the top, he pauses—scanning the hallway. Up here, something feels different… strangely satisfying. Because downstairs had been designed to impress—Gojo’s domain, pristine and curated—a place meant to be seen.

But up here? Up here, the walls breathe. This is where you live.

As his gaze sweeps over the doors lining the hall, he can’t help but notice how everything is perfectly symmetrical—expensive, identical. No labels, no indications, no clues. Just a row of polished wood, concealing whatever lies behind them.

Which one is Gojo’s?

Naoya moves methodically, ghosting through the hallway, and each door he opens only fuels his irritation. A guestroom. A bathroom. A library. He exhales sharply through his nose.

This place is a fucking maze.

His hand falls on the next doorknob, twisting it without hesitation, but the moment it swings open, something inside him stills. Because this isn’t Gojo’s room.

It’s yours.

His fingers flex at his sides.

Fuck…

He shouldn’t waste time. Remi said he only has a few hours. He should keep moving, should focus—but something ugly and possessive coils tight in his chest, sinking its claws into something raw and unsatisfied. And suddenly, his feet are moving on their own.

The door clicks shut behind him, and he immediately can tell that this space is different from the others. Warm. Soft. Laced with something distinctly you—a scent he remembers too well, woven into the very air, clinging to the fabrics, the furniture, the walls.

It doesn’t belong in a house like this.

The rest of the estate drowns in wealth, in cold opulence, in a luxury that doesn’t need to announce itself. And this room is expensive too, of course. Everything about your life is different now. But this—

This is yours.

A sweater draped lazily over a chair. A vanity lined with delicate bottles of perfume, small trinkets carefully arranged as if placed by habit rather than thought. Jewelry. Makeup. Some of it familiar. Things that once belonged in his world. Things that were once his to admire. His jaw clenches as he is reminded yet again.

You’re settled here. Comfortable—

Happy.

Pushing a breath through his nose, his eyes drift toward the far end of the room. An open walk-in closet. Of fucking-course Gojo would give you a closet this big. And so, he moves towards it without thinking, but the moment he steps inside, his fingers flex at his sides.

Fucking hell.

Expensive gowns hang neatly along the racks, luxurious fabrics brushing against his fingertips as he trails them over silk, satin, designer labels—clothes that he knows you wouldn’t have worn before. Not when you were with him. But now, it’s not his money dressing you in these delicate, expensive things. It’s Gojo’s.

Gojo has spoiled you.

Lavishing you in luxuries you never had before—never needed. With Naoya, nothing was ever simply given. No matter how much money he had, you were never entitled to it, and you knew better than to ask.

No—with Naoya, you had to earn things. Had to prove you were worthy of them. Had to be grateful for whatever he decided you deserved. And he let you believe in the illusion of security while ensuring you always needed him.

And you did. You always did.

Or at least… you were supposed to.

The realization curdles something deep in his stomach, a slow, simmering heat that coils tight and bitter in his chest. As his fingers linger over a dress, smooth satin, he can envision you in it and his grip tightens.

Money-hungry bitch.

The thought snaps through his mind like a whip, sharp and instinctive, and he exhales slowly through his nose, forcing his fingers to relax before he rips the damn thing. And so, with measured restraint, he releases the fabric and turns away.

But he’s not done.

His gaze flickers toward your dresser now—a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

What else has Gojo given you?

As he trails his fingers across the glossy surface, tracing idle patterns into the polished wood, he realizes just how untouched it is—pristine, perfectly maintained—like everything in this house. Like you now, perfectly packaged, living in a world of expensive indulgence. A world you should have never been given.

When he reaches for the first drawer, it glides open with ease, and his breath slows. Lace. Satin. Sheer mesh. You always had good taste. His fingers slip between the layers, sinking into the delicate garments—the fragile trim of lace panties, the silken slide of fabric that was made to be touched.

Made to be stripped off you.

He lingers, debating something darker, but he exhales sharply, and with little ceremony, he tosses the garment back, sliding the drawer shut. Still, the fixation doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens.

His gaze drifts to your vanity—a curated shrine of excess. Delicate trinkets, expensive perfumes, meticulously placed cosmetics. A testament to the life you’ve built here. A life you have no right to.

God… he barely recognizes you anymore.

Seeing you at that first charity gala, poised and polished as if you had always belonged in this world, had made his stomach churn. Everything about you had been refined, reshaped, rebranded—until you fit. Until you looked the part of someone who belonged here.

And the worst part?

It suited you. Too well. You looked fucking gorgeous.

Something catches his eye on the vanity—a single tube of lipstick. It stands upright among the rest, and without hesitation, he reaches for it, rolling the cool metal between his fingers, feeling its weight settle in his palm. His breath slows as he uncaps it, twisting the base with careful precision.

The stick rises—smooth, untouched.

Deep red.

The kind of red he’s seen on you before, painted over your lips, smudged at the corners, slick and ruined. The kind of red that stains. You had always left your mark.

He wonders if you still do…

Something bitter simmers in his chest, boiling hot, because the thought of you—fucking Satoru Gojo? Oh, he sees red—the same deep red of that pretty little lipstick.

Jaw tightening, he inhales sharply through his nose, forcing himself to shake it off, to think. His gaze shifts, flickering toward your bed, and the tension in his chest loosens just slightly, amusement creeping in.

Separate beds.

His teeth graze his bottom lip as he exhales, slow and controlled. Maybe Toji was fucking with him. Because there was no way you were actually sleeping with Gojo. No. You wouldn’t.

With a quiet click, he shuts the lipstick, placing it back with calculated precision, exactly where he found it. But just as he moves to step away, a subtle glint of silver against the vanity’s surface catches his line of sight.

A heart-shaped locket.

His brow twitches as he reaches for it, fingers brushing over the delicate chain before lifting it into his palm. It’s light. Fragile. But he knows better. Sentimental things like this always carry more weight than they should.

His thumb presses against the tiny clasp, prying it open with careful precision. But the moment it clicks apart, everything inside him stills.

Your smiling face stares back at him—bright, radiant—pressed against Gojo’s side. His lips graze your cheek, your fingers curled around his sleeve, clinging to him.

Something snaps.

A fire ignites in his chest, hot and consuming, scorching every last thread of restraint he has left. His breath pushes through his nose in slow, seething exhales as something bitter coils tight in his throat.

How dare you.

How fucking dare you.

That should be his.

His life.

His claim.

His fingers clench into a fist at his side, nails biting deep into his palm, but the pain barely registers. His grip only tightens—tighter, tighter—until something warm, something wet, slips between his fingers.

He blinks, a dull ache spreading through his palm. Then, the color registers.

Blood.

His own nails have carved into his skin, deep and unrelenting, the slow trickle slipping down his wrist, speckling the plush carpet, staining the floor beneath him.

Tch. Sloppy.

“Fuck…” The curse is low, sharp—a quiet snarl as he forces himself to inhale, prying his fingers open. The sting of torn flesh burns now, but he barely feels it. He wants to shatter the locket. Wants to crush it beneath his boot, grind it into the floor, leave it in ruins.

But no. That would look suspicious.

With measured care, he sets it back onto the vanity, his fingers steady despite the tension locking his jaw. Exhaling through his nose, he shakes his head and steps back, scanning the room—calculating his next move.

Bathroom.

Without another thought, he turns on his heel, striding toward the en-suite. As soon as he enters, he pulls open the nearest cabinet, snatching a neatly folded hand towel. The white cloth darkens instantly, soaking through with red as he wraps it tightly around his injured hand—twisting the fabric to apply pressure. It’ll hold for now.

His gaze shifts toward the opposite end of the bathroom—to the second door—the one leading to Gojo’s room.

Finally.

With quiet, measured steps, he crosses the room, fingers curling around the handle. The door gives with ease, swinging open into a space that grates against his nerves the moment he steps inside.

Everything about this room pisses him off.

It’s too open, too spacious—like Gojo needs the entire goddamn house to accommodate his oversized ego. High ceilings, sprawling windows, furniture arranged with an effortless elegance that speaks of obscene wealth, yet complete indifference toward it.

Naoya moves with purpose, tearing through Gojo’s things with sharp, practiced efficiency. Drawers snap open, their contents rifled through and discarded without care. Watches, expensive cufflinks—all useless.

…Digimon cards? The fuck is this?

He exhales sharply, irritation mounting. None of it matters. He’s looking for something else. Something he can use. Something—

The next drawer slides open—his breath slows.

Fabric. Soft, delicate. Not Gojo’s.

Your panties.

Here.

In his drawer.

As his fingers brush against the lace, his breath sharpens—fully registering what he’s holding. The material is familiar—the color, unmistakable. His favorite pair.

Realization seeps in, cold and ugly. He grips them tighter, lifting them slightly, rubbing the fabric between his fingers again, slower this time. The answer is instant, undeniable.

They’re used.

Recently.

His stomach twists, a sharp, curdling heat spreading through his ribs as he raises them to his face without thinking—closing his eyes to inhale.

The scent is instant.

The reaction is immediate. His head buzzes with static, a roaring white noise as something vile slithers through him, coiling, sinking deep. It spreads through his chest like rot, like poison, acidic and suffocating.

You’re fucking him.

This isn’t speculation. This isn’t a lie he can tell himself, a suspicion he can twist to suit his own reality. This is proof. Right here. In another man’s drawer. Taunting him. Mocking him. Stained with the remnants of whatever the fuck you did this morning.

“Whore,” he spits the word out through clenched teeth as he shoves the lace deep into his pocket.

His fingers twitch, his whole body vibrating with the urge to destroy, to ruin, to rip every trace of Gojo out of your life until you have no choice but to remember who you belong to. He should burn this entire fucking house to the ground. Should leave nothing behind but ash.

But not here.

Not now.

Not yet.

Grinding his molars, he rips his phone from his pocket, pulling up your contact with a punishing force. His vision blurs at the edges, rage surging through him like a live wire as his thumb flies across the screen.

At first, he doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. The words spill out, venomous, ugly, a raw, unfiltered snarl of possession and rage.

