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screampied · 9 months ago

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#BLOODLINE! s. ryōmen + c. kamo

☆ sum. when they’re both 10s but they’re also vampires. hungry blood-thirsty vampires who’ll stop at nothing to claim you. with how sweet you taste though, maybe humans aren’t so bad after all.

wc. 7.8k

warnings. fem! reader, thrēesomes, vampires! sukuna + choso, pwp, amateur's take on vampires, unprotected, cowgirl dp, manhandling, spīt-roasting, biting, dumbification, size kinks, fighting over you, brēeding kink, mentions of bloōd, implied marathons, fīngering, squīrting, pussydrunk men, cunnīlingus, hair pulling, choking, mistress kink, petnames.

➤ kinktober mlist!

this was crazy - no, this was insane.

not everyday do you have a century plus old vampire between your legs — a vampire who you were actually supposed to exterminate for a pricey reward that was held over his head. both heads. but oh, you were so screwed. not even three days in of getting your official vampire hunter license and you already failed.

rule number one stupid girl: never fuck the vampire. rule number two: never fuck the vampires, plural.

but, you had a scent on you. an alluring fresh scent that made the sukuna ryomen fall weak to his knees. the fragrant—whatever it was smelled very lush with a sprinkled spice of vanilla. it irked him badly, and what irked him the most was the simple fact that he was feeling quite . . parched.

he’s starved, and it’s been a while since he’s had a quenched thirst and satisfied appetite. vampires usually had it rough—especially sukuna, because he’d usually spend most of his years hibernating, and he could live without blood . . for a certain amount of years before he comes well, feral.

but that all changed until you came along, and long story short—here you were sprawled out over his throne with your legs wide open.

“woman,” he snarls, buried right between your thighs. sable honed claws gingerly caress against your skin before his long tongue drags itself out of your pudgy folds. “spread your cunt f’r me before i bite it off.”

“what if i’m into that?” you sheepishly hum, feeling a tear of sweat trickle down your quirked brow. but right as you let off your cheeky remark, a big hand swats at your sopping entrance hard, earning a whimper from your mouth. so wet, your squelches ring through his rusted victorian walls.

sukuna snarls at you, crimson ruby eyes boring into your soul practically before with a sobbing creak, his chamber door opens. the hinges were whining as it unbolts and peeked out was whom you assumed to the other vampire, kamo choso.

you did research on them both—especially choso.

even though both of them were classified as dangerous notorious special grades with huge bounties placed on each of their heads dead or alive, choso was worth far more. you always did want to know why though.

he’s even prettier than person. choso was dressed in nothing but dark toned yet elegant dim clothing. both of their styles were strictly victorian-esque. choso’s hair was slightly matted and down, flowing past his tense shoulders. as unkempt dark strands went through his eyes, it created an attractive a shaggy wolf cut look. “oh,” he timidly murmurs, his eyes averting toward sukuna then at you.

a human,

his heart started to race and he could feel the inside of his mouth salivate with a minuscule amount of water. choso openly stares for a lengthy amount of seconds before nibbling on his tongue with his fangs. with the way he scoffs under his breath and how his body language grows stiff — you can tell, he’s jealous.

“am i .. interrupting, sukuna?”

sukuna groans internally, his tongue still attached to your swollen clit. you were close—he knew it from the way your breathing patterns started to grow irregular and you were struggling to stay still. as your feeble fingers resume to spread your soddened folds further apart for him, he slurps you clean, making all sorts of sloppy noises leave from his think pink lips. “mhm,” and he gives his comrade a side eye. “c’mere, choso. greet our new meal—eh, special guest.”

choso’s gaze never leaves yours, and as he tucks his head underneath his cape, he kneels down beside sukuna. “h- hi,” he swallows thickly, trailing his bloodshot irises that dramatically dilated each second he spent staring at your body.

god, were you pretty.

“hi ch— fuck,” you moan, feeling sukuna’s fangs delicately brush near your cunt. it almost tickled but you weren’t laughing, and your thighs were on the verge of snapping shut. choso stands there, watching as his own whetted fangs dig into his pouty bottom lip. “choso, do you wanna try too?”

“can i?” he blurts eagerly, but he gets flustered the second he sees your lips curving into a soft smile. after all, embarrassment was always his best friend.

choso’s kneeled right beside sukuna and he has an almost scowl marinating against his facial features. with a grumpy glower, he’s watching his partner act so greedy. the pink haired vampire’s got a chin that’s just streaming with slick and he can’t help but pout.

it’s probably been decades since he—since they encountered a vampire hunter, and now you were here. not only that, but choso was the entire opposite of sukuna. he doesn’t know the first thing on how to please a woman. “i mean . . is it okay, miss?”

sukuna snickers, briefly breaking his lips away before strumming a fat thumb down your drooling slit. “tch. such a wuss,” and his reddened gaze meets yours as a sly smile twists across the crevices of his lips. “excuse him. he’s a bit, heh, inexperienced.”

“that’s not—” it was, and choso lets off a cute frustrated huff but his demeanor softens the moment you claw a hand through his slightly matted wolfcut. dozens of loose tresses twirl between your fingers and he lets off a quiet purr, leaning into your touch. “mhm,” and he looks up at you—then at your pretty swollen cunt that was just pulsing second after second.

so pretty, it almost looks like a flower. easily akin to a vanilla orchid—he found himself about to drool the more he stared. choso was just millimeters away from a single taste and he couldn’t help but moan once he abruptly got a strong whiff of your candied balmy scent.

“it’s okay,” you murmur, trailing your middle finger down his tender scalp. sukuna’s right beside him, rolling his eyes whilst licking his spit-slick lips. as you remain slouched on sukuna’s primeval throne—your legs sprawl out just a bit wider and you bite your lip. “give it a little kiss.”

“y- yes, miss,” choso utters, and your eyes flicker down toward his lips. perfectly shaped—they have somewhat of an almost natural pout as they purse together—rosy pink and quivering in anticipation.

as he moves his face closer between your legs, you let off a gasp once his plump wet lips gradually smooch against your clit. “hng,” he groans, the sap of your own slick stringing against his mouth. choso can’t help but sneak his tongue down your pulsating clit for a better taste and oh, the way his eyes rolled back. “s- so good.”

sukuna clicks his tongue, growing impatient as his sharpened claws dig into the thin wooly fabric of his burgundy-black cloak.

“that’s it—good, yeah,” you softly coo out, tightening your grip against his head just a little.

choso had no clue what he was doing and it was adorable. his tongue was just as long as sukuna’s, mirroring the same forked-like shape. the softly spiky texture makes you squirm and writhe, feeling pleasurable twinges surge all throughout every inch of your body.

“fuuckk,” you gasp, feeling him suck against your clit. it’s overly sensitive, and he moans, feeling you throb right in his mouth. “mhm, suck there. right there, baby.”

baby, he wasn’t used to such words of affection. petnames, what you might call it. choso’s pointed ears cutely twitch and his nose wrinkles the second his sucking steadily intensifies. “mpmh,” and you can feel him taking a few seconds to sniff against your cunt once more.

“he gets off to being praised,” sukuna huskily jabbers, watching choso turn absolutely pussy drunk within seconds. you could tell just from his expressions alone. that sly yet sleazy grin compressing near the corners of his mouth, hooded eyes and drooling profusely from the sides of his mouth—

yeah, he was entirely weak. weak for you.

as his tongue slowly massages its way between the cracked slit of your pussy, he feels your grip in his hair tighten. “does he?” you utter, and you can hear a shuddering breath leave from choso’s mouth.

he swallows thickly again, wondering when the part was gonna come. the part where you’d finish your job, your mission—out of all the vampire hunters he’s stumbled across, he’s never been between one’s legs . . let alone being spared.

but he wasn’t complaining, not at all.

“mhm,” the older vampire sukuna grumbles, teasingly wrapping a hand around choso’s broad neck. choso moans from his touch too, and sukuna brushes a thumb down the valley of his sensitive scalp. “he can’t help it. praise him once and he’ll finish right on the spo—”

“s.. sukuna,” choso glares, still having a mouth full of your cunt.

the squelches you made from each succulent suckle was quite loud, constantly reverberating through the ancient chamber walls. but oh, your taste was simply divine. unlike any cuisine he’s ever tried. choso would rate your pussy five stars if he could.

you’re so wet — sopping a pretty cascading stream that flows down his chiseled chin to where he’s literally just drowning in your cunt. choso was a quick learner though, despite having little to no experience.

a raw breath rips out of your lungs once you feel your thighs grow weak. his tongue extends a bit inside of your cunt, curling it’s way around and in zigzags to make your toes curl in surprising rapture.

“f- fuck, like that,” you whimper out, and suddenly a dark silhouette overshadows you. slowly, your eyes look up to see sukuna standing right over you with a cunning toothy leer.

your eyes rove down his dark cloak that covers his body entirely, although you couldn’t help but want to see more.

like mentioned before—you’ve done your research about them both. as a vampire hunter, it was well, required.

sukuna had to be over a few thousand years old with choso not that far from behind. “silly, silly woman,” he tsks with a taunting head shake.

sukuna cups your chin and you moan once choso’s hooked nose starts to brush up and down against your clit.

you meet the eyes of a blood-thirsty vampire who’s got the most smuggest grin you’ve ever seen. “you know,” his voice seductively pitches low, and the rough bass that smooths underneath his tone makes you feel a wave of butterflies swarm near the pit of your stomach. a thumb swipes against your glossed lips before he bends, getting right close to your face level. “usually, this is the part where you kill us, you know that, right?”

“i—know,” and for a second, you nearly let off a mewl once you feel choso’s fangs softly nip against your tender cunt.

you were throbbing heavily, and he’s just slobbering all over your entrance just to lap it right back up back with his tongue like the feral animal he was.

it was cute how conflicted you were — your eyes didn’t know where to look, whom to focus on, nothing. .

even so, as your back remains reclined back against the timber-made throne, your brows furrow. he’s right, moments ago you should have pulled out your stake or firearm, getting rid of them and collecting quite a delicious sum of bounty for both of their heads - dead or alive.

but, as the thought struck you — why, why didn’t you finish them off. what’s stopping you?

you didn’t know, and quite frankly, you didn’t care.

besides, it was technically only the first few days of your new job and something internally was screaming at you that this probably wasn’t your right field of expertise anyway.

and the fact that the ‘target’ you were supposed to eliminate was propped up between your legs was . . something.

hell, maybe it was even a sign.

“oh, i see,” sukuna huffs, sliding a thumb across your pursed lips, wanting your pout crease more. cute. “you want more, that right, stupid girl?” a rough voice purrs out to you, and he can see the pout starting to form over your lips once you give him a slow nod. “yeah, yeah you do,” and he looks down at choso who’s got his pretty flapping lashes closed, sliding a hand inside of his cloak.

he’s groaning against your cunt, stroking himself off and whimpering against your folds that sobbed for more. sukuna cups your chin, pressing your lips together. “i don’t speak nod. use those words, tell me what you want.”

“y.. you both,” and it comes out like a lewd broken whisper. by this point, you were shameless. it’s almost as if you were in a dream—maybe even a fan fiction.

as those fatal words leave from your lips, your eyes roll back once choso’s continuing to slurp against your cunt - savoring each honeyed drop of your juices. he’s still on his knees as his pointed ears twitch from each whine and mewl that pours away from your lips.

sukuna groans under his breath, feeling himself get hard as he takes a few occasional glances.

choso’s face was right up against your pussy, and he made sure to run and trace his tongue in every single spot that would make you sing out pretty ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’'s for him. he’s craved a good meal for the longest and the meal between your thighs was all that he really needed.

“greedy girl,” sukuna grouses, lightly squeezing your chin, making you give him your attention back. ruby red eyes flicker toward your exposed nude neck — such precious skin all out and on display, a vampire’s favorite part of the body.

the thoughts of imagining what you tasted like from just a single bite clogged his entire brain. just a single drink of you - just one would have him probably at your mercy - no, he had to focus.

sukuna shakes his head with an annoyed grunt, pressing his head against yours as you lied back. “both, huh? can you really handle that, princess?”

“yes—”

“look at me when you speak, girl,” and you feel an overwhelming increase of thumps in your heart once he’s only inches away from pressing his lips against yours.

the eye contact was brutal - sensual.

his eyes lock onto yours and it’s as if you’re staring directly at a pool of bloody scarlet jewels. you could honestly get lost in sukuna’s eyes. such irises never leave yours and you gulp, looking him right in the eye before watching choso starting to bite near your thighs. “repeat yourself, go on.”

with a shaky voice, you drag choso’s head closer between your thighs before whining once he glides his forked tongue against your throbbing pearly nub. “i want you both. p.. please, wan’ you both.”

and the last thing you’d expect was for them to be eating you out — at the same damn time.

both vampires were propped up between your legs as you’re spread open with the cutest expression plastered on your face.

god, this was fucked.

as two forked tongues flick and swipe against your clit, nibbling on your tender gummy flesh, you let off the most melodic whine. it rips straight out of your throat, bouncing off the century old walls. the texture of both tongues — you felt the plush spikes that run against their tastebuds, feeling sukuna hold your nub hostage with choso trapping his your pretty clit with his fangs.

“fuck, ‘m so c- close,” you’d whine out, staring at them both as they’re between your legs with hazy blown pupils. both of your hands fish through their hair, gasping heavily once they start to slurp nearly everything out of you at such at maddened pace.

it was one thing with teeth — but they had fangs, and they both made sure you felt the keen edges against your sopping cunt every single time.

“mmph,” choso mewls out, wrapping his mouth around your slick entrance. sukuna’s only a few kilometers apart, and the older vampire grunts once he tries to push him away. with pouty glossed lips, choso gives your clit a kiss before briefly departing. “ ‘kuna,” he huffs cutely, and you watch as his chin has an even shiner coat of your arousal racing down. “you’re bein’ greedy..”

“good,” sukuna jibes, and you whimper loudly once his long tongue trails further down. it stops right once it reaches your winking hole. it was so long, it located places you didn’t even know could be reached. a fluttering feeling settled inside the very pits of your stomach before he spits on your cunt.

it’s a rude ‘pft’ and you watch as a syrupy strand dribbles down onto your heat. choso’s lip quivers as he stares too, going back to touching himself.

he rarely touched himself — but when he did, it always felt heavenly. “cho,” he grouses, smearing a fat thumb against your cunt that’s soaking up the dribbling saliva. “clean her off for me.”

choso’s eyes widen. but he was too feral to reply, and as if his lips had a mind of it’s own, he leans in and let’s his mouth do the rest of the talking.

honey, your taste was almost equivalent to honey. choso whines against your clit as he drinks you clean, the soddened pure taste of you never departing from his tastebuds. he shamelessly laps up sukuna’s saliva that pours down your pudgy wet folds before softly thrusting his tongue in and out of your cunt.

“fuck,” you moan, feeling your legs starting to spasm. sukuna goes back between and they’re both latching their pink pointed tongues against your tender muscle. you even watch as their tongues touch, getting tangled together and all. choso grows flustered and sukuna’s for the same sly smile on his lips, teasingly licking near choso’s bottom lip before going back to your pussy.

squelch, you were so wet . . profusely drooling. with how wet you were, you were putting faucets to unruly shame.

your thighs were covered in various marks and as they both shared the same pussy drunk grin, that’s when you finally snap.

right when the tip of sukuna’s forked tongue rudely thwacks against your sweetened g-spot, you end up gushing out right away. it creeps up on you like a jump scare, hitting you like a truck, an inevitable wave that came crashing down without warning.

“fuck, ngh oh my god!” and as you’re coming undone on their tongues, you were holding in a breath you didn’t even know you had.

seconds later as you gradually let go, your tummy’s continuing to heave from each exhilarated pant leaving from your lungs. with hooded eyelids fluttering, you end up spraying a sweet amount of sap onto the bottoms of their chins. sukuna snickers and choso quietly gasps—

“my my,” sukuna hums, licking his tongue underneath his bottom lip, savoring the taste. “so the human’s a squirter also, interesting,” and you couldn’t my stop panting.

your orgasm was loud, and it rang through each of the ancient walls that were so old that they were on the verge of crumbling down after centuries of standing tall. your own voice nearly shatters the victorian mirrors as you leisurely succumb into awaited pleasure, releasing your grip from their heads. you glance down and see sukuna already staring at you, giving your cunt one final kiss. “cute, think i’ll take my time with you, princess.”

choso pouts, panting himself as his tongue licks near the crevice of his lips. “y.. you mean us, ‘kuna.”

sukuna rolls his eyes with a grimacing scowl. “eh, right.”

many moments later — once you’re lightly thrown on sukuna’s king sized bed, you gulp.

now you were fucked.

they were more hungrier than ever, especially choso. the taste of your sweet cunt still lingers and his mouth, on his tongue—and he only imagined how sweeter your sacred blood must be.

“choso, watch me,” sukuna gruffs, and you let him flip your body over. landing into the cushions with a soft ‘oof’ your cheek gets pressed against a velvet pillow. “humans are fragile, so you don’t wanna break ‘em too bad,” and you moan once his hand swats against your bare ass. the recoil makes your entire body tense and you chew on your lip, quietly wishing he’d spank you again.

you weren’t really wearing anything except for maybe a black skirt that was now torn to practical shreds and a blouse that was halfway raised toward the top. as sukuna shuffles a bit, he springs out his thick cock and oh, you could tell he was big just from hearing the stroking sounds from behind you.

he grunts, giving his veiny shaft a few ample pumps before aligning himself against your swollen entrance. “look at herrrr,” he purrs, spreading your cunt apart with two fingers as your ass arched upward.

you were still drenched with your panties clinging toward the gummed crevices of your thighs. right as he toys with your dilating clit, he can hear the sloshing sounds make it’s return before darkly chuckling. “eager, isn’t she choso? her pretty pussy’s tryin’ to talk back. how quaint.”

“sukuna,” choso pouts, pushing him off. “let me, i know how to—” and he pauses, his eyes intently gazing at your pulsing cunt.

he was still so hungry. he just wanted another taste. just one more slurp of your slick and he’ll be satisfied. his thirst would be quenched. choso shakes his head, letting off a shaky sigh. “i know how t- to fuck.”

“he doesn’t,” sukuna mouths to you in a cocky manner, getting in front of you.

the pink haired vampire stands near the edge of the bed, a hand cupping underneath your chin. “it’s okay, you can look,” he smugly says, feeling your eyes burn into his weighty length that’s standing tall.

the shadow that’s underneath it makes it appear even bigger, and oh, it’s not just big - it’s huge.

sukuna’s very thick with insane amounts of girth for days, and your eyes slowly flicker toward his pretty tip that’s swollen. spurts of pre-cum seeping from his frenulum and you can’t help but give his tip a few greeting kisses. he sucks his teeth at the audacity, wide jaw tightening at your tender touch. the more you stare, you notice he’s got a bit of pink hair that curls it way around his fat base, almost forming a bush.

it’s unintentionally attractive, and you even found yourself gawking at his shaggy happy trail too. “touch me more, woman,” he utters, as if he read your mind. his rough tone getting a bit softer. “go ‘head.”

as you wrap a hand around his cock, you can hear choso’s sweet whimpers in the background. “oh, my,” and his sweltering hot tip’s just ghosting against your yearning slick entrance. you let off a hum, teasingly wriggling your ass a bit just to get a reaction out of him and you did. “ugh,” he moans with an needy hiss following, sliding his flushed crownhead against your swallowing cunt. “kuna she’s gonna m- make me cum.”

“thought you said you knew how to fuck?” sukuna titters, ogling as you slowly bring your plump lips up to his shaft.

with a grumble, choso kisses his teeth. “shut up,” and as his dick aligns itself between your swollen folds, he lets off a breathy sigh. “fuuuck,” he could feel you wholly trying to swallow him as he eases his way inside.

right there, choso felt a chill run down his spine. you were warm inside, and it makes him gnaw a fang down his quivering lip once his lengthy inches rummages farther. “hng, ‘s so good, she’s so wet, ‘kuna,” he murmurs in a soft tone, his words that slide past his lips shaking from each breath.

hearing your own moans leave from your lips makes him harder. sukuna grunts, watching as you press another chaste kiss against his mushroomy tip.

lustrous strands of pre-cum stick against your lips and he groans, tight abs that hid within the inside of his cloak tensing right away. “that’s it, ‘s all yours, princess,” and a hand of his paws it’s way onto the top of your head. once his dick starts to slowly disappear in your mouth, he lets off a near growl. whitened fangs poke from the outer parts of his lip before he feels your moan vibrate against his shaft. “mhm, atta girl. get it wet, spit on it.”

“hah, ‘m not gonna last,” choso breathlessly huffs, and with his hands gripping on both sides of your waist, he’s starting up a pace. it’s a slow pace that you could keep up with in terms of rhythm, but fuck was he big too.

choso had just as much of girth as sukuna did, maybe even more.

he’s stretching you out with just a few beginning thrusts and your eyes already widen. “mpmh,” and as your mouth’s full, cheeks all puffed from storing sukuna’s cock inside, you pull it out to allow a bit of drool pout from your lips and onto his tip.

the vampire flashes you a wolffish smile as his fingers softly massage down your scalp, his claws gingerly stroking against your tresses. your back was arched to a sudden with your body slightly raised, facing sukuna whilst your rear was focusing purely on choso.

sukuna studies your body, your pretty face, your fluttering flapping lashes, your tight tight throat that’s making lewd noises every once in and while, but most importantly, he studies you.

it doesn’t take long before his fat cockhead starts to create ‘love’ taps against your uvula. your eyes widen and you let off a tiny gargle at feeling him reach the roof of your mouth within no time, clawing your own hands into his beefy thighs.

“such a tight ‘lil throat for a pretty human,” he grunts, feeling you pop out his cock to lap up the remnants of your saliva.

choso’s still plummeting into you from behind, giving you soft sensual strokes yet they soon turn rigorous and deep once he feels your ass slam into him. once your skin goes back against him, that was merely all it took for him to lose it. it makes his ears twitch even more—and he whimpers, falling on love with your cunt right away.

it’s sloppy. already, you’re starting to stick and glue against his chiseled pelvis each time you rut back into him. choso’s hips were downright filthy, and it only takes him a few minutes before he’s meticulously drilling into you at full speed. his cock’s precise, making sure to hunt and search through every part of your cunt with his aching tip.

“fuck,” he hisses, a sweaty palm of his giving your right ass cheek a squeeze. as he grabs a nice chunk of your ass, he can’t help but spank it.

but he feels bad afterwards so the sting shortly goes away once his palm caresses a few circles against your hot temple.

the recoil of your skin always mesmerized him - he found himself in a trance every time. simply put, you had him enticed.

choso moans again, feeling your warm body rock back into his at such an unsteady pace to where he’s stammering over his words. “s. . so pretty.”

“the inside of her mouth’s even prettier,” sukuna sneers, and with a loud ‘pop’, he removes his dick from out of your throat.

you pout, lolling out your tongue without him having to say anything and he hums in patent amusement. “ain’t that right, princess?” and with a whack, his fat meaty tip slaps against your pink tongue.

you moan, and he slaps his flushed cock against your tongue three more times just to hear you whine for him to finish. “fuckin’ hungry, are ya, ‘lil hunter? you didn’t care about bounties, you just cared about gettin’ your sloppy cunt wet, huh.”

“mmph—sukuna,” you mumble, your words nearly inaudible once he rubs his leaky tip against your lips. his tip’s so fat and swollen as a rosé color shades over it from top to bottom. just a few seconds of him being out of your mouth and you were already drooling for more - literally.

choso’s breathing starts to pick up the longer he’s giving you such rough pivotal thrusts. you could feel him practically humping his weak hips into you, and he’s sniffling because he can’t believe humans felt this good inside.

“aw, are you mad, little human?” sukuna gruffly mocks, tracing a thumb over your arched brow.

the scowl that indents between the corners of your lips was adorable. “heh, how spoiled you must be. fine. open your mouth again,” and he views as you quickly comply, sticking out your tongue with your hands grabbing your neglected breasts that hid beneath your bra. “good girl.”

this merely lasts for a century — not really, but it felt like it.

lightning like veins ran down sukuna’s cock and you felt them prod against your tongue, meanwhile choso’s almost hysterical once he ends up dumping ribbons of cum into you. early at that, and he’s never been more embarrassed.

choso fucks you for a long while, and it’s until his thrusts against you becomes insignificantly sloppy and he’s overflowed your cunt with ropes of searing hot cum. it’s so much that it dribbles down your thighs, spritzing all on your clit and gluing against your skin like paste.