You little fucking whore. Did you spread your legs for him? You’re nothing without me. I swear to god I’m going to teach you a fucking lesson.

His chest rises and falls with sharp, seething breaths as he stares at the message. His anger, his unraveling, right there in damning black and white. The message hovers, unsent, his thumb poised—

No.

A sharp exhale flares through his nose, and he begins to tap delete. One by one, the words vanish, swallowed by the empty space they leave behind.

He may be seeing red, but he’s not stupid. No. He’s better than this. Smarter than this. Leaving proof would be careless, would be something Gojo could use against him.

Instead, he reels himself in, inhales through his nose, forces himself to recalibrate. He types again, but this time, it’s different. This time, it’s careful. A reminder—a whisper of something softer.

Something that he knows will send you spiraling.

We need to talk. When can I see you? Just... be good for me.

The second it’s sent, he exhales, forcing his shoulders to roll back, his body still vibrating with barely restrained fury. His eyes track the screen, watching the small confirmation appear.

Delivered.

Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he rolls his neck, stretching out the tension coiled tight in his muscles. He knows you won’t respond right away—you never do. You’ll hesitate, you’ll overthink. But in the end, you always come back. You always give in.

For now, he still has work to do.

His gaze flicks back to the room, scanning once more, searching. Then he sees it.

A safe.

Tucked neatly into the corner of the closet, hidden but not invisible. The kind of thing most people wouldn’t think twice about, but Naoya’s trained eye spots it instantly. A smirk tugs at his lips as he steps forward, crouching slightly. His fingers skim over the dial, testing the resistance. Locked.

Of course it is.

No matter. He’s cracked safes before. It just takes time. He presses his ear close, ready to test the first turn—

But then, a sharp buzz vibrates in his pocket.

His head snaps down, irritation flickering in his expression as he pulls his phone out. And the second he sees the screen, his breath stills for half a second.

Your name. Your response. Faster than he expected.

Okay. You want to talk, so let’s talk. Tomorrow. Noon. Shirogane Park.

His lips press into a thin line. For a split second, he lingers on it, surprised at the speed. At the fact that you agreed so easily. But before he can sit on the thought for too long, his gaze flicks to the time displayed on his phone—

“Shit...”

The safe will have to wait. He doesn’t have time to crack it now.

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, Naoya pushes off his knees and moves, retracing his steps down the hall. He’s wasted time—too much fucking time. He should be gone by now, should have what he came for—whatever’s inside that safe—but instead, he’s leaving empty-handed, bleeding, and pissed the fuck off.

By the time he reaches the foyer, Remi is already waiting near the entrance, shifting from foot to foot. The moment she sees him, her eyes widen, flickering down to his wrapped hand.

"Naoya, what—?" Her hands reach out instinctively, fingers barely grazing his arm before he shrugs her off, stepping past her without a glance.

She hurries after him, undeterred. "You're hurt," she presses, her voice laced with something too close to genuine concern. "What happened?"

"Not your fucking business." His tone is clipped, dismissive. When she flinches, he barely suppresses an irritated sigh.

Her hands hover near his injured one again, hesitant but persistent. “You’re bleeding all over—let me—”

"Who's that?"

Naoya freezes.

A chill spreads through Naoya’s limbs, stiffening his spine as he turns his head, slow and deliberate, toward the source of the voice.

A little girl. His little girl.

Haru stands just beyond the doorway, small fingers curled into the hem of her dress, wide, curious eyes flicking between them.

His stomach knots, breath hitching before he catches himself. His disguise holds—cap pulled low, sunglasses shielding his face—but for a split second, something ugly and panicked churns in his gut.

Does she recognize him? Can she?

His fingers twitch.

Remi recovers first, voice high-pitched, too eager to smooth over the tension. "Oh, sweetheart, he's just my friend," she coos, stepping forward quickly, placing a gentle hand on Haru’s shoulder. "But he’s leaving now.”

Haru tilts her head slightly, staring at him a moment longer. Naoya doesn’t breathe. Then, to his surprise, she nods.

"Okay."

His shoulders relax—just slightly, relief fleeting—until—

“Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?”

He barely has time to process the question before she follows it up with something far worse.

"I like 'toru’s sunglasses more."

A slow, seething heat spreads through his chest, curling around his ribs, tightening like a vice.

Remi laughs, nervous and rushed. "Oh, honey, you’re so silly!" She reaches out, smoothing a hand over Haru’s hair, a little too eager to redirect. "Why don’t you go play, baby? I’ll be right there, okay?"

Haru looks at Naoya once more—just a glance, just long enough to make something curdle inside him—before nodding and skipping back down the hall.

The second she’s out of sight, Naoya rounds on Remi.

"You let the fucking kid see me?" His voice is sharp, cutting, barely above a whisper but full of venom.

Remi flinches. "I—I didn’t know she was still up—"

"Sloppy," he spits, stepping closer, heat radiating off him in waves. "You’re fucking sloppy, Remi. I told you to keep an eye on her. That’s your only fucking job."

"I know, I—"

"You’re fucking useless."

Her lips part, breath hitching as her face crumples, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Pathetic. Annoying.

He exhales sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself to cool down. "Just… be good for me, yeah?" His voice dips lower, smoother, but the bite is still there, lethal beneath the softness. "Go upstairs and clean up the blood before they come back."

Remi swallows, nodding quickly before turning on her heel and hurrying up the stairs, her movements rushed, frantic.

Naoya watches her go, jaw tight, fingers flexing at his sides.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he’ll remind you exactly who you belong to.

ꨄ

The limo glides to a stop, the soft hum of the engine fading as Ichiji shifts into park. You exhale, rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of the day. The golden hues of the setting sun spill across the Gojo estate, stretching long shadows over the driveway. But even the familiar sight of home does little to ease the tightness in your chest.

Beside you, Satoru lets out a slow sigh, shifting the thick folder of paperwork in his lap. His long legs stretch out in front of him, casual, unbothered—like the weight of today hasn’t been pressing into him, too. His sunglasses still rest on the bridge of his nose, but you can feel his gaze settle on you.

“You okay?”

You nod, reaching for the door handle just as Ichiji steps out to open it for you. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

It’s not a lie—the day has been long, mentally draining in ways you haven’t fully processed yet. Between the looming custody battle, the exhausting legal back-and-forth with Suguru, and the ever-present weight of Naoya’s shadow curling around your mind, your body feels like it’s made of lead.

Satoru hums, shifting the folder under his arm. “Suguru said to bring your documents next time,” he reminds you. “Both for the child support and the ones Naoya served you.”

You nod, stepping out onto the driveway. “Yeah… they should still be in my nightstand.”

Satoru follows after you, stretching his arms above his head before tilting his head with an exaggerated hum. “Your nightstand, huh?” a slow smirk curls on his lips. “Hope I don’t find anything scandalous.”

Rolling your eyes, you nudge him lightly with your elbow as you pass. “Shut up.”

His laughter follows you as you step through the entrance, but before you can say anything else, the sound of little feet pattering against the hardwood echoes from down the hall.

“Mama!”

Haru’s voice rings bright, lifting the heaviness from your chest in an instant. Before you can react, she’s already barreling toward you, small arms wrapping tight around your legs.

Your heart softens, exhaustion momentarily forgotten as you crouch to her level, brushing a hand through her hair. “Hey, baby,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Did you have fun today?”

She nods enthusiastically, rocking on her heels. “We watched a movie! I drew a picture—oh! Come look Mama!”

You smile, smoothing back a stray strand of hair. “I’d love to see it.”

Satoru steps past you, shifting the folder under his arm. “I’ll grab your papers,” he says, already making his way toward the stairs.

You nod absentmindedly, barely registering his words as Haru tugs at your hand, leading you eagerly toward the living room.

Taking the stairs at an easy pace, Satoru moves with unhurried strides, letting the faint hum of conversation from downstairs settle in the background. The house is quiet, undisturbed—yet as he nears your room, something feels… off.

A figure kneels in front of your vanity, back turned to him, her posture hunched, the rhythmic sound of fabric scrubbing against the carpet breaking the silence. Satoru slows—steps light, gaze sharpening.

Remi?

She doesn’t notice him at first, too focused on whatever the hell she’s doing, her shoulders rigid as she drags a damp rag over the floor in slow, deliberate strokes. The sharp scent of cleaner lingers in the air, but it does little to mask what she’s trying to erase.

Red.

Satoru leans against the doorframe, arms folding over his chest. “What’s that?”

Remi jolts, her body going stiff before she turns halfway, eyes widening like a cornered animal. But she recovers quickly, straightening as she tucks the rag into a small plastic bucket beside her.

“Oh—just cleaning up,” she says too lightly, too quickly. “I—I spilled something earlier. Cut myself while wiping it up. Nothing serious.”

Satoru quirks a brow, his gaze dropping to her hands.

No cuts. No bandages. No blood on her fingers.

His eyes shift back to the stain, lingering just a second too long. The silence stretches between them.

Then, he exhales through his nose, pushing off the doorframe. “Be more careful next time,” he mutters, brushing past her as he steps inside your room.

She nods quickly, relief flickering across her face as she turns back to her scrubbing.

He should press further. Should ask why the hell there’s blood on your carpet. Should question why she looks like she’s barely holding herself together under his gaze. But he doesn’t

Because he’s exhausted.

Because today has drained him in ways he doesn’t have the energy to unpack.

Because he’s trying—really fucking trying—to make sure you’re at ease.

Safe.

You need to feel safe. That much is non-negotiable.

The way you reacted to Naoya’s text? He’s never seen you like that before. That single message sent you spiraling, and he saw it all—the way the color drained from your face, how your breathing turned uneven, how you couldn’t even look at the screen without your hands shaking.

That wasn’t just fear. That was something deeper. Something lived in. And that pisses him off more than he knows how to put into words.

His jaw clenches as he moves toward your nightstand, pulling the drawer open with ease. Just as expected, the crisp stack of legal documents sits exactly where you left them. His fingers curl around the papers, grip tightening just a little too much.

Naoya… fucking prick.