“ngh, f- forgive me,” he’d whine, peering as sukuna’s finishing up himself.

with a feral growl, he’s fisting his cock just a few more times before it’s his turn to finish now. you got filled in both ways, and once the bitterly sweet taste of his seed mists into your mouth, you let off a moan. “good . . good girl,” choso rubs the back of his neck, trying to mimic sukuna’s praises he did on you earlier.

you’re still on all fours and your eyelashes flutter as he’s continuing to spill out such slimy amounts of cum. the taste has a bit of a sugary tang that makes your nose crinkle. “swallow,” the older vampire murmurs, a long black claw of his softly caressing the edge of your lip.

a few droplets dribble from the corners of your lips once you obey, moaning once you feel choso unhurriedly pull out. he’s slow, feeling his chest heave out with a heavy sigh as your cunt let’s out a loud ‘pop’ after he gradually takes it out of you.

his tip was throbbing, and as he stared at his own cum oozing out of your swollen pussy, he can’t help but run a finger down it. you feel yourself clenching around nothing now and you can’t help but pout.

“tch. where’s your manners, woman,” sukuna raises a pink slit brow, grabbing your chin. your lips still remain pouty due to how much he’s squeezing against your plump lips together and you let off a whimper.

crisp air sets against your bare ass and skin as you meet his carmine-red gaze. “you’re supposed to say ‘thank you’ for the meal. go on.”

“t . . thank you, ‘kuna,” you softly snivel, feeling yourself pulse the more choso runs his finger down your flabby folds. he’s touchy, his fingers felt hot and shocking like static - and the more he maneuvers tiny circles around your clit, the more you felt your knees starting to grow weaker again.

“hn.” is all he replies with, and just when you thought they were finished — they weren’t.

you said you wanted both of them, not just one but two. and you know what they always say, the more the merrier . . right?

but it’s a bit different when the ‘merrier’ involves two ancient cocks.

to say you got stretched to the very fullest was merely an understatement. they each took turns with you, round after round after fucking round . .

your legs felt practically nonexistent, and every time they’d dump a knot into your sweet cunt, you’d feel like you were about to burst. round after round after round, they’d coax out orgasms out of you like it was nothing—especially sukuna.

choso was the one whining in your ear, whining even louder than you sometimes. he couldn’t help it, especially with how good your pussy wrapped around his dick so freely. it was a feeling he doesn’t think he’s ever experienced—and if he did, it was a long long time ago anyway.

but now, you were preparing to take them both at the same time. the thrill of the thought alone makes your thighs shudder as sukuna’s sinking his thick cock into you. already, he feels you gaping and you can’t help but moan at the elastic stretch unfurling wider and wider. .

the pink haired vampire was propped behind you while choso’s lying flat back against the sofa. it’s a pretty view, and choso’s staring right into your eyes. your pretty eyes—he’s never been one to lust over a mere human, but it was just something about you. with you, it was different.

sukuna on the the other hand—he couldn’t really care less. he’s centuries old and it’s been what, a decades since he’s got laid? it was just who he was - but he wouldn’t mind keeping you around for a while.

for centuries, the two of them lived their tedious lives inside of what appeared to be some kind of abandoned castle—you actually ended up stumbling upon it in the forest by accident while looking for them. the vampires you were supposed to kill, and yet here you were, about to be double stuffed by both of them.

“nice ‘n easy you two. biiiig fuckin’ stretch,” sukuna gruffs, wrapping a big hand around his hardened cock.

it’s flushed and veiny from the rigid sides, florid from the crowned tip with a ruby shade as he’s still getting over his recent orgasm. you’re sopping, your cunt’s crying for more and the sloshes that sang out from your folds only grew louder the more he’s burying himself inside of your gummy pasty walls. “choso, you’re not gonna faint again, are ya?”

“s- shut up,” choso grumbles, a rosy tiny spraying a half part of his face. as choso aligns himself between your entrance also, he let’s off a low sigh at the welcoming squelch your pussy make.

‘pop’ and fuck, could he listen to that all day. just the sloppy noises you made—to him, that was music in itself. “god, ‘m still so sensitive, m- mistress.”

with a sheepish hum, you cup both sides of his face, speaking in a teasing tone. “mistress?”

“i—” choso pauses, a vermillion flush spraying over his entire face. fuck, his words slipped, and he’s felt that wave of embarrassed returning right away.

it was adorable though, and as you continue to bare around both of their cocks, he can’t help but lean into your tender touch. “i mean-”

“no, it’s okay,” you reassure him, moaning once your bare ass gets a swift rude swat from sukuna’s palm. within no time, you’re starting to move your hips again, feeling yourself get stuffed in all orifices.

your sheeny-slicked lips part into a gasping ‘o’ once you feel sukuna then rub a hand against your clit. “fuck,” you whine, and sukuna hisses himself once he feels your clingy grip around his cock tighten. his hips were sharp, and it doesn’t take long before you start to match his deranged rhythm. averting your eyes back toward choso who’s laid back so prettily on the bed underneath you, speak in a soft voice. “ ‘s okay, you can call me that.”

“yeah, cho. call the pretty girl ‘mistress’, heh.” sukuna derides.

with a cute grouse, choso glares at sukuna—but his expression quickly falters once you fall into his chest, slumping into his body. his tight sculptured abs that resembled a greek god peeks through his victorian inky cloak ghost against you and a bit of hair from his happy trail tickles against your tummy.

“shut . . up,” he grumbles at sukuna, but now it’s his turn to cup your face. “m- mistress,” and a thumb of his runs against your cheek.

sukuna groans from behind you both as he’s fucking you from behind—his deep pivotal strokes slowly weakening due to how sensitive he was. it almost stings, but with the way your cunt’s holding him hostage for all its worth, he just couldn’t stop.

“hm,” your eyes meet the dark haired vampire and his bottom lip quivers. just your stare alone was enough to drive him up the first street of insanity.

you’ve done quite your fair share amount of research on these two and what the media reports about them in the papers always shocks you. they typically always describe them as the ‘blood-thirsty duo’ monsters who would mercilessly tear limb from limb off of anyone who dares cross their path.

funnily enough, they said the most heinous things about choso in particular—but now that you were quite literally being filled with them both in each hole, choso was more sweet than anything. the papers described him as a ruthless blood-sucking vampire but he was the sweetest—especially whenever he’s overstimmed and whiny.

and sukuna . . he’s sukuna.

but you were still alive—so that was something, right?

“can . . may i,” and it takes you a moment to realize what he’s asking for.

choso wants to kiss you, and you can tell by the way his big wide eyes continue to flicker toward your own eyes, then back toward your glossed plump lips. he wanted a taste, he needed it.

“y- yeah,” you moan, feeling sukuna’s heavy cock reach an even deeper angle inside of you. you’re taking them both, feeling your entire legs get weaker by the second but that feeling suddenly disintegrates once choso presses his lips onto yours.

it’s a sultry hot kiss. a kiss that he’s been longing to do ever since he walked in on you and sukuna. choso’s forked tongue delves more into your mouth as you’re riding him with sukuna guiding your hips in place.

it’s sloppy, and he’s been pathetically aching for more of a taste from you for the longest. choso wasn’t fond of sharing you with sukuna—he wished it was you and him, but he couldn’t complain. at least he wasn’t going to complain yet.

“mmh,” you moan into his mouth, feeling his scarred hands softly caress near your breasts that poke through your bra. choso whines, nipping at your tongue with his serrated-sharp fangs before he lets off a gasp.

“ngh, oh fuck,” choso whimpers between your lips and deprived kisses. his arms end up enveloping around your waist, holding you close as sukuna’s driving his cock into you as such a crazed speed from behind.

as your lashes stick together briefly — they flutter shut before opening again. glancing up with droopy eyes, you watch as choso’s currently grabbing onto the wooden creaking headboard, a plethora of veins bulging down his swole biceps.

sukuna grunts behind your ear and within seconds later, he’s taking a playful harmless chomp out of your left shoulder blade.

your skin - so sweet, and his pronged tongue swirls its way around the fang marks that starts to form before choso ends up cumming early again.

“fuck, fuck,” choso whines, feeling his chest tighten. your pussy had them both weak, especially with choso more than anything, because he fills you up with another knot that exudes its way deep inside. it shoots out fast, pouring into you before a few remnants trickle down the crevices of your inner thighs.

your deadened legs struggle to stay open and he brings another needy wet kiss to your lips before he starts panting. “i- i need, need more,” and his eyes stare at your neck. “please, just a taste.”

“wait your turn, choso,” sukuna snarls, pulling you back to sink his fangs further into your skin. oh, they were fighting over you. choso lets off a cute huff before ignoring sukuna, glancing at you.

his eyes and pouty quivering lips were telling you ‘please’, and as you continued to slowly jerk your hips against them both, you let off a soft bashful, “g. . go ahead.”

but choso’s still cumming too—his ropes of cum was so sweet and came out so smoothly that it’s like he was pouring molasses of syrupy ribbons into you.

within a blink of an eye, it pumps into you raw, and choso nearly loses it once his fangs pierce down into the right side of your neck. “ah,” he whimpers, hot breath fanning against your skin. softly, his sharp fangs delicately nip into your sweet toothsome skin and it feels like a tiny prick.

you moan as you’re barely moving anymore, but they’re both still very deep inside, keeping each sloppy aperture of yours very, very busy.

“so dramatic,” sukuna rolls his eyes, a feeling of jealousy washing over him. you’re squeezing around him tight and he groans, clawing a few fingers toward your chest and unclasping your bra.

with hungry claret eyes that favors the color of rich red wine, he openly gawks as your breasts spring free and he gingerly pinches one of your perked nipples. “look at these girls, so perfect,” and you moan at his touch.

choso on the other hand looked so pretty. he’s still enjoying his ‘meal’ and the second his fangs cut deep enough into your skin, he tastes that sprinkle of metallic sweetness before he ends up cumming again.

he’s cumming while he’s feeding off of you — drinking your lusciously appetizing blood, and he hasn’t had a fill as good as this in probably centuries.

it’s so good that his mouth was watering, and the vampire loses his momentum before slouching further back with his teeth still attached to your skin like velcro. a pout curls against his lips as he makes you grind back into him, feeling both cocks stretch you open even more. “mh,” he whimpers, honed edges of his fangs creating various marks. you couldn’t wait to look at it later.

sukuna’s still fondling your tits and cupping them with both side hands before he bites near the other side of your neck, showering the exposed part of your skin with a multitude of kisses.

“careful, princess. you’re gonna break him,” he whispers in a raspy tone, and a hand of his trails further down between your legs.

“s- shut up, suku— fuck,” choso whines, and it’s an even larger knot than before.

it’s hot before it pumps inside of you yet again, filling you to the very peak. creamy globs of it race down your thighs as his mouth’s still clinging onto your bare shoulder blade. your taste, it was so rich . . so succulent.

your taste was almost so overbearing that it makes the flustered vampire’s eyes roll all the back until it reaches his skull, and he’s now feeling his dick twitching sporadically inside of you. “mistress, fuck. i- ‘s so much inside of you, f . . forgive me.”

he ends up shooting a huge load inside that stirs the insides of your flittering tummy. you were sure some even reached deep into womb, you wouldn’t be surprised due to just how big they both were.

but even so, and you couldn’t help but ponder . . could vampires get humans pregnant?

you didn’t plan on it, but that reality of being stuffed full of each of them made your stomach churn with a pool of butterflies living inside, swarming all around and fluttering at just the lewd thought of it all. you were filled to the very max - the very brim, and it leaves you panting for more.

you all remain like that until sukuna finally pries you off of choso, crimson eyes gazing at the mess that spills between your thighs. “tsk. how filthy,” and you land on your back, staring up at the two vampires who share the same blood-lust gaze.

“spread ‘em again, princess. least we can do is clean ya up,” and he nudges choso who’s just lied flat against the bed, still in awe—starstruck.

your pussy probably did break him.

“choso. c’mere,” he snaps in his face, and the dark haired vampire blinks thrice, returning back to reality. he groans, sitting up with sheets of sweat racing down each sides of his face. “our girl need’s cleaning.”

“o- oh, right,” he quietly stammers, a bit of your blood from earlier staining his pink lips. a permanent pout remains on his mouth before he licks them clean, and he can’t help but lean in, giving you one more kiss.

your heart swoons, and as you return the embrace. milliseconds pass and you gradually start to feel sukuna spreading your legs, ogling at the mess they created, the mess that’s pumped into you fully.

velvety ribbons of cum racing down each of your thighs, you were still throbbing ferociously and you let off a moan once you swipe your tongue across choso’s lips, relishing in the taste of your own sweet irony blood.

as your tongues vigorously twirl around each, trying to assert dominance between each twisting muscle—you let off a whimper in choso’s mouth once you feel sukuna’s breath aerate against your clit.

without even batting an eye, he starts to lap the cum out between your puffy folds before he gives it one loooong suck. your chest automatically heaves in and out before your arms wrap around choso’s broad shoulders, tangling saliva strands together and creating lustrous sleek cobwebs.

but, as your lips were locked against choso, you feel something between your legs. sukuna gives your pussy one long sniff, then he does it again, and one more time before gifting it a pat. “oh. .”

choso nibbles at your bottom lip with his fangs before sukuna meanly spanks your cunt. a bit of your own slick sprays against his palm and he hums.

“choso,” he huskily says, teasingly pointing the end of his claw near your pulsating clit. it was hovering over your entrance . . and still, you let off a whimper at the sensitive feeling. “i think i know why our pretty girl smelled so good all this time.”

“huh,” the dark haired vampire briefly pulls away, panting heavily just as you. choso glances down at sukuna before feeling his chest cave in and out. “w . . why, sukuna?”

you look down at sukuna, your brows contorting into a curious look yourself.

sukuna gives your sopping cunt one long stare before giving it a kiss. “mwah,” and you moan, watching as wet strands peel away from your pudgy folds and glue back onto his mouth.

he’s sloppy, and he couldn’t care less. the vampire rubs a circle around your entrance before snickering darkly.

“because,” and he spanks your pussy once more time before playfully putting his fangs against your clit as if he was about to bite you. with a dull expression, sukuna leans in to smell between your legs one more time before whispering against your clit.

“—you’re ovulating, princess.”

10K notes · View notes

sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

Text

diet pepsi

pairing — brother’s bsf!satoru x fem reader

synopsis : satoru always saw you as suguru’s little sister—until you came back different, and dangerous to want. fighting it should be easy, but summer has a way of breaking rules. and some mistakes feel too good to stop making.

tags — childhood friends au, mutual pining, summer romance, beach setting, forbidden romance, brother’s best friend trope, fluff, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, public sex (car), oral sex (f receiving), fingering, pussy drunk satoru, overstimulation, virgin reader if u squint, unprotected piv sex, pull out method, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names, possessive behavior, alcohol use, 13.9k wc. 18+ only, MDNI.

a/n : i tried dialogue heavy writing instead of my usual sensory and internalization on one bit and all i can say is im never doing it again it felt so icky im so sorry TvT art is not mine, i am in the middle of finding the source ><

five years vanish like smoke, curling into nothing.

summer presses heavy on the cracked asphalt, heatwaves shimmering like ghosts rising from the dunes. the pop-up ice cream stand sags under the sun’s relentless weight, its faded awning flapping lazily in the salty breeze.

satoru leans against suguru’s rusted truck, sunglasses slipping down his nose, a greasy bag of fries teetering on his knee. they’re parked beside the shack, the lull in customers letting them sink into idle chatter, cheap food, and the sticky rhythm of a beachside summer.

he’s mid-bite—salt and vinegar stinging his tongue, sweat trickling down his neck—when he hears it.

a laugh.

not just any laugh.

bright and sharp, it cuts through the cicadas’ drone and the surf’s restless crash like a blade through silk.

he looks up, annoyed first—who’s that fucking loud?—then stunned, breath punched out of him like he’s taken a fist to the chest.

you step into view like you’ve walked out of a dream he didn’t know he was having, framed by the blazing sky and the ocean’s glitter. alone, you drag a beat-up duffel bag, its strap slung over your shoulder, sneakers kicking up little clouds of sand. the sundress you wear—white, gauzy, catching the breeze—clings to your thighs, the hem flirting with every step.

a wide-brimmed beach hat sits tilted on your head, casting dappled shadows across your face, and your hair, sun-lightened and wild, spills down your back like it’s daring the wind to tame it.

you’re older. taller. you move with a confidence that scrapes at satoru’s ribs, leaves them raw and aching. you’re gorgeous in a way that feels like a hazard, like a spark too close to dry tinder. you shine, bright and untouchable, and he’s caught, staring, helpless.

his fry drops to the pavement, forgotten.

“yo,” suguru says, elbow jabbing satoru’s side, hard enough to rattle the truck. “you good, or did the sun fry your brain?”

satoru can’t answer. his tongue’s too thick, his heart’s lodged somewhere near his ankles. all he can do is watch you, the way your dress shifts with each step, the way your hat tilts as you turn your head, scanning the beach.

then you see them.

your face splits into a grin so bright it dims the sky, and satoru feels the ground tilt beneath him.

“satoru!” you shout, waving with a reckless joy that cracks the world open.

he pushes off the truck, heart hammering like it’s trying to break free, shoving his sunglasses up to hide the way his eyes are drinking you in. he hopes suguru doesn’t notice, hopes the heat crawling up his neck doesn’t betray him.

he saunters over, all false swagger, pretending his knees aren’t loose, pretending he’s still the same satoru who used to tease you mercilessly. “long time no see, squirt,” he drawls, flicking the brim of your hat. it’s a mistake—the hat makes you look too fucking cute, the way it frames your face, the way it dares him to keep looking.

you laugh, breathless and bright, and before he can brace himself, you throw your arms around his neck.

he freezes, arms caught mid-air, your warmth slamming into him like a wave. your body presses close—soft, real, burning through the thin fabric of his shirt. your scent, something sweet and sun-warmed, wraps around him, and he’s drowning, his hands hovering before instinct takes over.

he wraps you up, too tight, too desperate, your curves fitting against him like you were made for it. your fingers fist into the back of his shirt, a brief, greedy clutch, and he feels the tremor in your grip, the way it lingers one second too long.

then you pull away, leaving him blinking, bereft, his skin tingling where you touched.

suguru joins a moment later, his lazy grin in place, oblivious to the storm raging in satoru’s chest. “didn’t know you were back today,” he says, pulling you into a quick hug. “would’ve picked you up from the station.”

he ruffles your hair, that annoying big-brother move, and you swat at him, your hat tilting precariously. “someone needs extra hands at the stand,” suguru continues, slinging an arm around your shoulders, his fondness clear in the crinkle of his eyes. “and since you’re back in town with nothing better to do…”

he’s teasing, but there’s warmth there, a quiet pride in having you close again. satoru watches, jaw tight, as you lean into suguru’s side, your ease with him sparking something sharp and ugly in his chest. it’s not jealousy—not of suguru, never that—but something else, something that claws at him, hot and restless.

“figured you’d be perfect,” suguru adds, smirking at satoru now, like he knows something’s off. “plus, toru here was whining about being bored.”

“was not,” satoru mutters, kicking at the sand, heat climbing his neck. he’s lying, and suguru knows it—satoru’s been restless all summer, chasing distractions to fill the hollow in his gut.

you laugh again, sweet and effortless, sweeter than the cotton candy sold at the stand. it’s a sound that hooks into satoru’s ribs, pulls tight, leaves him aching.

“c’mon,” suguru says, already turning toward the road. “my treat. diner time?”

it’s tradition.

that shitty little diner down the road, with its cracked vinyl booths and milkshakes so thick you need a spoon. the three of you used to haunt it every summer, sprawled across a booth, stealing fries, laughing until your sides hurt. nostalgia hits satoru like a fist, sharp and sudden. he’s fourteen again, all knees and elbows, stomach hollow with a hunger he couldn’t name.

“last one there buys dessert,” you chirp, already jogging ahead, duffel bag bouncing against your hip, sneakers flashing white against the sand. your sundress flutters, catching the light, and satoru’s eyes linger too long on the curve of your calves, the sway of your hips.

he tells himself you’re off-limits, a mantra he’s worn thin over the years. you’re suguru’s little sister, untouchable, a line he’d never cross. but the air smells like salt and possibility, and you feel like a second chance he didn’t know he needed.

he’s marching after you before he can stop himself, pretending he’s still just satoru—your brother’s idiot friend, the guy who used to pull your pigtails and sneak you extra ice cream. pretending he’s not burning up inside, pretending the rules still hold when you’re close enough to touch, close enough to taste.

pretending he’s not already, irreversibly, fucked.

the diner sits like a time capsule at the edge of town, neon sign buzzing like a trapped firefly, its pink and blue glow flickering against the dusk. same warped menu boards, same cracked vinyl booths, same sticky linoleum floor that clings to your sneakers.

nothing ever changes here, and satoru both loves and hates it—loves the way it holds you in its amber, hates how it reminds him of everything he’s tried to outrun. it’s the backdrop to a thousand memories, all of them sharp with you and suguru.

you slide into the booth across from him, your sundress whispering against your thighs, beach hat tossed beside you like an afterthought. satoru’s hyperaware of his knees brushing the air just shy of yours under the chipped formica table, the space between you electric, too small.

suguru slips in next to you, casual as ever, but there’s a protective edge in the way his arm drapes across the booth’s back, fingers grazing the vinyl an inch from your shoulder.

“so,” suguru says, sliding a laminated menu your way, its edges curling like old paper, “college treating you okay?”

you shrug, lips curving into a half-smile that catches the diner’s dim light. “it’s just school. nothing as exciting as the beach.”

“she’s being modest,” satoru teases, forcing his voice to stay light while his pulse hammers, your nearness a live wire under his skin. “probably acing everything.”

your eyes flick to his, a hint of pink blooming high on your cheeks, soft and fleeting like a sunset. “hardly. nearly failed calculus last semester.”

“you? fail math?” satoru grins, leaning forward, the memory of you hunched over graph paper, explaining equations to him and suguru, vivid as yesterday. “impossible.”

“college math is different,” you protest, but you’re smiling, holding his gaze a second too long, your lashes casting faint shadows.

suguru glances between you, eyebrow twitching upward before he grabs a menu, oblivious to the way satoru’s heart stumbles. “food’s still exactly the same here. bet they haven’t cleaned the grill since we were kids.”

“that’s what makes it good,” you say, laughing, the sound bright and warm, like the clink of sea glass against the shore. “nothing beats greasy diner food after a day at the beach.”

the waitress appears, pen poised, her gaze lingering on satoru, lips curving in a way that’s too sweet, too practiced. “what can i get for you folks?” she asks, voice syrupy when it lands on him.

you straighten in your seat, fingers tightening on the menu’s edge, a flicker of something sharp in your eyes. “i’ll have a chocolate shake and fries,” you say, voice clear, pulling her attention like you meant to.

“double cheeseburger, extra fries, chocolate shake thick enough for a spoon,” satoru orders, not glancing at the menu or the waitress. some things never change—his order, this booth, the way his chest tightens when you’re close.

“you still get the same thing?” you ask, smile soft with nostalgia, like you’re seeing him for the first time in years. “you used to make such a mess with those shakes.”

“remember when he got chocolate all over your new white shirt?” suguru chimes in, grinning, leaning back with an ease satoru envies. “you cried for like an hour.”

“i did not cry for an hour,” you protest, cheeks flushing, a spark of indignation in your eyes. “maybe ten minutes. tops.”

“and then satoru gave you his hoodie,” suguru continues, smirk sharp now, “and suddenly the tears magically stopped.”

“shut up,” you mutter, kicking suguru under the table, your gaze skittering away from satoru’s.

he remembers that day like it’s burned into him—you, twelve, small and devastated, tears streaking your face over a ruined shirt. him, awkward and too tall, draping his oversized hoodie around your shoulders, your eyes lighting up like he’d given you something precious. the memory sits heavy in his chest, warm and aching.

“you kept that hoodie for years,” suguru adds, ignoring your glare, voice teasing but fond. “pretty sure i saw you packing it for college.”

“oh my god, can we talk about anything else?” you plead, face scarlet, fingers twisting the straw wrapper into a knot.

satoru’s heart lurches. you kept his hoodie? all these years? the thought blooms inside him, dangerous and warm, like a spark he can’t smother. he wants to ask, wants to know if it still smells like him, if you ever wore it and thought of him, but he swallows it down, terrified of what his face might give away.

“what brought you back this summer?” he asks, voice steadier than he feels, desperate to shift the focus before he betrays himself. “just break, or…?”

“internship fell through,” you admit, shrugging, the motion small, almost apologetic. “figured i’d come home, make some money at the stand if you guys needed help.”

“always need help,” suguru nods, stealing a sugar packet from the caddy, spinning it between his fingers. “tourist season’s crazy this year.”

“plus satoru’s been whining about needing days off,” he adds, smirking, tossing the packet at satoru.

“i have not been whining,” satoru protests, catching the packet mid-air, his grin masking the way his pulse spikes at your laugh.

“you literally said yesterday that if one more kid dropped their ice cream and cried, you were going to walk straight into the ocean,” suguru deadpans, folding his arms.

you laugh, bright and clear, and satoru’s heart does a stupid, reckless flip. god, he missed that sound—missed it like air, like something vital he didn’t know he’d lost until it’s here again, filling the hollow in his chest.

“sounds like you need me to save you,” you tease, eyes locking with his across the table, a flicker of softness there, warm and unguarded.