Satoru already had enough reasons to hate the bastard, but now? Now it’s different. Because this isn’t about old grudges or petty feuds—this is about you.

Shaking off the slow burn simmering under his skin, he takes the papers, shuts the drawer with a quiet thud, and heads back downstairs.

His steps remain unhurried, just as they were before, but his mind isn’t. Irritation lingers at the edges of his composure, gnawing at him, but he shoves it down, forcing it into that familiar compartment where he locks away everything that threatens to throw him off balance.

By the time he reaches the first floor, the hum of conversation between you and Haru filters in from the living room, grounding him just enough. Without a word, he moves past the foyer, pivoting toward his office with the folder tucked securely under his arm.

The door clicks shut behind him, sealing him into the quiet. Everything is just as he left it—pristine, precise. Unlike his office at Gojo Corp, which is more of a curated disaster, this space is controlled. Every document stacked neatly, every file aligned with sharp precision, not a single thing out of order.

And yet… something doesn’t sit right.

His fingers drum against the polished wood of his desk as his gaze sweeps over the room. Nothing is visibly out of place, but there’s a nagging itch at the back of his mind, something subtle but persistent, like an off note in an otherwise perfect melody.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s nothing.

Satoru has never needed much sleep. Four hours is a luxury, three is the standard, and anything less? Just another part of his reality. He’s learned to function on exhaustion, to push through it with the same effortless charm that convinces everyone he’s untouchable, unbothered—unaffected by the weight pressing down on him.

It’s just another mask. One he wears so well, even he forgets it’s there sometimes.

And now, ever since he took over Gojo Corp, the days have stretched longer, the nights shorter. The weight of responsibility never really eases. But with Naoya clawing his way back into your life, with the custody battle looming like a goddamn storm cloud, sleep is even more of an afterthought. Especially since he’s been working on something for you.

His jaw tightens slightly as he exhales, rolling his shoulders.

He hasn’t told you yet—not because he’s hiding it, but because he wants it to be a surprise. A fully staffed, fully equipped on-site daycare at Gojo Corp. Something designed with you in mind. Because he never wants any of his employees to go through the same bullshit you did before you married him. He remembers it too well—how you had to balance everything alone, how the world made it so damn difficult for a single mother to simply exist without constantly fighting for scraps.

He never wants you to worry about that again. And if he can make sure no one else has to deal with it either? Then it’s worth every sleepless night.

Still.

His gaze flickers to the folders on his desk. They look untouched—stacked neatly where he left them. But something nags at him. As he slides one open, flipping through the pages, everything is in order. No missing documents. No sign that anything’s been moved.

So why does it feel like they have?

He’s about to dismiss the feeling entirely, chalk it up to exhaustion, but then his eyes land on something else. His photo—one of you and Haru—lying face down on his desk.

His breath stills for half a second. Did he leave it like that?

Frowning, he reaches out, flipping it over with careful precision. His thumb drags along the edge of the frame, his jaw tightening as something uncoils low in his gut—but he pushes it away.

Nah… It’s fine.

It has to be fine.

He’s too fucking tired to dwell on it. Too drained to pick apart another thread when everything else is already unraveling at once. He needs to reset. A shower, maybe? Wash off the weight of the day, let the hot water unknot the tension clinging to his body.

Or maybe… something else. A different kind of relief.

Your panties.

Still tucked away in his dresser, untouched since his last indulgence in you. The thought alone sends a slow, simmering heat curling low in his stomach, exhaustion momentarily pushed aside by something darker, something hungrier.

Yeah. A ‘shower’ sounds good.

Rolling his shoulders, he stands, dragging a hand over his jaw as he steps out of his office. The sound of your voice drifts through the house, light and warm, blending with Haru’s bright giggles. It stops him for a fraction of a second, just long enough to take it in.

That sound—it’s starting to feel like something he craves.

When he steps into the living room, you don’t notice him right away, too focused on Haru as she excitedly waves her latest drawing in front of you. He lingers in the doorway, watching the two of you—so soft, so at ease, so different from how you’d looked earlier when Naoya’s text ripped through you like a slow, suffocating vice.

Good. You should be at ease.

Closing the distance, he leans down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your cheek. You glance up, blinking in mild surprise, but he only smirks.

“Gonna get cleaned up,” he murmurs.

You nod, already distracted again as Haru tugs on your sleeve, eager to keep your focus.

Satoru watches you for a beat longer before turning on his heel, heading upstairs—already anticipating what waits for him in his nightstand—eager to rub one out.

At this point, it’s almost routine—indulging in thoughts of you when the weight of everything gets too fucking heavy. Ever since that first time outside the bathroom, you’ve been stuck in his head, impossible to shake.

His hand is already on the drawer handle the moment he steps into his room, fingers curling around the wood as he pulls it open—

Gone.

Satoru stills.

For a second, he just stares at the empty space where they should be. Blinking once, then twice, before rifling through the contents. Pushing things aside. Checking beneath them.

Nothing.

What the fuck?

He knows he put them here. He’s messy, sure, but he’s not careless. There’s a method to his madness, an order to the chaos. And his memory? Razor-sharp. Too sharp for something like this to slip past him.

So where the fuck are they? Did someone move them?

Then, from the next room, he hears it—the slow, rhythmic drag of fabric against carpet.

Scrubbing.

His gaze flicks toward the en-suite, the door leading to your room cracked open just enough for the scent of cleaner to seep through.

Remi.

Exhaling slowly, he schools his expression, steps forward, and slips through the bathroom. When he leans against the doorway, she’s still kneeling, still scrubbing the same goddamn spot she was working on earlier. Her movements are slow, methodical.

Satoru tilts his head. “You wouldn’t have, by chance, gone through my nightstand, would you?”

Remi freezes. It’s subtle, a small pause, barely a second, but he catches it. Then, she forces a laugh, shaking her head as she resumes scrubbing.

“What? No, of course not.”

Satoru hums, tapping his fingers against the doorframe. But he doesn’t press, doesn’t push—just watches.

Something about Remi is… off. The way she keeps her head ducked, the way her shoulders stay unnaturally stiff as she scrubs. Like if she just focuses hard enough, she can will him away.

Suspicious.

But why the hell would she take your panties? Of all things—that’s a weird fucking thing to steal.

His mind shifts, gears turning, peeling the situation apart and assessing it from a different angle. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe… it was you.

His lips twitch.

Now that seems more likely.

Pushing off the doorframe, he exhales slowly through his nose, rolling his shoulders as he turns on his heel. Fine. If it was you, he’ll just confirm it himself.

Descending the stairs, the low hum of conversation meets him before he even steps into the living room. Haru sits on the floor, brow furrowed in focus as she drags a colored pencil across a page. Meanwhile, you’re curled up on the couch, one knee tucked under the other, a throw blanket over you, watching her with a soft, easy smile.

Satoru moves behind you, slow and deliberate, dipping down just enough to thread his fingers through your hair, letting them linger.

“Hey.”

You glance up at him, brow arching at that look on his face. “Hmm?”

He studies you for a moment, letting the silence stretch just enough to make you suspicious. Then, voice smooth, he asks, “Did you take them?”

Your expression scrunches in confusion. “Take what?”

“My souvenir,” a slow smirk tugs at his lips.

Your brows knit. “Souvenir?”

“From this morning.”

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Satoru... what the fuck are you talking about?”

He sighs, dramatic and put-upon, as if this should be obvious. “Your panties.”

And there it is.

He watches, thoroughly entertained, as the realization creeps over your features. Your lips part, then press together, heat crawling up your neck, blooming across your cheeks.

“What—my panties?”

He nods, dead serious. “Gone. Missing. Vanished into thin air. They were in my nightstand.”

You scoff, pulling the throw blanket higher over you, half as a shield, half as an excuse to do something with your hands. “I… didn’t even know you had them.”

Satoru tuts, shaking his head like he’s deeply disappointed. Then, without missing a beat, he dips lower, his lips brushing against the soft curve of your neck before murmuring, “Guess I’ll just have to take a new pair… maybe right off you.”

Your breath hitches—just a fraction, barely noticeable, but he catches it. The way your shoulders stiffen, the flicker of heat that rises to your cheeks before you shove at his chest.

“Go away.”

He chuckles, stepping back with his hands raised in surrender, soaking in the way you glare at him, the way you try—and fail—to play it off. He enjoys this too much, watching you squirm, seeing how easily he can fluster you.

But even as he smirks, his mind is already miles away. Because if it wasn’t you… then who the hell took them?

The panties.

The photo of you and Haru—face down.

The off feeling in his office, the one he ignored.

The bloodstain Remi was scrubbing.

One coincidence is nothing. Two is annoying. But this? This is too many fucking things at once. It makes a slow, icy sensation creep along his spine.

Someone’s been in his house.

He lingers longer than he means to, his body still, the gears turning behind his eyes. And then—

“I thought you were gonna get cleaned up?”

He blinks, drawn back to the present. You’re watching him now—fuck, you’re too damn observant. Why is it that out of everyone, he can never hide this façade from you? Not completely—but he tries.

Because if someone has been in the house—if someone’s been bold enough to fuck around where they shouldn’t—you don’t need to know.

He’ll handle it.

This is your home. You should feel safe here.

That’s his job.

Rolling his shoulders, he schools his expression, slipping back into something effortless, easy. “Actually,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “just remembered I gotta call Suguru—something about the case.”

Your eyes narrow slightly, studying him. But you don’t press.

“Oh, okay.”

He grins, tapping his fingers against the couch as he steps back with a wink. “Don’t miss me too much.”

You scoff, shaking your head at his antics, a small grin playing on your lips.

And then, just like that, he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him as he steps into his office, and his expression shifts the second he’s alone—the playfulness evaporating.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, swiping the screen before bringing it to his ear. The line rings once—twice—before Suguru picks up.

“Didn’t think I’d hear from you again so soon,” Suguru sighs. “What’s up?”

Satoru gets right to the point.

“Someone’s been in my house.”

A pause. Then—

“What do you mean?”