“maybe i do,” he says, too honest, voice low, watching the pink deepen on your cheeks, the way your lips part just slightly.

the food arrives, breaking the moment like a wave against the shore. you take a bite of a fry, eyes fluttering shut, a small hum of contentment slipping out that has satoru gripping his glass so tight he’s surprised it doesn’t crack. the sound’s innocent, but it lands like a spark, igniting something restless in him.

“god, i missed real food,” you sigh, dipping another fry in ketchup, the motion careless, perfect. “dining hall stuff is awful.”

“that fancy school doesn’t feed you right?” suguru teases, stealing a fry from your plate, dodging your swat with a grin.

“hey!” you protest, brandishing your fork like a weapon. “and no, it’s all kale and quinoa and weird vegan options.”

“poor baby,” satoru mocks, but his voice is soft, and when suguru’s not looking, he slides a few of his fries onto your plate, a quiet offering.

you catch it, eyes warming, lips curving into a private smile that feels like a secret stitched between you. your fingers brush the table’s edge, inches from his, and he wonders what it’d be like to close that gap, to feel your skin against his.

“remember that summer we practically lived here?” you ask, stirring your shake, the spoon clinking softly against the glass. “after suguru got his license?”

“and dad’s old pickup,” suguru adds, nodding, his eyes distant with memory. “we’d come every day after the beach.”

“you two would eat your weight in fries,” you laugh, the sound wrapping around satoru like a tide, pulling him under. “and then race each other back to the water like idiots.”

“while you timed us,” satoru recalls, grin tugging at his lips, the memory vivid—your small hands clutching a cheap stopwatch, shouting times as he and suguru sprinted, sand flying. “always the competitive one.”

“says the guy who insisted on best of three every single time he lost,” you counter, eyebrow raised, a challenge in your gaze.

“which was most times,” suguru adds, smirking.

“i let you win,” satoru protests, clutching his chest like he’s wounded, but his eyes are on you, drinking in the way you laugh.

“sure you did,” you say, not buying it, your eyes bright with that old, familiar spark.

suguru’s phone buzzes, shattering the moment. he checks it, sighs, and pushes his plate aside. “dad needs me to pick up stuff from the hardware store. you two good here? i can come back.”

“we’re fine,” you say quickly, waving him off, your hat slipping slightly as you turn. “i remember the way home.”

suguru hesitates, eyes narrowing as he glances between you, like he senses the shift in the air. “behave yourselves.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, voice too innocent, lips twitching.

“it means don’t let satoru convince you to do something stupid like that time he talked you into jumping off the pier,” suguru says, sliding out of the booth, his sneakers scuffing the floor.

“that was one time,” satoru defends, spreading his hands. “and she wanted to do it!”

“i was twelve and you told me it was totally safe,” you remind him, but you’re smiling, no bite behind it, just warmth.

“and it was safe,” he insists, leaning back. “you just can’t dive.”

suguru rolls his eyes, already halfway to the door. “i’ll be back in twenty. try not to burn the place down.”

the door jingles as he leaves, and the air shifts, charged, heavy with the weight of being alone with you for the first time in five years. the diner feels smaller, the hum of the neon sign louder, the space between you crackling like static.

“so,” you say, twirling your straw in your shake, eyes meeting his through your lashes, a hint of vulnerability beneath the tease. “did you miss me at all while i was gone?”

the question lands like a stone in still water, ripples spreading through him. he wants to say everything—how the stand felt empty, how summers dragged without your laugh, how he’s been chasing pieces of you in every distraction. but he can’t, not when you’re looking at him like that, soft and expectant.

“nah,” he says, breezy, then grins at your mock outrage, the way you puff out your cheeks. “maybe a little. the stand was too quiet without you dropping things.”

“i was not that clumsy!” you protest, laughing, the sound bright enough to drown out the diner’s hum.

“you knocked over an entire display of sunglasses trying to reach the top shelf,” he reminds you, smirking, the memory sharp—you, sixteen, stretching on tiptoes, cursing under your breath as plastic frames clattered to the ground. “twice.”

“because you and suguru kept putting things where i couldn’t reach them,” you counter, pointing a fry at him, your eyes narrowing playfully.

“it was funny watching you try,” he admits, smile softening, remembering the determined set of your jaw, the little huff you’d let out. “you’d get this wrinkle right here.” he taps between his brows, his finger lingering in the air too long.

your cheeks color, and you drop your gaze to your plate, lips twitching. “i can reach the top shelf now,” you say quietly, almost a challenge.

“i noticed,” he replies, the words slipping out, low and warm. too much, he thinks, but your smile—pleased, a little shy—makes it worth the risk.

“college has some perks,” you say, glancing up, your eyes catching his, holding them.

“like sukuna?” he asks, the name sour on his tongue, suguru’s earlier comment gnawing at him. he hates himself for it, for the way it slips out, sharp and unfiltered.

your smile falters, just for a second. “sukuna was just a friend.”

“a persistent friend,” satoru presses, leaning forward, unable to stop the edge in his voice.

“jealous?” you challenge, but there’s a hopeful spark in your eyes, a crack in your teasing that makes his pulse race.

“maybe,” he admits, surprising himself, the honesty raw, reckless. “or just protective. like suguru.”

“you’re not my brother,” you say softly, holding his gaze, the words heavy, deliberate.

“no,” he agrees, throat dry, heart pounding like it’s trying to break free. “i’m not.”

something shifts, a dangerous possibility curling in the air like smoke. you look away first, tucking hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling just enough for him to notice. your smile stays, small and secret, like you’re holding onto something fragile.

“anyway,” you say, voice lighter, “suguru mentioned you’ve been working on games?”

he grabs the lifeline, grateful for the shift. “yeah, indie stuff. nothing major yet, but i’ve got a few things published.”

“that’s amazing!” you say, eyes lighting up, genuine excitement in your voice. “you always were crazy talented with that stuff.”

“says the college girl,” he teases, but your praise sinks into him, warm and heavy, like a touch he can still feel.

“it’s just school,” you shrug, stirring your shake again, the spoon clinking softly. “nothing special.”

“it is special,” he insists, leaning forward, needing you to hear it. “you always were the smart one.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s pleased, soft. “says the guy who helped me pass physics senior year.”

“only because you helped me through lit,” he counters, grinning, the memory of late-night study sessions—your patience, your quiet focus—stirring something tender in him.

you laugh, the sound wrapping around him like the sun’s warmth. “we made a good team.”

“we still could,” he says, the words escaping before he can catch them, heavy with meaning he didn’t intend.

your eyes widen, lips parting, a flicker of hope crossing your face before you mask it with a laugh. “well, we’ll see how we do at the stand first,” you say lightly. “might get sick of me.”

“not possible,” he replies, too quick, too honest, his voice low enough to feel like a confession.

your smile turns shy, fingers fidgeting with your straw, twisting it into a knot. “you might be surprised. i sing in the mornings now,” you admit. “really loud, really off-key.”

“that’s not new,” he teases, leaning back, grateful for the lighter ground. “you used to screech taylor swift at the top of your lungs while restocking.”

“i did not screech,” you protest, laughing, your indignation bright and perfect.

“you absolutely did,” he insists, smirking. “scared away customers.”

“you’re such a liar,” you accuse, grinning, eyes sparkling like the ocean at noon. “you told me i had a nice voice.”

“maybe i lied then,” he suggests, voice dropping, playful but edged with something softer.

“or maybe you’re lying now,” you counter, leaning forward, your elbows on the table, closing the distance between you.

“guess you’ll have to sing for me again so i can decide,” he says, voice low, the words a dare, a pull.

your cheeks flush, but you hold his gaze, challenge sparking in your eyes. “maybe i will.”

the air crackles, five years of distance collapsing into this moment, this booth, this look. you’re not a kid anymore, and satoru can’t pretend he doesn’t see it—the way you’ve grown into yourself, confident, bright, a fire he can’t look away from.

“we should probably head back,” you say finally, glancing at your phone, your voice softer, like you’re reluctant to break the spell. “before suguru sends out a search party.”

“race you to the truck?” satoru suggests, grinning, a callback to countless summer days, his heart lighter than it’s been in years.

your eyes light up, competitive spark flaring. “loser buys ice cream tomorrow?”

“deal,” he says, already sliding out of the booth, his pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with running.

you grab your hat, fingers brushing the brim, eyes gleaming with mischief. “ready?”

and then you’re off, dashing through the diner, sundress fluttering like a sail, laughter trailing behind you like a melody. satoru follows, heart pounding, knowing suguru might kill him for the thoughts burning through his mind—your smile, your voice, the way you feel like home—but right now, watching you run ahead, he thinks it might just be worth it.

summer melts over the beach in thick, sticky waves, clinging to the chipped paint of the pop-up stand, to the sweat-damp curls at the nape of your neck.

you work the stand with suguru and satoru, slinging snow cones that bleed syrup, fries that glisten with grease, and cheap sunglasses that tourists snap up despite their complaints about the prices. they wilt under the sun’s brutal glare, faces flushed and shiny, while you move through the chaos with an ease that twists something in satoru’s chest.

it’s only been a week since you started helping out.

satoru tries to be normal. he swears he does.

but then there’s you, stretching on tiptoes to grab a stack of napkins from the top shelf, your tank top riding up to reveal a sliver of soft stomach, a tiny mole just above your hip that he’s never seen before. it’s a punch to the gut, that small mark, and he ducks behind the register, fumbling with keychains, pretending to sort them while his pulse hammers.

he’s not staring, he tells himself, but his eyes keep dragging back to you, to the way your skin catches the light, warm and alive.

there’s you, perched on a stool, slurping a cherry popsicle that’s melting faster than you can keep up with, your tongue darting out to catch the drips, lips stained red.

your eyes are half-lidded, lazy with heat, and your sandal taps a restless rhythm against the counter’s edge. every tap is a countdown, every slick of your tongue a slow execution, and satoru’s dying, his hands gripping the counter to keep from reaching out, from doing something stupid.

he’s fucking dying.

“dude,” suguru says one afternoon, lobbing a wadded-up receipt at satoru’s head, the paper bouncing off his temple. “your math is shit today.”

satoru startles, blinking at the till where he’s been staring for god knows how long, a customer’s change still clutched in his fist, coins biting into his palm. the tourist in front of him shifts impatiently, fanning herself with a crumpled map.

“whatever,” he mutters, shoving the coins across the counter, his voice rough. “it’s hot. i’m fried.”

“sure,” suguru drawls, slow and amused, leaning against the freezer, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. not suspicious, thank god, just teasing.

you laugh, swinging your legs where you’re perched on the counter, your denim shorts riding up to show the smooth expanse of your thighs, gleaming under the flickering neon “open” sign. you’re flipping through a gossip magazine, the pages crinkling under your fingers, your nails painted a chipped sky blue.

satoru nearly trips over his own feet grabbing a water bottle from the cooler, the cold glass slipping in his sweaty grip.

“earth to satoru,” you tease, crumpling a napkin into a ball and tossing it at his head, your aim perfect.

he catches it one-handed, tosses it back with a grin that feels too tight, too sharp, because you’re a fucking hazard, a loaded gun with your finger brushing the trigger, and you don’t even know it. your smile is lazy, your eyes bright with mischief, and he’s drowning in the heat of you, in the way you’re everywhere—your laugh, your scent, your warmth.

suguru cackles from the back room, sorting straws, oblivious to the storm in satoru’s chest.

“bet you can’t make another shot,” you taunt, grin wicked, leaning forward so your tank top dips just enough to make his throat dry.

“bet you i can,” he fires back, because it’s you, and he’s an idiot who can’t say no to you, not ever.

he grabs a plastic spoon, flicks it with a practiced snap of his wrist—it arcs across the stand, bounces off the freezer’s handle, and lands neatly in the trash can with a soft thud.

you whistle low, impressed, your lips pursing in a way that’s entirely too distracting. “show-off,” you say, but your smile softens, warm around the edges, like you’re proud of him.

later, you’re all sprawled in the sand behind the stand after closing, the air cooler but still thick, heavy with the day’s lingering heat. suguru strums a beat-up guitar he dug out of his garage, the strings twanging softly, his voice humming off-key to some old song.

you and satoru lie side by side, close enough that your arm brushes his when you shift, the contact sending sparks skittering across his skin. the sand is cool under his back, but he’s burning, every nerve attuned to you.

you doodle nonsense shapes into the sand with a stick, biting your lip in concentration, your brows furrowing just slightly. satoru watches from the corner of his eye, heart aching like it’s been bruised, the sight of you so close and so untouchable carving something raw inside him.