Satoru moves toward his desk, dropping into the leather chair with a bit more force than necessary, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His feet prop up onto the desk, but the usual laziness in his posture isn’t there.

“I mean someone unwelcome,” he mutters, his jaw tightening. “Shit’s been moved in my office.”

Suguru exhales, unimpressed. “Satoru, your office is always a fucking mess. If something’s out of place, that’s probably on you.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow. “Not that office—this one. My study at home. It’s neat. Always.”

Suguru hums, not convinced but not dismissing it. “Alright. Go on.”

Satoru leans forward, elbows braced against the desk, rubbing his knuckles over his temple.

"The files on my desk? They were misaligned, Suguru. Barely, but I know it. My shit was touched."

“Hm.”

“And the picture.”

“What picture?”

Satoru clenches his jaw. “The one of her and Haru. It was face down on my desk.”

Silence. Then, Suguru clicks his tongue.  “Could’ve been one of the cleaners. Maybe they knocked it over when dusting.”

Satoru barely acknowledges the suggestion; his thoughts are moving faster than his mouth—his fingers tap against the desk.

“And then, the panties.”

Suguru coughs. “The what?”

“The panties I had of her,” Satoru repeats, irritation bleeding into his tone. “They were in my nightstand. But now, gone. Like they were never fucking there.”

Suguru goes completely silent for half a beat. Then—he bursts into laugher.

“Oh yeah, definitely sounds like a home invasion,” he chokes out between chuckles. “Panty theft is a serious crime, you should probably call the authorities.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling."You done?"

"No, no, go on," Suguru snickers. "This is getting good."

Satoru forces a slow breath through his nose, rubbing his temples. "Oh, go fuck yourself. You’re missing the point."

Suguru snorts, the laughter still dying in his throat. "Which is…?"

Satoru grips the phone tighter. His voice dips. “Someone was in my room. And…” his voice lowers, “there’s the last thing.”

Suguru hesitates, exhaling slowly. "What is it?"

Satoru leans back in his chair, tipping his head against the cushion as he stares at the ceiling. His fingers drum once against his thigh before stilling.

"I walked into her room earlier." A slow inhale."The nanny was scrubbing blood out of the carpet."

Suguru doesn’t say a fucking word. No snark. No sharp, witty comment. Nothing.

Just silence.

“…did she say where it came from?”

“She said she cut herself,” Satoru mutters. “But there wasn’t a scratch on her. I don’t trust her.”

The line stays quiet for another long, heavy beat.

Then, Suguru exhales. "Alright, let’s say someone was in your house,” His voice is different now—measured, calculating. “What’s your gut telling you?”

Satoru stares at the ceiling, jaw flexing.

“Nothing good.”

"Check your security feed," Suguru says. "Let’s see if your gut is right."

Satoru’s fingers tighten around his phone. Yeah… good point.

He doesn’t waste time, flicking his laptop open with a sharp movement, the cool glow of the screen casting shadows across his face. The security system interface pops up, and his fingers move with precision, clicking through menus.

“Pulling it up now,” he mutters, voice clipped.

Suguru hums on the other end, waiting as Satoru scrolls through the timestamps, looking for today’s footage. His eyes skim down the list—

Then stop. His cursor hovers over empty space.

Where the fuck are the files?

Suguru notices his pause. “Well?”

Satoru’s expression darkens.

“It’s gone.”

Suguru’s tone sharpens immediately. “What do you mean, gone?”

Satoru clicks through different dates, different times—nothing. The footage from earlier today has been wiped. His jaw locks as a slow, creeping burn curls at the back of his mind.

"Deleted," he grits out.

A slow exhale filters through the speaker. Suguru is quiet for a long moment before finally speaking. “You’re sure?”

Satoru huffs out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “You think I’m making this shit up?”

Satoru is pissed. Because this isn’t a glitch—it’s not a fucking accident. The files aren’t corrupted—they’re gone. Which means someone wiped them. Someone inside. Someone with access.

A traitor.

His chair scrapes against the floor as he leans back, drumming his fingers against the armrest, his face eerily calm despite the fire simmering beneath his skin.

“I’m firing them all.”

Suguru doesn’t react immediately.

“…all?”

Satoru’s voice is cold. “Yup. Every last one of them. Only Ichiji stays.”

Suguru hums. “His loyalty’s not in question?”

“Not even a little,” Satoru mutters. “He’d rather fucking die than betray me.”

Another pause. Suguru knows better than to argue when Satoru makes up his mind. But then, his tone shifts—lighter, edged with sarcasm.

“Alright, genius… so who’s gonna watch Haru if you fire everyone?”

Satoru stills. Fuck.

His fingers tighten against the leather armrest. The daycare at Gojo Corp—his solution, his answer—wasn’t ready yet.

Which means…

Remi.

His jaw flexes, the weight of it pressing into his ribs. She can’t stay.

“I don’t fucking trust her, Suguru.”

Suguru doesn’t argue. “Yeah. I don’t either.”

That should be satisfying—should be a confirmation of what Satoru already knew. But it isn’t. Because it doesn’t change a damn thing.

Satoru drags a hand down his face. “Then what’s the move here? Because I’m not keeping her around just to get proof.”

“That proof could help us in court.” Suguru’s says, voice even. “If she’s working with the yakuza, that’s a direct link to Naoya. You get something on her, you might have what you need to—”

“I’m not putting them in danger for that.”

The words are sharp, leaving no room for debate.

Suguru exhales through his nose. “I figured you’d say that.”

“Then why the fuck did you—”

“Because I ran into Nanami the other day.”

Satoru blinks. “Nanami?”

“Yeah,” Suguru says easily. “At that bakery he loves—the fancy-ass one with the overpriced croissants. He’s back in town from Malaysia.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, rubbing his jaw.

Nanami Kento.

They went to high school together. He’s former Japan Special Defense Force. Retired. Precise, calculated, deadly when he needs to be.

And—most importantly—not a fucking traitor.

“If you’re going to wipe your entire staff, you need someone reliable to step in. Someone who can make sure your wife and kid don’t get caught in whatever the fuck this is.”

Satoru exhales slowly, running his tongue over his teeth. Nanami was always the first choice when shit needed to get done.

“You think he’d take the job?” Satoru mutters, “Nanami’s retired…”

“I think you should give him a call.”

ꨄ

By the time the sun dips below the horizon, they are all gone.

Every single one of them—except Ichiji and Remi (for now).

Satoru wasted no time. He never does. The second he ended his call with Suguru, he moved. Immediate terminations. No second chances. No hesitation. A single decision, executed with the same precision he applies to everything in his life.

And still—he isn’t cruel.

They all left with generous severance packages,enough to land on their feet. Because after watching you lose everything—your job, your security, your sense of stability—he decided a long time ago that he wouldn’t do the same to others. Even the ones he no longer trusts.

But that’s where his kindness stops. Because right after that, he made another call.

Nanami.

Now, after the exhaustion of handling this mayhem, Satoru finds himself drawn to the kitchen. The house is eerily quiet—emptier than it’s ever been, the usual hum of staff activity reduced to nothing. But here, in this small corner of warmth, he follows something softer.

Vanilla. Buttercream.

And you.

Standing at the counter, barefoot and at ease, piping delicate swirls of frosting onto freshly baked cupcakes. There’s a faint dusting of sugar on your wrist, the glow of the overhead light catching in your hair, casting a soft halo around you.

God you’re perfect.

It’s a picture of normalcy. And Satoru is starving for it.

It’s too easy to slip behind you—to pull you flush against him. His hands find their place at your waist while his fingers curve against the soft fabric of your shirt. Your warmth is immediate, grounding, and with a soft hum, you let yourself sink into his chest. Taking that as an invitation, Satoru’s chin drops low, brushing his nose against your neck as he inhales the faint traces of vanilla on your skin.

It settles something in him, a quiet part of his mind that’s been restless all day. For a moment, it’s almost enough to let him forget everything.

“Where’s Haru?” he murmurs lazily, lips grazing your pulse.

“In bed,” you sigh, adjusting your grip on the piping bag. “Finally. She fought it, though.”

Satoru smirks, nuzzling into you, savoring the warmth of you against him.

This is good.

She’s asleep. You’re here. And for just a moment, he allows himself to sink into this—this fragile, fleeting sense of normalcy. Until—

“Hey… um. Where is everyone?”

He stills. Just slightly. His face doesn’t change, his hands remain steady against your hips, but his mind clicks, recalibrates.

“Hm? What do you mean?” he asks—light, easy—as if he doesn’t already know exactly where this conversation is going.

You tilt your head slightly but don’t turn to face him, still focused on the cupcakes.

“I dunno.” You swipe a bit of frosting off your knuckle, licking it absently. “Just noticed when I was putting Haru to bed—the house feels kinda… empty.”

A pause.

“No one’s around,” you continue, almost offhandedly. “Didn’t hear anyone in the halls. No one cleaning. It’s weird.”

Satoru exhales through his nose. Then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world—

“Oh, yeah. I fired them.”

You blink—hands freeze mid-frosting.

“…I’m sorry, you what?”

“I fired them,” he repeats, just as nonchalant as before.

There’s no hesitation. No buildup, no explanation. He just says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he didn’t just fire the entire household staff in one fucking day.

You stare at him, deadpan, before a breathless laugh slips out.

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

Finally, you turn in his arms, brows raising as you set the piping bag down.

“Wait, wait—” You huff out a disbelieving laugh. “All of them? Just like that?”

Satoru shrugs, completely unbothered. “Well. Not all of them.”

Crossing your arms, your eyes narrow. “Okay… so who’s left?”

Satoru knows where this is going, so he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his grip on your waist tightens, pulling you in—and then, he starts to sway. It’s gentle, lazy—the kind of motion that isn’t about dancing at all. It’s about grounding you, keeping you close, keeping you from overthinking.

“Just Ichiji,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your temple. “And Remi.”

The shift in you is subtle, but he feels it—the hesitation in your breath, the slight stiffening in your shoulders. And that? That’s not what he wants.