“wanna play chicken fights in the water tomorrow?” you ask suddenly, looking up at him, your eyes catching the last of the sunset, bright and alive.

“only if i get to be your ride,” he says without thinking, voice rougher than he means, the words heavy with want he can’t voice.

you grin, wide and blinding, and it’s like the sun never set, like you’re carrying it inside you. he almost blacks out, his breath catching, his world narrowing to the curve of your mouth.

“deal,” you say, offering your pinky, the gesture so familiar it hurts. he hooks his around yours, the brief press of your skin a vow he feels in his bones, sacred and binding.

he starts inventing excuses to stay after closing. restocking chips that don’t need restocking. double-checking the cash register he balanced hours ago. making sure you get home safe, as if the quiet streets of this town could ever hurt you. and you let him, every single time, your presence pulling him like gravity.

you let him linger, let him stand too close when you count the till, your fingers brushing his as you pass a bill, the contact fleeting but electric. you bump shoulders when you sweep sand off the counters, your laughter spilling into the night, loud and easy, hooking into his ribs and tugging until he aches. the string lights above buzz faintly, casting a soft glow over your face, tangling in your hair like a halo.

sometimes suguru’s there, tossing keys, joking about “kids these days” before bailing early to meet some girl at the pier, his footsteps fading into the dark. sometimes it’s just you and satoru, alone under the lights, the salty breeze stirring your hair, the beach stretching out endless and shadowed behind you, waves whispering secrets to the shore.

one night, after suguru ditches early, you and satoru ride home together. you slide into the cab of his truck, knees knocking against his in the cramped space, the scent of your sunscreen—coconut and sea salt—and the faint sweetness of sugar from the snow cones you snuck filling the air.

it’s suffocating, intoxicating, and he grips the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking.

the windows are down, the radio humming a low, dreamy song, its melody weaving through the warm night. the wind whips your hair across your face, and you laugh, batting it away with a careless hand, your fingers catching the light from passing streetlamps.

he thinks about crashing the truck just to have an excuse to feel your hands on him, to pull you close and never let go.

at a red light, you turn to him, voice soft, lilting, like you’re sharing a secret. “you’re staring.”

he jerks his eyes back to the road, ears burning scarlet, heart thudding so loud he’s sure you can hear it. “am not,” he says, voice cracking, betraying him.

you hum, unconvinced, leaning your head against the window, a small, knowing smile curling your lips. “liar,” you murmur, so soft it’s almost lost to the music, but it lands like a dart, sharp and precise.

“whatever,” he mutters, flustered, his usual swagger crumbling under the weight of your gaze.

the drive stretches on, every stoplight a torture, every bump in the road vibrating through the cab, tightening the tension until it’s a living thing, thick and heavy.

you hum along to the radio, voice low and sweet, your fingers tapping the dashboard in time, a rhythm that syncs with his pulse. every so often, you sneak glances at him, quick flicks of your eyes that burn, that make him want to pull over and confess everything.

you point out a diner glowing neon against the dark, its sign buzzing faintly. “we should go sometime,” you say, casual, but there’s a thread of hope woven into your voice, delicate and bright.

“yeah,” he says, too fast, too eager. “yeah, totally.”

your smile breaks over him like dawn, warm and inevitable, and he’s helpless, caught in its light.

when he drops you off, you linger by the truck’s door, backpack slung loose over one shoulder, fingers twisting the strap. “thanks for the ride,” you say, voice feather-light, your eyes catching the moonlight.

he nods, swallowing hard, his throat tight with everything he can’t say.

you lean in, close enough that he can see the faint freckles dusting your nose, smell the sweet trace of your lip balm—strawberry, he thinks, dizzy with it. for one wild, reckless second, he thinks you’re going to kiss him, and his heart stops, his world narrowing to you.

but you just tap his chest with two fingers, right over his racing heart, the touch light but searing, like a brand. “see you tomorrow, toru.”

you bounce up the porch steps, pausing to throw him a wink over your shoulder, quick and playful, before slipping inside. the door clicks shut, and he’s left staring after you, the engine ticking softly in the warm night air, the ghost of your touch burning against his skin.

he slumps back in the seat, groaning into his hands, the sound raw and desperate. “off-limits,” he mutters, thudding his head against the steering wheel, each word a knife. “off. fucking. limits.”

he drives home on autopilot, your laugh echoing in his ears, the memory of your fingers against his chest a pulse he can’t shake. he dreams of you that night—soft, warm, impossibly close, your breath against his skin—and wakes up aching, the line between want and need blurred beyond recognition.

the next evening, satoru offers you a ride home again, his voice casual but his pulse anything but. suguru waves you off, barely glancing up from his phone, thumbs flying as he texts his latest fling about meeting at the bonfire later.

“don’t wait up,” he calls, a smirk in his voice, and satoru nearly stumbles, cheeks flushing despite the evening’s cool bite, the implication landing like a spark in dry grass.

outside, the sky bleeds watercolor—orange and gold streaking into deep lavender, fading to dusky indigo at the horizon. the air carries salt, the smoky tang of distant bonfires, the faint sweetness of wildflowers clinging to the dunes.

you slide into the passenger seat, kicking off your flip-flops with a clatter, the soles dusted with sand. you prop your bare feet on the dashboard, toes flexing, a silver anklet glinting in the fading light, and satoru’s chest tightens at how easily you claim the space, like the truck’s always been yours.

“air conditioning’s broken,” he says, wrestling with the crank windows, the handle sticking under his grip.

“who needs it?” you shrug, a carefree grin spreading across your face, bright as the last sliver of sun. you lean your head out the window, letting the sea breeze whip your hair into a wild halo, strands dancing like they’re alive.

the truck rattles down the coastal road, tires kicking up clouds of sand that drift in the orange glow. you fiddle with the radio, twisting the dial past static until a slow, dreamy track hums through the speakers, its bass vibrating deep in satoru’s bones, syncing with the thud of his heart.

your fingers tap a lazy rhythm against your bare thigh, the hem of your shorts frayed and soft, and he’s dangerously distracted, his eyes flicking to you when he should be watching the road.

“pull over,” you say suddenly, sitting bolt upright, pointing to a dirt path half-hidden by seagrass.

“what?” he blinks, hands tightening on the wheel.

“there. pull over. trust me.”

your excitement is a current, electric and contagious, and he’s turning the truck before he can think, tires bumping over the uneven path. the clearing opens to a view that steals his breath—an endless ocean, molten and shimmering, the sun sinking into it like a dying ember. the horizon burns, fierce and fleeting.

before he can ask what’s next, you’re halfway out the door, tugging your tank top over your head, the motion fluid, careless. “swimming, obviously,” you call over your shoulder, voice bright with mischief.

he stares, heart slamming against his ribs, the air in his lungs gone. you shimmy out of your shorts, revealing a plain black bikini—simple, unadorned, but devastating, the fabric hugging your curves like it was made for you. his throat goes dry, words dissolving on his tongue.

“we don’t have—” he starts, but you cut him off, flashing a cheeky grin.

“i always wear it under my clothes,” you say, winking. “just in case.”

just in case you decide to unravel him, to turn his world inside out with a smile and a strip of fabric.

“well?” you challenge, standing in the sand, barefoot and fearless, like a siren born from the waves. “you coming or what?”

common sense is a faint echo, drowned out by the roar of his pulse. he yanks his shirt over his head, the cotton catching on his hair, and follows you, helpless.

the water is warm, lapping at his skin, the tide playful, salt stinging his lips. you dive under a wave, your body sleek and sure, cutting through the current like you belong to it. you surface with a triumphant laugh, hair plastered to your forehead, water streaming down your face, and satoru’s caught, staring, the world narrowing to you.

“chicken?” you tease, flicking water at him, your grin sharp and daring.

he pushes deeper into the surf, muscles burning, fighting the urge to just float there, to watch you move. “race you to the buoy,” you say, pointing to a marker bobbing in the distance, its silhouette dark against the fiery sky.

“you’re on,” he grins, teeth flashing, adrenaline spiking.

you take off, a blur of motion, and he has to push to keep up, slicing through the water with long, powerful strokes, the ocean dragging at his limbs. by the time he reaches the buoy, you’re there, clinging to it, laughing breathless, your chest heaving. “not bad,” you concede, splashing water in his face, the droplets cool against his flushed skin. “for an old man.”

“old?” he splutters, feigning outrage, lunging for you.

you shriek, twisting away, but he’s faster, catching you around the waist, his fingers slipping against your slick skin. he dunks you under, the water swallowing your laughter, and you surface, sputtering, eyes blazing with mock fury.

you launch yourself at him, crashing into his chest, and the momentum sends you both tumbling under the next wave, limbs tangling, breathless and weightless.

when you surface, you’re wrapped around him, legs locked at his hips, arms looped around his neck, your body pressed so close he can feel the heat of you through the water. the ocean rocks you gently, the sunset bathing you in fire and velvet, your faces inches apart. he can see the flecks in your eyes, the faint salt clinging to your lashes, and his heart stutters, a painful, desperate thing.

“i win,” you murmur, voice low, triumphant, your breath warm against his lips.

his hands steady you at your waist, fingers splaying over your skin, slick and warm, and he’s drowning, every nerve alight. “cheater,” he rasps, the word barely audible, his throat tight.

your smile is slow, dangerous, your eyes flickering to his mouth for a heartbeat, and satoru feels the world tilt, gravity slipping away. he leans in, instinct overriding reason, drawn to you like a tide to the shore—

a wave crashes over you, tearing you apart with a roar of laughter and salt spray. you’re both gasping, grinning, the moment shattered but still humming between you.

you beat him back to shore, stumbling through the shallows, your laughter ringing like bells. by the time he catches up, you’re shivering, arms wrapped around yourself, the first stars blinking awake overhead, faint against the deepening indigo.

without a word, he grabs his hoodie from the truck, the fabric soft and worn, and drapes it over your shoulders. it swallows you, sleeves dangling past your hands, but you tug it tight, burying your face in the collar, and the sight of you in his clothes does something vicious to his chest.

“thanks,” you whisper, voice soft, nearly lost to the wind, your eyes catching his, warm and unguarded.

neither of you moves. the moment stretches, fragile as glass, strung between the stars and the restless waves, the air thick with salt and unspoken things. satoru’s heart hammers, every beat a confession he can’t voice.

“suguru would kill me,” he blurts, the words rough, desperate, a lifeline to keep him grounded.

you tilt your head, studying him, the wind tugging at your hair. “for what?”

for wanting you. for almost kissing you. for dreaming of you every night since you came back.

“for keeping you out too late,” he lies, voice scraping, hating how weak it sounds.

you laugh, soft and knowing, like you see through him, like you always have. “i’m not a kid, toru.”

he swallows, throat burning. “you’ve always been… different. special.” the words slip out, raw and unguarded, and he regrets them instantly, but your eyes soften, something tender flickering there.

you step closer, close enough that he can smell the salt on your skin, the faint coconut of your sunscreen lingering. “maybe i’m tougher than you think,” you say, brushing sand off his shoulder with fingers so light they feel like a dream, your touch lingering a second too long.

“maybe,” he croaks, voice breaking, his hands twitching to pull you closer.

you hold his gaze, long and steady, then sigh, stepping back, the space between you cold and sudden. “we should go,” you murmur, voice laced with something heavy, something he can’t name.

he drives you home slowly, windows down, the radio murmuring a low, slow song that weaves through the night. you curl up in the passenger seat, still in his hoodie, humming softly, your voice a thread he wants to chase forever. the road stretches, quiet and dark, the ocean a shadow to your left, its rhythm steady against the chaos in his chest.

at your house, the porch light glows, a soft amber pool, but suguru’s truck is gone, the driveway empty. “thanks for the swim,” you say, lingering with your hand on the door, your fingers brushing the handle like you’re reluctant to leave.

“anytime,” he says, meaning it too much, his voice low, heavy with everything he’s holding back.

you lean across the console, and his breath catches, time slowing as you press a kiss to his cheek—soft, quick, a fleeting devastation. your lips are warm, barely there, but they burn, a spark that could set him ablaze. then you’re gone, darting up the steps, pausing to throw him a wink, bright and teasing, before slipping inside.

he sits there, hand pressed to his cheek, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape. the engine ticks, the night presses in, and he’s alone with the ghost of your kiss, the weight of it heavier than the ocean.

“you’re fucked,” he tells his reflection in the rearview mirror, voice rough, eyes wide and stunned.

his reflection doesn’t argue, just stares back, helpless.

the next morning at the stand, suguru’s quiet, frowning over inventory lists, his pen scratching too hard against the clipboard. “you okay?” satoru asks, dread curling in his gut, the memory of last night still burning.