So, before you can dwell on it, before the worry settles too deep, he smooths a hand up your back, voice dipping softer.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he coaxes, pressing another kiss to your skin. “I already took care of it.”

You don’t answer as his swaying continues—his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles along your hips, lulling the information into you.

“I hired someone new.”

You blink, momentarily distracted. “Oh… huh?”

A low hum rumbles from his chest, and he feels your tension ease just a fraction.

“I hired someone,” he repeats, soft, unhurried. “He’ll be stopping by tomorrow while I’m out.”

That catches your attention.

“Out?” Your brows knit together slightly.

“Mhm,” he says, still swaying. “Me and Suguru are meeting Naoya, remember?”

The tension creeps back in—he feels it, but he expected that. So, he counters—pressing his lips to your temple, hands firm against your waist, keeping you right where he wants you.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “You’ll stay right here. And you get to meet our newest hire. He’s a friend of mine.”

Curiosity flickers through the concern, but your hesitation lingers.

“Okay… who?”

“Nanami.”

“Nanami?”

The swaying slows, shifting closer to stillness.

“Mmhm,” he nods. “Kento Nanami. Met him back in high school. Good guy. Very serious.”

Something unreadable flickers across your face as you drag in a breath, turning back to the counter, reaching absently for the piping bag.

“…okay,” you exhale. “So… what exactly does he do?”

“Oh, you know,” he hums smoothly, slipping behind you again, looping his arm around your waist as he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “He’s just… gonna keep an eye on you when I’m not around.”

Your hands move as you resume piping the cupcakes, but your brow lifts just slightly—contemplating. It’s subtle, but Satoru catches it. Your grip tightening, your shoulders tensing, your lashes lowering—flickering with something unspoken.

You’re worried. And that? Yeah, that won’t do.

With a dramatic sigh, he slumps against you, burying his face into your neck, nuzzling into you like a lazy cat demanding attention. His breath fans the gentle curve of your throat as he whines, “Mm, don’t do that.”

Exhaling a quiet laugh, you remain focused on frosting.

“Do what?”

“That thing where you overthink.” His voice is muffled against your skin. “And make that cute little frowny face.”

You hum, amused but unfazed, continuing your work. Satoru, undeterred, nips lightly at your shoulder.

“Hey. Hey.” His voice dips, a touch more petulant. “I’m talking to you, missy.”

He catches the slow grin creep up your lips as you elbow him lightly.

“I’m frosting, Satoru.”

“Well, I’m suffering,” he huffs, tightening his hold and swaying you side to side, slow and lazy, like a child demanding attention. “Neglected. Unloved.”

A soft laugh slips through your lips as you roll your eyes fondly.

“You’re so dramatic…”

Finally setting the piping bag down again, you indulge him for a moment as he keeps swaying you—rocking you back and forth against his chest. When he speaks, his voice dips, softer—laced with a playful fondness.

“C’mon…” he whines quietly, “I need attention.”

Your sigh is utterly exasperated.

“And I need to finish these cupcakes.”

“Hhmp… frosting is not more important than me,” he grumbles, his nose nudging against your jaw, lips brushing just beneath your ear. “I’m your husband. You have obligations.”

That earns a quiet huff of laughter, finally tilting your head to glance at him.

“Oh, my deepest apologies, Mr. Gojo. Please forgive me for my negligence.”

His smirk stretches wider, smug and pleased, before spinning you to face him, hands still firm on your hips, pulling you close.

“I suppose I can forgive you…” he sighs, but there’s something playful in his expression, something scheming. “If…”

Your brows lift, suspicious. “Okay… what’s that look for?”

His grin widens. “Come with me.”

Your eyes narrow. “Where?”

“The living room,” he says, already tugging at your hand like an impatient kid. “C’mon, I set something up for us.”

And there it is—that signature Gojo glint in his eyes, the one that always means he’s up to something. You don’t budge. Instead, you fold your arms, eyeing him knowingly.

“What did you do this time?”

“No questions,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “You’ll have to save those for later.”

You pause, before exhaling, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. Then, turning back to the counter, you grab a plate and stack a few cupcakes onto it.

“Fine, fine.” You nudge his side as you pass him. “Lead the way, Romeo.”

And now, he’s practically dragging you along as you enter the living room, grinning.

As you round the corner, the fireplace crackles low, a gentle heat spreading into the room. There’s a small cluster of candles burning low on the coffee table, a cozy mess of blankets on the couch, a few pillows strewn at the edges. And in the background, the quiet hum of a playlist through the speakers—nothing over the top, nothing extravagant, but thoughtful.

Your steps slow, and he watches the way your gaze flickers over the setup—something unreadable in your expression before you glance at him.

“So… this is for me?” you murmur softly. “You did this?”

Satoru plops on the couch, stretching his legs out as he feigns nonchalance. “Mm.”

You arch a brow.

“I meeean,” he drawls, smirking, “I thought about going all out. Rose petals, violinists, maybe a red carpet… confetti cannons. But then I figured noooo, my wife will say that’s too much.”

Your lips twitch—just a fraction—but he catches it.

“Yeah… that would’ve been ridiculous,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Exactly.” He pats the space beside him on the couch. “So c’mon, sit. Enjoy the ambience. Indulge me.”

Rolling your eyes, you place the plate on the coffee table before sinking onto the couch beside him, your body settling into the mess of blankets he’d thrown. And then—just for a second—he catches it. The tiny, barely perceptible sigh when you lean back. Like you hadn’t realized how much tension you were holding until now.

His gaze lingers. But he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he lets his arm drape over the back of the couch, fingers brushing lightly against your sleeve. Then, his eyes flicker toward the plate on the table.

“Sooo,” he hums, tilting his head, “are those for me?”

You glance at the cupcakes, then back at him, brow lifting. “What?”

“The cupcakes,” he clarifies, grinning. “You made them for me, right?”

A slow smirk pulls up your lips as you pluck a cupcake from the plate.

“Mmm… nope. They’re for me.”

Satoru blinks, visibly affronted. “Uh… excuse me?”

You don’t answer. Instead, he watches as your delicate fingers move slowly, peeling back the wrapper of the cupcake. His eyes flick from your hands to your face, following every movement with an intensity he doesn’t bother to hide.

Little brat. You don’t offer him one.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, lifting the cupcake toward your lips with excruciating patience. And then—

You take the smallest, slowest bite, just barely grazing the frosting with your lips before pulling back, letting out a soft, satisfied hum.

His stomach clenches.

“Mmm…” your lashes flutter as you let the flavor settle on your tongue—exaggerated, taunting.

Satoru stares, pouting as you go in for another bite—this one just as tortuously slow. As your lips wrap around the edge of the cupcake, he doesn’t miss the way your tongue flicks out, catching a stray bit of frosting as you pull away.

His jaw flexes.

Fuck that tongue… he wants it all over his cock.

But you don’t seem to notice the way his fingers twitch against the couch, or maybe you do, and you’re just ignoring it. Either way, it’s infuriating.

“Damn,” you murmur, voice light, completely unbothered. “These are really good, if I do say so myself.”

Satoru exhales through his nose, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip as he watches you, his smirk sharpening. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm.” Another bite—smaller this time, more deliberate. Your gaze flickers toward him, half-lidded and knowing.

Little fucking tease.

He shifts beside you, stretching his legs out like he’s just getting comfortable, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way his fingers flex at the back of the couch, or how his free hand curls against his thigh.

“You know I don’t like being teased,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, quieter, like a warning.

You hum, licking another bit of frosting from your thumb, completely unfazed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His smirk twitches, almost a scoff, but his eyes darken.

“Sweetheart…” shifting closer, his knee brushes against yours, “you’re a terrible liar.”

As you blink at him, playing innocent, he doesn’t buy it for a fucking second.

“You did make them for me, didn’t you?” he whispers, his hand moves to your thigh, sliding up slowly. “Be honest.”

When your lips part slightly, Satoru thinks you might actually answer him—but then, just as quickly, you press them together again.

He smirks. You started this, and oh he loves a challenge.

Exhaling slowly, he hums, low and amused, his fingers spreading wider over your thigh, brushing higher, just enough to make you shift under his touch.

“Well,” he sighs, dragging it out like he’s deep in thought, “if they’re just for you, I guess I’ll have to go about my night hungry and unloved…”

Rolling your eyes, you mutter, “God you are so dramatic…”

“And yet…” his fingers wrap gently around your wrist, guiding the cupcake up, just shy of his lips. “You’re still holding out on me.”

As him thumb strokes against your pulse point, slow and lazy, those blue eyes flicker up through his snowy lashes—gleaming with something dangerous, something hungry. He leans in just a fraction more, letting the heat of his breath ghost over you hand.

“C’mon, sweetheart…” his gaze lingers on your lips before trailing back to the cupcake. “Feed me.”

A sharp exhale drags through your nose, and he can practically hear the gears turning in your head. Now you know exactly what he’s doing.

Your lips part, then press together again, before reluctantly, you give in, bringing the cupcake to his lips. And now, Satoru takes his time—brushing his lips against your fingertips, soft, teasing.

His pink tongue flicks out, dragging against the frosting before his teeth sink into the cake, deliberate and unhurried. His snowy lashes lower as he chews, savoring the taste, but more than that—savoring the way you’re watching him now.

Because two can play this game.

Your breath hitches, and for just a fraction of a second, your fingers tremble—barely noticeable, but he catches it. And oh, it does something to him, something dark and satisfied curling deep in his stomach.

Pulling back, he lets his lips brush against your fingertips again—lingering, teasing, savoring. Then, with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, he licks away a stray bit of frosting from the corner of his mouth—purposeful, knowing.

“Mmm…” he swallows, sighing in satisfaction. “That frosting is just too good…”

You’re pouting now, and that bottom lip is just too cute. He smirks, running a pad of his thumb through a dollop of frosting. As his eyes drag back to yours, his grin widens.

“I do love buttercream.”

And then, before you can react, his hand moves, his thumb dragging against that pretty bottom lip, smearing the frosting over your soft skin.

You blink, inhaling sharply as a slow smile stretches upward.

“Oops,” he exhales, tilting his head slightly. There is a heat pooling behind those endless blue eyes as he murmurs, “Look at that… you made a mess.”

And he fully intends to clean it up.

Leaning in, his breath warms your skin as his lips barely graze yours—a featherlight touch. His eyes are heavy lidded as his longue flicks out, licking the frosting from your lips—slow deliberate.

He feels your breath shudder, and a quiet hum vibrates in his throat as he savors the taste.

And suddenly he’s kissing you.

It starts soft, coaxing, lips pulling against yours in a way that makes your body react before your mind can catch up. His fingers slide to your jaw, tilting your face up, deepening the kiss, drinking in every pretty sound you make.

You melt into him.

Each drawn-out kiss quickens, moving with purpose now, making him crave more. He groans, sliding his hands to your waist as he shifts, guiding you onto his lap with effortless ease. A quiet gasp escapes you, but he drinks it in, keeping you flush against him.

Your arms loop around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

And then—you tug.

A sharp sensation ripples down his spine, a growl catching in his throat. His teeth graze your bottom lip—biting, sucking, soothing. Slow, indulgent, taking his time as he licks away the last traces of sweetness.

Fuck.

You taste like buttercream and heat—dangerously addicting—like something he could get drunk on if he let himself.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead lingers close to yours, breaths mingling. Both of you are unsteady from the weight of it. Your lips are swollen and your gaze is hazy as it meets his.

But as he drags his thumb over that plump lower lip again, his lips curl—savoring the way they are slick, and clean from his kiss.

“Hmm…” his voice is smug, husky. “I dunno… tastes like these cupcakes were for me after all.”

A breathless laugh slips past your lips, your fingers still lightly threading through his hair.

“You are so full of yourself,” you murmur, shaking your head. “When have I ever made something sweet that wasn’t for you?”

His smirk widens, victorious. “Ahh… see? You admit it.”

You roll your eyes, but the moment lingers—comfortable, unhurried. Your fingers weave through his snowy hair, slow and absentminded, while his thumbs trace lazy circles against your hips, grounding and warm.

It’s a comfortable silence, but as your gaze flickers away from his, you take in the soft glow of the candles, the careful arrangement of blankets, the way everything feels so intentional. The way he feels so intentional.

Exhaling, you tilt your head slightly. “So… can I ask what all this is about now?”

Satoru hums, his fingers stilling at your waist for just a beat before his smirk returns—though there’s something else behind it now—something quieter.

“I wanna play a game.”

You arch a brow, clearly skeptical. “A game?”

“Mhm…” His hands skim down your sides slowly, caressing your hips. “It’s simple. We take turns asking each other questions, and we have to answer honestly.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is this just an excuse for you to be dirty?”

Clicking his tongue, Satoru shakes his head with mock disappointment. “Wow. You’re the one with the filthy mind,” he muses, voice dipping lower, teasing. “Naughty girl. It’s just an innocent game of questions.”

You hum, unconvinced. “Innocent, huh?”

“Yup. Cross my heart.” He grins, tracing an ‘X’ over his chest with one finger. “I’d never use underhanded tactics to get you flustered.”

Pulling back slightly, you level him a knowing look.

“You literally just did.”

His smirk grows. “Semantics.”

Shaking your head, you exhale, your fingers still idly playing with his hair. After a beat, you tilt your head and whisper, “…so what kind of questions?”

For just a second, his grin softens, that cocky edge fading—just a little.

“Anything, really.”

His fingers trail absentmindedly along your hip, his gaze flickering over your face, like he’s memorizing something only he can see.

“I just… wanna know more about you.”

“You say that like I’m some kind of mystery…”

His lips curl faintly, a quiet hum slipping from him. “You are.”

You scoff lightly, shaking your head. “Not really… and we had to learn so much about each other for this fake marriage, Satoru. Favorite foods, pet peeves, how we take our coffee—hell, I know your blood type.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah… but that’s just surface-level shit. Facts, trivia—stuff you’d put on a dating profile.” His voice drops slightly, something softer curling around the edges. “I don’t just wanna know what you like… I wanna know why. I wanna know you.”

Your breath catches for a moment, something shifting in the air between you. And Satoru—he watches the way your expression flickers, the way you hesitate for half a second like you don’t know what to do with the weight of his words.

So, instead of letting it settle too long, he smirks. Tilts his head against the cushions, easy and lazy.

"Alright. Since I came up with the game, I get the first question."

You shift slightly in his lap, arching a brow.

"Mmm… is that how it works?"

"Obviously," he smirks. "Genius privilege."

You roll your eyes, but he catches the way the corner of your mouth twitches. Cute.

"Fine, go."

He hums in thought, fingers drumming idly against your side, watching the way your lips purse, waiting. Then, a slow grin spreads across his face.

"Alright, sweetheart. What's the dumbest thing you've ever spent money on?"

You scoff, lips pressing together, and Satoru already knows whatever answer you give is going to amuse him.

"Oho… I wanna know what your answer to this question is gonna be."

“Mm-mm.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You first, princess.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you lean back slightly against his hold, pressing yourself a little closer to him.

"Okay, fine," you tap your fingers against his chest like you’re thinking hard. "Mmm… probably one of those water bottles that track hydration. The kind with reminders that light up."

Satoru stares at you blankly. “Uh… really? That’s it? How is that dumb?”

“Well…” You hesitate, then shrug. “It was pointless to buy, because I ignored it. Like I do with most things I don’t wanna deal with.”

His smirk stretches wider at that, a wicked gleam sparking in his eyes.

“Wow. Even a bottle has to fight for your attention. I almost feel bad for it.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, shaking your head. "Yeah, well... it should’ve tried harder."

Satoru presses a hand to his chest, expression mockingly solemn. "Tragic. A hero, forgotten in the darkness of a cabinet. I’ll tell its story."

Rolling your eyes, you swat lightly at his arm. "Oh, shut up."

"Next time, just give me the money, and I’ll nag you to drink water personally."

You scoff. “Like you need the money, Mr. Money Bags.”

Satoru grins at that, because he walked right into it.

“True, true. But think about it—I’d be way more effective. I could send you little reminders,” he pauses, voice dipping lower, "maybe even offer incentives."

Your brows furrow slightly, catching the shift in his tone. "Incentives?"

His smirk turns downright sinful, fingers tightening at your waist just slightly.

“Mhm.” He drags his thumb in a slow arc along your side, feigning thought. “Positive reinforcement. Every time you drink water, I could… reward you.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “Okay… you definitely just made that dirty.”

He laughs, tilting his head, feigning innocence. "Did I?"

"Yes."

He hums, leaning in close to you. "Or… maybe you just have a filthy mind."

You groan, pressing your palm against his face in a weak attempt to push him away, but he only laughs, fingers tightening at your waist, keeping you right where he wants you.

"Alright, enough about me," you huff, leveling him with a look that only makes him more entertained. "I need to hear your answer to this question."

Satoru hums like he’s really considering it, but then—his lips curl, amusement flashing across his face.

“A castle.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Then, slowly, your hand drops from his face.

“…I'm sorry. You own a castle?”

His grin is all confidence, completely unrepentant. “Mhm.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You stare at him, baffled, before shaking your head. “Um… okay. Where?”

He shrugs, nonchalant. “Uh, somewhere in the Alps? Or maybe Scotland—" He pauses, squinting. “Wait. No. It’s in France. I think.”

"You think?" you repeat, incredulous.

"Well, I haven't actually been there," he admits, waving a dismissive hand. “Not my fault castles are kinda inconvenient to visit.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, exhaling. "Then… why did you buy it?"

Satoru tilts his head. “You ever just scroll through luxury listings at 2 AM and think, ‘Yeah, I need that?’”

"Oh my god."

"But," he continues, ignoring you, "apparently castles require a ton of upkeep. Something about centuries-old plumbing and heating? Also, there’s a moat problem."

Your brows knit together. "Moat problem?"

"Yeah. Turns out, maintaining a functional moat is a logistical nightmare. Plus, I dunno, castles just… aren’t that practical."

“You’re ridiculous…” you groan, shoving lightly at his chest, but he only laughs, catching your wrist and pulling your hand back into his.

His fingers play idly with yours, absentminded, like he’s holding onto the moment without even realizing it. When his eyes flick back to yours, there’s a lazy kind of amusement settling there.

“And yet, here you are,” he murmurs, lips curling just slightly.

You shake your head with a wry smile, shifting, settling deeper into his lap—letting yourself relax against him, letting him hold you just a little closer.

“Alright, castle boy,” you mutter, tilting your head at him. “Next question.”

A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. “Hit me.”

Humming thoughtfully, your eyes flicker over him, considering.

“Well, since we’re on the topic of money… what’s one thing you refuse to spend money on?”

Leaning back, Satoru stretches an arm over the couch as if this answer doesn’t require a single brain cell of effort.

“Easy. Economy flights.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He levels you with a flat stare, completely deadpan. “Have you seen how long my legs are?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Mmkay… that’s fair.”

“And you?”

You consider for a second before shrugging. “Lottery tickets.”

He scoffs, lips curling in amusement. “What, you don’t believe in testing fate?”

“I know better than to test fate,” you say dryly. “I’ve always had terrible luck. And I hate spending money on something where the odds are literally against me.”

Satoru hums, twisting a strand of your hair lazily between his fingers, watching it slip through his grasp.

“Huh,” he muses, thoughtful now. “I dunno. I’d say you hit the jackpot once or twice.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please.”

“No, really.” His grin lingers, but there’s something softer beneath it now, something less teasing—more contemplative.

There’s a beat of quiet, the soft crackle of the fire in the background, the rhythmic sound of your breathing against his. His thumbs continue to ghost your sides, tracing slow absentminded circles.

Then—

“Do you think we would’ve still ended up like this if circumstances were different?”

He says it casually, smoothly, like it’s not sitting heavier in his chest than it should. Your breath catches just slightly, the weight of the question settling between you.

Tilting your head, you search his face.

“Well… would you have even given me a second glance if things weren’t the way they are?”