“late night,” suguru mutters, scribbling a note, his voice clipped.

relief floods satoru, sharp and dizzying, nearly knocking him off balance. “the bonfire girl?” he asks, forcing a grin.

suguru smirks, a glint in his eyes. “very flexible.”

normal. it’s normal. nothing’s changed.

then you appear, hair twisted into a messy bun, strands escaping to frame your face, wearing cutoff shorts and—satoru’s breath catches, a punch to the chest—his hoodie, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the fabric loose but claiming you in a way that makes his head spin. “morning!” you chirp, dropping your bag behind the counter, the zipper jingling softly.

“you’re late,” suguru grumbles, mock stern, tossing you an apron.

“by like, five minutes,” you protest, rolling your eyes, your lips twitching with a smile.

“still late,” he insists, but there’s no heat in it, just the easy rhythm of family.

you catch the apron one-handed, sticking your tongue out at him when he turns away. satoru pretends to fiddle with the register, fingers clumsy on the keys, trying not to stare at you, at the way his hoodie looks on you, at the way it feels like a claim he didn’t mean to make.

but when you catch his eye across the stand, your smile slows, turns secret, full of promises he’s not sure he can survive. it’s a look that says you remember last night—the swim, the almost-kiss, the kiss that was—and his heart lurches, knowing he’s lost, knowing he doesn’t want to fight it, not with the annual bonfire party looming, its heat and chaos waiting to pull him under.

the bonfire party pulses against the darkening sky, flames clawing upward, casting amber and gold across faces slick with sweat and laughter. satoru nurses a beer, the bottle cool and slick in his palm, half-listening to a friend drone on about swell patterns and reef breaks. his attention frays, eyes slicing through the crowd, searching for you, a reflex he can’t tame.

when you appear, the world collapses to a single, searing point.

you step from the beach path, a peach sundress clinging to your curves, thin straps shimmering like liquid firelight, the hem teasing high on your thighs. your hair’s loose, wild from the salt air, curling against your shoulders like it’s daring the wind to try harder. you look shy at first, eyes darting through the chaos of bodies, searching for an anchor.

then you find him.

your eyes lock across the fire, and your smile—small, devastating, a curve of lips that’s both invitation and blade—cuts through him. it steals his breath, roots him to the sand, the beer bottle nearly slipping from his grip. his heart’s a traitor, pounding loud enough to drown out the music, and he’s terrified suguru’s nearby, that his best friend’s sharp eyes will catch the way satoru’s unraveling.

“dude, you even listening?” his friend asks, waving a hand in front of his face, voice tinged with annoyance.

“what? yeah,” satoru mumbles, not hearing a damn thing, unable to tear himself from you, from the way the firelight dances across your face.

a shadow moves beside him, and suguru’s there, beer in hand, leaning back against a driftwood log. “you’re zoning out,” he says, voice neutral, taking a slow sip. his eyes flick to the crowd, casual, but satoru’s stomach lurches—suguru knows him too well, reads him like a book, and satoru’s been anything but subtle tonight.

“just hot,” satoru mutters, tipping his beer back, the bitter fizz doing nothing to cool the heat crawling up his neck. he forces his gaze to the fire, to the sparks spiraling into the night, praying suguru doesn’t push.

suguru hums, noncommittal, and says nothing more, but the silence feels heavy, like he’s waiting for satoru to crack. satoru tries to play it cool—laughs at a half-heard joke, tosses a stick into the flames, watches it catch and burn. but you’re a tide, pulling at him, relentless.

the way your dress shifts with the breeze, tracing the dip of your waist; the bare slope of your shoulders, kissed by firelight; the glint of your anklet, a silver thread against your ankle. it’s torture, and he’s burning, every nerve alight with want he’s desperate to hide.

you drift through the party, a fleeting spark, never staying long. you laugh with girls from the rival stand, their voices sharp and bright, then pause to chat with a guy satoru half-remembers from high school—tanned, smug, standing too close.

you tilt your head back, laughing, throat bared, and satoru’s grip dents his beer can, the metal creaking under his fingers. the urge to cross the sand, to shove the guy back, is a live wire in his veins, but he stays put, jaw tight, because suguru’s right there, watching the fire, and one wrong move could betray him.

“you’re gonna break that,” suguru says, voice low, nodding at the can, his tone too even to be safe.

satoru sets it down, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands damp with sweat. “i’m fine,” he says, too sharp, and regrets it instantly, the words too defensive.

suguru raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t push, just takes another sip, his gaze drifting to the crowd. satoru follows it, and there you are, catching his eye again, your stare steady, unflinching. you take a slow sip of your beer, tongue flicking out to catch a drop on your bottom lip, and desire coils in satoru’s stomach, hot and heavy, his mouth dry as the ash at his feet.

he shifts, crossing his arms, trying to ground himself, to look anywhere but at you. suguru’s too close, too perceptive, and satoru’s walking a tightrope, every glance a risk. he forces a laugh at something his friend says, but it’s hollow, his focus fractured by the way you move, the way you exist, like you’re pulling the air from his lungs.

you’re there suddenly, standing before them, your sundress glowing orange in the firelight, sand dusting your bare ankles, a faint sheen of sweat on your collarbone. “hey,” you say, voice soft, a little breathless, like the crowd’s worn you thin, like you’re seeking refuge.

suguru shifts, patting the space on the log between them. “plenty of room,” he says, easy, tossing you a chip from the bag at his feet. “hungry?”

“i’m your only sister,” you point out, rolling your eyes as you settle onto the log, careful with the short hem of your dress, thighs brushing the rough wood.

you’re too close—satoru can smell your shampoo, coconut and sweet, weaving through the smoky air. your knee presses against his, a steady heat through his jeans, and he shifts, angling away, terrified of leaning into it, of suguru noticing the way his hands twitch.

you slip into easy talk, the three of you passing the chip bag, laughing at suguru’s tales of tourists losing sunglasses to the waves. but there’s a charge humming under it all, a current satoru can’t ignore.

he’s hyperaware of you—the way your fingers tuck a stray curl behind your ear, the soft hitch of your breath when you laugh, the way your eyes find his in the firelight, each glance a spark that could ignite him. suguru’s right there, sprawled and relaxed, but satoru’s nerves are a live wire, every moment a test of his restraint.

the speaker blasts a new song, bass thumping across the sand, and couples start dancing near the fire, shadows twisting against the flames. a guy approaches you—tall, cocky, hand outstretched, all easy charm. “dance with me?” he asks, grinning like he’s already won.

satoru’s jaw clenches, a spike of something hot and reckless surging in his chest, but you just smile, polite, shaking your head. “maybe later,” you say, voice light, and relief crashes through satoru, sharp and unearned, loosening the knot in his gut.

the guy shrugs, moving on, and suguru watches, finishing his beer in a long gulp, the bottle glinting in the firelight. he stands, stretching, his shadow long across the sand. “gonna grab another,” he says, voice casual, but his eyes linger on you for a beat, then flick to satoru, unreadable. “you two want anything?”

“i’m good,” satoru says, too fast, his pulse still settling, his hands gripping his knees to keep still.

“i’ll take another,” you say, holding up your empty can, fingers brushing the rim, a faint smudge of lipstick on the edge.

suguru nods, then heads off, weaving through the crowd, his absence leaving a void that hums with possibility. the fire crackles, music pulses low, and the silence between you and satoru stretches, thick with smoke and want, the air heavy with everything he’s fighting to hide.

“having fun?” he asks, voice rougher than he means, cringing at how weak it sounds, like a kid fumbling for words.

you smile, eyes on the fire, flames dancing in your gaze like they’re part of you. “yeah. it’s nice being back for the summer.” you turn to him, face half-shadowed, half-glowing, your expression soft, open. “better than i expected.”

“yeah?” he asks, heart hammering, the sound too loud in his ears, terrified suguru’s watching from the drink table, catching every slip.

you nod, holding his gaze, steady, unflinching. “yeah.”

the silence deepens, heavy as the tide, pulling at him. you take a deep breath, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress, tugging it down, and he can’t look away from the nervous bite of your lip, the way it shines, wet with beer and firelight. he’s drowning, and suguru’s absence is a dangerous freedom, every second a chance to break.

“actually, i’m feeling a little…” you trail off, glancing at the crowd, the laughter and chaos swelling around you. “it’s kinda loud. kinda crowded.”

“we can move down the beach,” satoru offers, instant, eager, desperate to keep this moment. “if you want quiet.”

you shake your head, lip caught between your teeth, a gesture that’s a fucking dart to his chest. “i was thinking… maybe you could drive me home?”

his brain stutters, blanks. “home?” he echoes, keys already burning in his pocket, his hands itching to move.

“if you don’t mind,” you add, quick, a blush blooming across your cheeks, soft and real, like you’re offering more than you’re saying. “i’m just… tired.”

he knows you’re not tired. knows it like he knows the pull of the ocean, the sting of salt. your eyes are too bright, too awake, the lie a fragile veil over something bolder. he’s nodding, fumbling for his keys, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the fire’s crackle. “yeah, of course. let me just tell suguru—”

“already texted him,” you say, holding up your phone, a shy smile curving your lips. “he says it’s fine.”

satoru’s pulse spikes, panic and want twisting together. suguru’s out there, somewhere, and satoru’s terrified he’s watching, that he’ll see the truth in his face, the way he’s crumbling under your gaze. but he stands, offering his hand, voice rough. “let’s go.”

you take it, fingers warm, slightly sticky from the beer, letting him pull you up. you sway, bumping his chest, and he steadies you, hands on your waist, the thin fabric of your dress no barrier to the heat of your skin. “sorry,” you murmur, looking up through your lashes, not stepping back, your breath a soft tease against his jaw.

“that’s okay,” he says, voice raw, barely holding it together. “i’ve got you.”

you weave through the crowd to the parking lot, your hand still in his, a tether he’s terrified to break. satoru spots suguru by the drink table, their eyes meeting across the sand. suguru’s gaze is steady, a small nod passing between them, no words, just an acknowledgment that feels like a warning: don’t cross the line.

satoru nods back, a silent promise he’s not sure he can keep, and guides you to his truck.

the drive’s quiet at first, just the engine’s low growl and the distant rhythm of waves. satoru grips the wheel, knuckles white, hyperaware of you in the passenger seat—your bare legs catching moonlight, the way your dress rides up, revealing the soft curve of your thigh.

you turn the radio on low, a sultry summer song with a bassline that matches his pulse, heavy and slow. your knee brushes his, stays there, a deliberate heat that sets him ablaze, and he’s fighting every instinct to keep his hands where they belong, to keep suguru’s trust intact.

“thank you,” you say, voice soft, cutting through the dark like a lighthouse beam. “for the ride.”

“anytime,” he says, and it’s a vow, heavy with everything he’s burying, everything he’s too afraid to let suguru see.

another mile hums by, the radio crackling low, a sultry bassline weaving through the dark. tires whisper against cracked asphalt, a secret shared between the truck and the night. the windows are cracked, letting in slivers of humid, salt-heavy air, thick with the scent of seaweed and distant bonfires. it does nothing to ease the heat coiling inside the cab, a fever that clings to your skin, makes every breath feel flushed, electric, like the world’s poised on a knife’s edge.

satoru feels it before he sees it—your gaze, molten and heavy, searing into the side of his face. the air shifts, sharp, trembling, a wire stretched to snapping. weeks of want, maybe years, spill over, uncontainable, a tide breaking against a crumbling dam.

“satoru,” you whisper, voice catching, raw with a need that slices through him. “pull over. please.”

he glances at you, and it’s a fucking mistake. your eyes glitter in the dashboard’s dim glow, wild and wide, lips parted, hands fisting the hem of your peach sundress, knuckles pale like you’re clinging to sanity. “what?” he asks, voice fraying, teetering on wrecked.

“please,” you say again, lip quivering, voice splintering under the weight of desperation. “i can’t hold it anymore.”

he doesn’t hesitate. the blinker clicks, sharp and urgent, the truck veering onto the sandy shoulder, ocean roaring below the cliffs, a primal pulse in the dark. he shifts into park, and the world catches fire.