Satoru’s brow lifts, but instead of answering, his smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Uh-uh now. It’s my turn. I asked first.”

Exhaling, you shake your head.

“I… dunno…” your voice dips quieter now. “But the idea of never ending up here at all… that’s kind of a scary thought. So… I try not to think about it.”

His expression softens—just for a second—before he hums, gripping your waist tighter.

“I think…” He tilts his head, pausing, dragging the moment out just enough to make your brows pinch slightly. “Even if everything was different, I still would’ve wanted to know you.”

You blink, like you weren’t expecting that answer.

“…really?”

Satoru scoffs, his grin snapping back into place like it never left.

“Oh, absolutely,” he nudges his nose against yours affectionately. “But can you imagine if I hadn’t? You would’ve lived such a dull, Gojo-free life.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Wow, yes, what a tragedy.”

“It would be,” he insists, feigning offense. “Who else would’ve made it their mission to drive you up the wall every single day?”

You huff through your nose, exasperated but fond.

“You loved annoying me.”

“Still do,” he admits, shameless. “But… you were so serious. Always so focused. I had to try to get a reaction out of you.”

You hum, gaze flickering downward, fingers tracing an idle pattern against his shoulder.

“I… had to be.”

Tilting his head, Satoru watches you, waiting. His fingers still trace lazy, idle shapes at your waist. There’s a beat before you continue, your voice softer now.

“Back then… my life was kind of a mess. So… I didn’t have the luxury of being carefree. I was just… trying to hold everything together.”

Something about the way you say it pulls at Satoru’s chest, sharp and unfamiliar.

He doesn’t like it.

Doesn’t like that he wasn’t there, that he didn’t know you like this—buried under stress, struggling, holding on by the skin of your teeth.

He hates it, actually.

But he doesn’t say that. Doesn’t know how. So instead, he moves.

Exhaling, he leans back, stretching his arms with a lazy groan before tugging you down with him. You let out a small sound of protest, but it’s weak, breathless—because you don’t really fight it. And he grins because, yeah, he knew you wouldn’t.

The couch shifts beneath his weight as he sprawls out, adjusting until you’re right where he wants you—resting against his chest, tucked into him.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, warm, grounding. His fingers skate lazily up and down your spine—slow, unhurried, absentminded.

“…comfy?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple.

“um… yeah,” you admit softly.

Satoru smirks, eyes slipping closed, his grip settling more firmly around you.

“Alright,” he hums, vibrating against you. “What’s one memory you hold onto when things get tough?”

You still slightly, like you weren’t expecting the question. For a moment, you just lie there, listening to the crackle of the fireplace, the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing beneath you as his fingers trace lazy circles along your spine.

Then, you exhale, closing your eyes.

“Hmm… that’s a good question.”

As you hesitate, your fingers trace an idle, mindless pattern against his chest, until finally, you find your words.

"There was this one night… after everything with Naoya, when I finally got my own place,” you begin. “It was tiny, barely more than a shoebox… but it was mine. I remember sitting on the floor with a bottle of cheap wine, eating takeout straight from the container, just thinking… I did this. I got myself here. No one handed it to me, no one saved me—I made it happen. That night, I felt like I could breathe again… for the first time in years."

The words linger between you, quiet and honest, and Satoru doesn’t speak right away, but you feel the way his fingers continue to trail up in down your back.

He hates it.

Not the part where you made it on your own—no, that part is impressive as hell, that part makes his chest tighten with admiration. He’s always loved your strength, your resilience.

It’s the other part.

The fact that you were alone when it happened. That no one was there to see it, to celebrate it, to tell you that you fucking did it. That he couldn’t be there.

“You… really went through a lot all on your own, huh?”

You nod subtly against his chest. “…yeah.”

There’s something in his throat—something thick, something he doesn’t know what to do with. So he swallows it down, exhales softly—then presses his lips into your hair.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs.

He feels it when you still slightly. When the words settle, sinking deep. You don’t say anything at first, but your fingers tighten against his shirt, just for a second, just enough to let him know you heard him.

“…what about you?” your whisper, head still resting against him. “What’s a memory you hold onto?”

Satoru hums, sorting through the years.

“Hmm… there’s one,” he finally says, voice distant, like he’s pulling it from somewhere deep.  “It’s nothing big, but… when I was a kid, my dad would always throw these extravagant birthday parties for me. Like, ridiculously over the top—huge cakes, fireworks, even once had a live tiger.”

You lift your head slightly, blinking. “A tiger?”

He grins. “Yeah, it was cool—until it got loose and almost took out half the catering staff.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah.” He snickers at the memory, but then, his expression shifts. The amusement is still there, lingering, but something else creeps in at the edges.

“Anyway…” he continues, “the parties were never really for me. They were more for appearances—big shows for the business partners, other rich families. But there was this one year where Suguru—” He pauses for a beat, then continues, voice softer. “He convinced me to skip my own party. We ran off to this little ramen shop instead, just the two of us.”

Your breath stills slightly, sensing the shift in his tone.

“I… remember sitting there in this tiny hole-in-the-wall place, still in my stupid fancy suit, just eating ramen and laughing about dumb shit. No cameras, no expectations, no pressure. It was just… nice.” He exhales, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes, when things get overwhelming, I think about that night. Just the simplicity of it.”

There’s another lingering quiet, stretching between the steady crackle of the fire. Your fingers twitch slightly against his chest, and as you speak again, your voice is softer, tinged with a sleepiness.

“Suguru… really sounds like a great friend.”

Satoru hums, his fingers trailing lazy circles against your back. “Yeah… he is.”

Tilting his head slightly, Satoru looks down at you. Your eyes are still open, but only just. Heavy-lidded, hazy, like sleep is already tugging at the edges of your consciousness.

“You tired?” he murmurs.

You hum sleepfully. “Mm-mm. Just… comfortable.”

“Mmkay… well it’s your turn.”

As your lips pull into a drowsy smile, you allow your eyes to slip shut as you think. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, warmth lulling you further into the haze of slumber.

“What’s… one thing you’d never change about your life?”

Satoru exhales, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes slipping shut. He could say a million things. His freedom, his wealth, his power—things people assume matter most to him. But none of it feels right. None of it feels true.

Instead, his arms tighten slightly around you, his hand pressing a little firmer at your waist, like he’s anchoring himself to this moment.

“This… right here. You, in my arms.”

“Mmm… yeah?” you hum, voice slipping somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. Shifting slightly, you burrow deeper against him before you whisper, “…why’s that?”

His breath hitches.

You say it so simply, so easily, like you don’t know what you’re asking of him. Like you don’t realize you’ve just cracked open something inside him that he’s never let anyone see.

Because the words are there, sitting right at the edge of his tongue, but he’s never said them before. Not like this. Not to anyone.

He swallows.

And then, for once, he doesn’t overthink it.

“Because… I love you.”

The weight of the words settle, heavy, irreversible, and Satoru holds still, waiting for—something. For you to react, for the moment to shift, for the world to feel different now that he’s let those words exist outside of himself.

But there’s nothing. No reaction.

Your breathing has already evened out, slow and soft against his skin.

He looks down—you’re asleep.

A breath of laughter slips past his lips—quiet, a little incredulous. Of course. Of course the first time he ever says it, the first time he ever means it—you don’t even hear him.

His chest tightens, but there’s no frustration there. Just warmth.

Shaking his head slightly, he tugs you closer, pressing one more lingering kiss to your hair before reaching for the throw blanket resting over the back of the couch. He pulls it over both of you, tucking you in against him, letting himself just exist in this moment.

And as his grip settles at your waist, his body melting into the cushions as the fire crackles low in the background, Satoru exhales slowly, eyes slipping shut.

"Yeah," he murmurs, just for himself. "I really do love you."

And this time, he’s okay with you not hearing it. Because he’ll say it again.

And next time, you will.

a/n. awww... i hope ya'll enjoyed this chapter. i know the first half is mostly setting up plot, but we have a lot to come... hehe. writing this chapter was a big change up from my usual, and i definitely had a lot of fun with it. naoya is a creep, and not in a sexy way 😅 and the panties are an actual plot point?! whaaaa, betcha didn't see that coming 😂 excited to bring nanami in this storyyyy. and i'm excited for suguru and satoru's meet up with naoya. oh man, i can't wait for all the pieces to fall into place 💕 satoru finally said those three words 🤧 my heart. as always, would love to hear your thoughts. thanks for reading 🥹🫶🏻 -aly → next chapter ꨄ

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[dadsbongos]

mean blonde <3s war crimes

2.2k words / warnings - pav is a bad terrible no good person, predator/prey dynamic, noncon, gunplay, coercion, age gap (pav's ~37 and reader is ~20)

summary - your old bootcamp lieutenant, Pavel Yudin, comes to your hometown to give you a second chance at joining the good ole army! By chasing you through the woods.

kinktober: day fourteen - hunting, gunplay ~~~

Grey skies rolled overhead that morning with no clouds. None of the birds were singing, but the crickets were still loud. Children ran circles in their backyards, chasing one another with leafless sticks and shrill screams. Your father sat on the front porch, rocking slowly in his chair as he twiddled his guitar. 

There was no breeze. And you couldn’t smell the sweet dew lingering in the air. 

In short: you should’ve known something was horribly, horribly wrong.

Papa stood straight up when he saw the sleek black car kick dust into the center of town. Guitar clattering and cracking down the porch steps, he rasped out a desperate, “Take yourself inside, now.”

“Huh?” you rose slowly from where you’d been tending Mama’s tomatoes, “Why?”

Neighbors pile out curiously as one car curls to a stop with a second. First to pop open is the initial car’s back door, and you see why your father was so spooked. Golden coils catch pale sunlight, porcelain cheeks flashing your home, and rosy lips pucker up at you from the center of the isolated neighborhood. 

“Hell, kid,” Papa murmurs, shooting you a glance through his peripherals. Partly annoyed, but mostly raw concern.

Red dirt road flakes around the soldier’s boots, his steps echo through the still air. Eyes follow his leisure pace, an overconfident swagger that makes your whole body raze with bumps. 

“I believe you have a runaway,” Lieutenant Yudin’s steely eyes flick from Papa to you.

Even as Papa starts talking, the man’s stare does not drift, “Kid ain’t a deserter, they graduated the program. I’m not sending my baby off to die.”

“Baby’s an adult,” Pavel shrugs, “We’re performing a simple sweep. We’ll have them back by the end of the day.”

Papa shakes his head, hands raising in protest, “No. No, no! You stay back, you devil! Any lieutenant beside you! Who else is in the car?” he demands, “Who else?!”

“Nobody,” Pavel turns his head directly toward you, and you remember the countless uncanny meals in the cadet canteen where that same glass face was watching you eat. He boldly steps onto the stoop before your father, kicking his guitar out of the way, “I’m not leaving empty-handed. Kaiser’s orders.”

Just as your fathers goes to respond, you stumble forward and jam yourself between the men, “I’ll go!” you frown, shoulders tensing as you avoid looking Papa in his disappointed face, “I’ll go, please leave my family be…”

Pavel grins at you and holds out a hand, “Let us go, then.”

Papa makes a strangled sound of protest from the back of his throat, silenced when you shyly tuck yourself down the stairs into Pavel’s chest. Head down and arms twisted around your torso as you’re lead to the shiny black car -- Pavel does not stop by any other houses. Despite knowing your boy next door was probably a better fit, and had graduated from the same camp, Pavel doesn’t so much as glance his house’s way. 

Unease wells within you as he opens the car door for you, then sliding in after. You attempt to wriggling away into the next seat over, only for Pavel to swing an arm around your shoulder and hook your chin with his thumb and forefinger. Angling your vision over his broad chest and out the side window, he strokes your jaw affectionately.

And you can feel his chest vibrate as he speaks in a low murmur, “I was very young when I came to the army.”

His opposite hand comes up, index tapping on the glass as the car comfortably strolls by lush trees; he leaves an off-white smudge behind on the otherwise crystal pane.

“Very, very far away I was conscious for not even a decade before having to become a man. And I work very hard to ensure nobody else must go through that same thing,” where he’d been pointing you make out a fox chasing a chestnut rabbit through thick bushes. You’re surprised neither was scared off, even if the engine was merely at a soft hum with its slow pace, “I’ve been working since I was younger than you, and I’ve been through much more than you.”

You’re certain he has.

Two silvery scars dot his chest. And his eyes are constantly glazed and faraway, even as he speaks directly. He smells sad, like mold and dust. He’s in his late thirties, and he’s been a loyal soldier since he was a boy.

The fox pounces onto the rabbit -snatching the smaller thing in its jaws and rolling with the momentum. Shaking its head violently until blood flecks the dirt road and spring leaves and the rabbit stops twitching.

Laying its kill onto the ground, the fox digs in with bared teeth.

“When I was younger than you, I had soldiers try themselves with me,” his thumb presses a bit harder against your jawbone, then quickly releasing and smoothing over the tender line apologetically, “I’m a very wounded man, as all men like me are. And I’m not a very good man, like most men like me aren’t. Most people that crawl out of Bremen bootcamps do not come out good people.”

Just as you’re wondering where this rant is going, the car rolls to a stop.

Pavel tilts your head so you’re gazing up at him, his eyes are dull as always and his lids hang low -nefarious yet tired- “But you are, you’re very good. Very kind. The world spits in your face and you bare it. You were drafted and you bare it. Your father falls terminally ill and you bare it. You’re harassed and stalked months on end by a superior officer and you bare it. You are so mild, and so bland, I cannot look at you and see a soldier despite your average success in training.”

Popping the door open, Pavel slinks out with an offered hand and you politely take it which only makes him laugh. He squeezes your hand,

“See? I was never so kind to the men that tried themselves with me.”

Finally looking around, you notice a long downward hill before your feet. Trees cluster any free path and overgrown stumps choke out the clotted dirt ground. Untempered grass lays still with the lack of breeze.

“I’m a bad person, and I love pretty things,” Pavel murmurs, “I don’t know why I have this itch to destroy them,” and finally, the proper amount of dread fills you as you really lock eyes with the lieutenant, “I think I’m just angry at them for being able to be pretty and gentle.”

Knees wobbling, you throw yourself down the hill and scream.

Pavel follows with a careful step-by-step.

Whether it be adrenaline or hot fear, you cannot feel any pain as you recklessly swipe branches and bushes out of sight. Searing sweat tickles down the plain of your neck, trickling along your spine and watering dead leaves below. Paranoia assures you his gloved fingertips are just at the wrinkled collar of your shirt.

Regardless of how nature seems to whizz by and the wind flapping rapidly in your ears you know you aren’t running fast enough.

You know your burning legs are too slow and you know he’s going to catch you and he’s going to eat you alive.

You’re too terrified to cast a glance back, certain the second you do you’ll trip over an especially thick root. But you think you can hear his boots crunching into a steady run after you. 

His even breathing slowly overbears your own ragged heaves, only seconding the belief he’s at your heels. 

Screaming again is only met with more gravely cackles.

Nails scrape into your hair. You shriek.

He pounces, launching off his heels and wrapping both arms around your waist in a vice clamp and chomping into the side of your neck. Sucking as he latches, a faint sting swells up the side of your throat. Nothing compared to the lashes and whipping your back takes with each roll down the hill. Grunts and wails echo between nonchalant trees, none of which are helpful as you pointlessly claw against Pavel’s padded shoulders.

Tumbling into a fitful, struggled stop at the base curve of the hill, you try in vain to kick Pavel off of you. Which proves useless as he merely presses one hand into your torso to keep you pinned. His bigger frame shows little sign of stress as he frees his Lugr pistol from his side and digs the frozen metal into your ribs.

A wild twitch sends you bucking up against him. Fear forcing you to throw away logic as you thrash beneath him.

“No, no, nonono, please- I beg! I beg of you, please no don’t- I don’t want to die, I beg of you please!” your hands fly up to Pavel’s face, instinct telling you to scratch out his eyes.

Pavel replaces his hand on your stomach with a knee before snatching both your wrists in his hand and strapping them above your head. Forcing your faces much closer. His nose bumping yours.

“Calm,” he hums, digging the muzzle into your ribs before dragging downward and catching the band of your trousers. Dragging those down as well. Bare flesh sizzles in the open air.

So you chomp onto your lip, taking in the velvety iron and gnawing still to keep quiet.

All while Pavel stiffs his pistol between your legs. 

“Too slow, too slow, bunny,” he presses a startlingly tender kiss to your temple.

Despite your shivering, he manages to wriggle the freezing barrel against the seam of your cunt. Slipping it between your folds longways, twiddling your clit at the same time teasing your hole. A sudden jerky click makes you shudder, gasping into the column of the lieutenant’s throat -- fear paralyzes your hands in the collar of his bridge coat.

Your sole assurance you won’t be shot is the ease with which Pavel wields his pistol, an extension of his own hand. It must be familiar. And if you are shot, it’ll be on purpose.

Digging the muzzle inside you, Pavel releases a pleasured groan when you shriek and seize around the unforgiving metal. Grinding down against your thigh, Pavel seasons your pulse with hot pants -- flicking his wrist until the trigger guard is tight beneath you. Leaking syrup drools over his fingers, gluing his pointer over the trigger. A sick grin smears over his pale lips.

“You like this?”

“No!”

His eyes fall where you’re polishing his pistol, as the barrel drills into you with sultry little splats. Regardless of what your pretty mouth says, he knows your body loves him: that’s all he needs. Hips even dangerously jutting out to meet his tentative thrusts. You mewl beneath your breath at the intrusion, choking it down with a grunt.

Cold, hard metal prods spots deeper inside you than yourself or any town boy has ever reached. You hate how good it feels, but you can’t suppress the tightening of your stomach.

“You like this,” he kisses you again, slipping his tongue into your gritted mouth and licking over your teeth, “I love you. So soft and gentle, you’re perfect for me.”

Slipping the gun from your snatch, he openly laughs in your face at how you cling unto the barrel.

“I take it you don’t plan on returning to the ranks,” he sits upon his knees, scouring the muzzle up your stomach -lifting your shirt- and pushing beneath your jaw. Icing the sharp bone until it's peeking past your lips.

You can taste the sharpness of your own wetness swirling with metal.

“Shame for me,” he sighs wistfully, angling the gun deeper in your mouth. Not bothering to adjust his pants and hide his evident, swelling arousal as your tongue envelopes the muzzle. His spare hand squeezes up your thigh, thumb stretching over to circle your clit, “Probably best for you, though.”

Weak legs cannot snap to kick him off, you fear it’d be a pointless effort anyway.

Pavel leans over you, slipping his gun from your mouth slowly -- an intentional drag to tease himself. Immediately pushing his lips to yours with a starved growl, his brows furrowed desperately and cheeks flaming against yours. Not unlike a fretful boy, he shyly pulls back to lay another peck on your forehead and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. Watching you struggle for air between flustered huffs, he stands fully and retucks his Lugr.

“Let’s get you home,” another hand is offered toward you, broad shoulders pushed back confidently. His strong nose pointed up at you, “I don’t expect we’ll see each other often, Kaiser is plotting East and I’m going to give chase.”

Tears sting your eyes, and you sniffle, shakily reaching up for the blonde and letting him tug you upward. He wrings both arms around you and kisses your forehead eerily sentimental -- familiar like a proper lover.

“I don’t expect to be well received when I do,” he whispers.

Then kisses your lips, hot and chapped and fiercely tight-lipped. 

“I wish I could be free like you,” he muses, “And kind.”

“You’re a monster- !” you shudder and gasp, shoving him by the shoulders -surprisingly, he lets you go until you’re floundering back into a strong tree trunk, “I hope you die out there!”

Pavel nods and turns away. The car door is open by time you’ve struggled up the hill. No birds sing. There is no breeze. You cannot smell the iron and sweat from yourself.

You should’ve known things with Pavel would never get any better.