“i can’t,” you whisper, eyes wide, pleading, like you’re unraveling. “i can’t pretend like you’re not everything anymore.”

he freezes, waiting for you to laugh, to take it back, but your hands are on him, yanking him across the console, your mouth crashing into his. you taste like desperation, strawberry lip gloss, and something achingly sweet, a heartbreak he can’t name. he moans, low and stunned, hands flying to your hips as you pour into him, a wave finally breaking, relentless and all-consuming.

your kiss is frantic, messy, teeth catching his lip, tongue sliding against his in a clumsy, starving dance. he’s drowning, your body pressing closer, like you could meld into him, erase every inch of space. “wait,” he gasps, pulling back, forehead knocking against yours, breath jagged, the air between you steaming. “baby, you’ve been drinking. i can’t—”

“satoru,” you whimper, fingers digging into his shirt, nails biting through cotton, dragging him back. “i know what i’m doing. i’ve wanted you since i was sixteen. please. just tonight. let me have you.”

the raw truth in your voice shatters him, every defense crumbling like sand. “oh, sweetheart,” he coos, teasing but hungry, kissing you again, deep and reckless, tongue chasing yours like he’s been starved for you. “we should—shit, we should find a bed, somewhere better—”

“no,” you cut him off, voice fierce, climbing over the console, straddling his lap in the driver’s seat. your dress rides up, thighs bare and warm against his jeans, and he chokes, breath hitching at the heat of you. “here. now. i can’t wait.”

he’s trying to be good, trying to think of suguru, of the lines he shouldn’t cross, but you’re too much—too pretty, too desperate, grinding against him, the friction making his vision blur. “backseat,” he murmurs, voice low, fraying with impatience, hands gripping your waist to lift you. “more room, pretty girl.”

you nod, frantic, and you both tumble out into the humid dark, clumsy with need, the night thick with the buzz of cicadas and the ocean’s restless crash. he catches you when your sandal snags on the doorframe, your laugh breathless, a sound that hooks into his ribs and pulls tight.

he shoves open the back door, guiding you inside with a hand on your lower back, firm but gentle, the leather seats gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

the backseat’s a tight cocoon, windows fogging, the air steaming with heat and lust. you climb in, pulling him after you, straddling him again, knees bracketing his hips, the seat creaking under your weight. your sundress is a crumpled mess, straps slipping off your shoulders, and he’s lost, staring at you like you’re a fucking vision, eyes glinting with want, skin flushed and alive.

“c’mere, gorgeous,” he coos, voice dripping with tease, but there’s a tremor beneath it, a hunger he can’t hide. he drags you closer, hands sliding under your dress, palms worshipping the smooth expanse of your thighs, the curve of your hips, the soft dip of your waist.

you gasp, grinding against him, and he feels himself, thick and aching, pressed against your core through his jeans, every roll of your hips a sweet kind of torture.

“you’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me,” he murmurs, breath hitching, hands trembling as he pushes your dress higher, exposing the soft skin of your stomach, the delicate lace of your panties. his voice is all tease, but his eyes are dark, pupils blown, betraying the impatience clawing at him.

you giggle, wrecked and sweet, and he grits his teeth, your laugh a spark to his fraying control. “lemme touch you,” he pleads, voice low, edged with a need that’s almost painful, fingers itching to claim every inch of you.

“yes,” you breathe, thighs parting, a flower opening to the sun, offering him everything.

he traces slow, maddening patterns up your inner thighs, savoring every twitch, every shiver, the way your breath catches when his knuckles graze too close. his fingers brush the damp lace of your panties, and he curses, soft and reverent, the heat of you undoing him.

“soaked already,” he purrs, lips grazing your ear, voice thick with awe, a teasing lilt masking the way his hands shake. “such a good girl for me.”

he slips beneath the lace, and you choke on a cry, biting your knuckles, head falling back against the seat. “nuh-uh,” he teases, nipping your neck, a playful bite that stings just enough to make you gasp. “no hiding, baby. i want every sound. lemme hear you.”

he tugs your hand away, pinning it against the seat, his other hand working slow, deliberate circles over your clit, featherlight and cruel.

you whimper, high and broken, hips bucking into his touch, chasing the friction. he’s methodical, a tease—circling your clit with barely-there pressure, dipping lower to trace your entrance, then back up, dragging out every sensation until you’re writhing, grinding shamelessly against his hand.

“satoru,” you pant, nails scoring his shoulders through his shirt, leaving crescent marks he’ll trace later, proof of you.

“patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips dragging wet down your throat, teeth grazing the frantic pulse at your neck. “gonna savor you. make you forget anyone else ever touched you.” his voice is a promise, teasing but laced with a hunger that betrays his own impatience, and you shudder, thighs trembling under his hands.

he shoves your panties aside, tossing them into the backseat’s shadows, and spreads you open, pressing you back against the seat, the leather sticking to your sweat-slick skin. the angle’s awkward, the space cramped, but he makes it work, one knee braced against the floorboard, shoulders hunching to fit, his breath hot against your core.

“prettiest fuckin’ pussy,” he murmurs, eyes dark, pupils swallowing the blue, staring at you like you’re a banquet and he’s been starving for years.

he kisses up your thigh, slow, messy, lips smearing wet trails, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin, the faint musk of you driving him wild. his hands grip your hips, fingers bruising, holding you still as he edges closer, breath fanning hot over your core, making you squirm. when his tongue drags a long, languid stripe up your folds, you sob, arching off the seat, hands flying to his hair, yanking hard enough to sting.

he moans, the sound eager, vibrating through you, and dives in, ravenous. he’s messy, relentless—tongue lapping broad, greedy strokes, then sharp, teasing flicks against your clit, nose nudging you with every movement.

his lips close around your clit, sucking lightly, and you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, a vise he welcomes. he pries your legs wider, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and keeps going, tongue tracing every fold, every sensitive inch, like he’s mapping you.

“taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he mumbles, words slurred, muffled against your core, lips brushing your clit as he speaks. his tongue dips lower, teasing your entrance, and he slides a finger inside, curling it slow, deliberate, searching for that spot that makes your breath hitch. you keen, high and desperate, and he adds another finger, stretching you, pumping in time with the sharp flicks of his tongue, the rhythm maddening.

“satoru,” you wail, overwhelmed, hips bucking, chasing the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his fingers. his eyes flick up, meeting yours, and they’re wild—lids heavy, face flushed, glistening with your slick, utterly lost in you.

he’s trying to hold back, to keep some control, because you’re suguru’s sister, because he shouldn’t, but you’re too fucking perfect, grinding against his face, and he’s unraveling, impatient for more.

he shifts, the backseat too small, his shoulder bumping the fogged window, smearing the condensation. one hand braces against the door, keeping him steady, the other working you deeper, fingers curling just right, hitting that spot again and again until your thighs shake.

his tongue traces patterns—lazy circles, sharp figure-eights, quick flicks that have you gasping, trembling. he pulls back for a moment, just to spit on you, the wet heat mixing with your slick, making everything filthier, then dives back in, lapping it up, sucking harder, fingers pumping faster, the wet sounds lewd and intoxicating.

“so fuckin’ wet,” he coos, voice teasing, lips brushing your clit, but the undercurrent of hunger is undeniable, his patience fraying. “dripping all over me, baby. gonna scream for me soon.” he dives back in, tongue relentless, fingers twisting, and you’re a mess, thighs quivering, chest heaving, the leather creaking under your restless movements.

“please,” you whimper, voice breaking, hands yanking his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. “faster, satoru, please.”

“greedy little thing,” he teases, but he obliges, tongue flicking quicker, fingers pumping deeper, curling sharper. “love it when you beg. makes me wanna tie you up, keep you like this all night.” his voice is playful, but the idea’s a spark, and you shudder, the image of you bound and spread for him making you clench around his fingers.

he groans, feeling it, and sucks your clit hard, tongue swirling, fingers relentless. you’re close, he knows it—the way you tighten around him, the way your hips stutter, the way your cries turn hoarse, desperate. he doubles down, tongue sloppy, lips smacking wetly, fingers driving into you, chasing every gasp, every shudder. “c’mon, pretty girl,” he coos, words muffled, dripping with want. “cum for me. let me taste it. fuckin’ paint me.”

you shatter, a hoarse, sobbing cry tearing from your throat as you come undone, convulsing under him, waves of pleasure crashing through you, your body arching off the seat. he doesn’t stop, lips moving, tongue lapping, fingers pumping, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock, greedy for every drop.

you’re whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders, but he’s too far gone, chasing the last of your release, his mouth slick and shining.

“satoru, fuck,” you gasp, voice broken, hands shoving at him, but there’s no strength, just a plea he ignores. he grins against you, sloppy and drunk, and licks another slow, deliberate stripe, making you jolt, a fresh whimper spilling out.

“one more, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, almost pleading, lips brushing your clit, teasing and soft. “you’ve got another for me, don’t you? know you do.” his fingers slide deeper, curling slow, coaxing, tongue flicking light, playful, drawing you back to the edge with a patience that’s more about his hunger than your comfort.

you’re a wreck, thighs trembling, breath hitching, but you can’t resist him, not when he’s like this—teasing, hungry, cooing like you’re his to unravel.

he adjusts, cramped knees creaking, one hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread, hooking your leg over his shoulder to open you wider. his tongue circles your clit, soft and teasing, fingers pumping slow, deep, dragging out every sensation until you’re whining, high and needy, hands tugging his hair again.

“look at you,” he purrs, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, his face a mess—lips swollen, cheeks glistening, chin dripping with you. “so fuckin’ perfect, falling apart for me. bet you’d let me do anything, huh?” he nips your inner thigh, a quick, sharp bite, and you gasp, hips jerking.

“satoru,” you plead, voice fraying, “too much.”

“too much?” he teases, tongue flicking your clit, light and quick, making you twitch. “thought you wanted me, baby. thought you couldn’t wait.” his fingers curl, slow and wicked, and you arch, a fresh cry spilling out. “that’s it, give me everything. love watching you break.”

he dives back in, tongue tracing lazy patterns, lips sucking soft, then hard, alternating to keep you guessing, keep you trembling. his fingers work deeper, stretching you, curling against that spot that makes your vision blur, the wet sounds filling the backseat, obscene and intoxicating.

he’s relentless, messy, eating you like he’s been denied for years, like every lick is a claim. his free hand slides up, cupping your breast through your dress, thumb circling your nipple, teasing until it’s hard, until you’re gasping, overwhelmed.

“wanna see you ride my face,” he murmurs, voice slurred, drunk on you, pulling back to catch his breath, his lips slick and shining. “wanna feel you grind, baby. c’mon, use me.” he doesn’t wait for an answer, just shifts, lying back on the seat, pulling you up, guiding your hips over his face, his hands firm but coaxing.

you hesitate, oversensitive, but he’s insistent, tugging you down, and when his tongue flicks your clit again, you’re gone, grinding against him, chasing the heat.

he groans, eager, hands gripping your ass, guiding your movements, his tongue relentless, flicking, circling, sucking. you’re a vision, dress hiked up, straps falling, hair a wild mess, and he’s lost, watching you use him, watching you fall apart again.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos, voice muffled, vibrating through you. “fuck my face, c’mon, give it to me.” his words are filthy, teasing, but the hunger’s raw, impatient, and you’re too far gone to care, hips rolling, chasing the edge again.

he sucks hard, fingers digging into your hips, and you shatter a second time, weaker but sharper, a cry ripping from you as you convulse, thighs shaking, his tongue still moving, still greedy.

he laps you through it, slow, deliberate, not stopping until you’re limp, gasping, hands falling loose in his hair. his lips are swollen, face glistening, eyes hazy, utterly wrecked. he presses one last kiss to your clit, soft, almost worshipful, before pulling back, panting, staring at you like you’ve rewritten his world.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice raw, teasing but frayed with want, his hands still roaming your thighs, like he can’t let go. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“want you,” you whisper, dragging satoru up from where he’s still panting between your thighs, lips slick and swollen, the taste of you lingering on his tongue as you crash into him.

the kiss is filthy, all teeth and hunger, a clash of desperation and need. your hands claw at his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt, pulling him so close it’s like you’re trying to carve yourself into him.

he moans, a low, wrecked sound, hands frantic as he helps you tear his shirt off. the fabric snags, rips at the seam, and you both laugh—breathless, wild, the sound swallowed by the thick air of the backseat.

you pause, hands splaying over his chest, fingers tracing the lean muscle under flushed skin, the faint freckles scattered across his collarbone like stars he never noticed. he’s beautiful, carved but human, chest heaving under your touch, eyes dark with a want that makes your breath catch.

“fuck, you’re staring,” he teases, voice rough but laced with a shy edge, a flush creeping up his neck that’s got nothing to do with the heat.

“can’t help it,” you murmur, tracing the sharp line of his abs, feeling the shudder that ripples through him. “you’re too damn pretty, toru.”

he curses, soft and reverent, a quiet “shit” that’s more prayer than profanity, and shoves his jeans down, kicking them into the backseat’s shadows with a clumsy thud.

his cock springs free—thick, flushed, the tip glistening with pre-cum, and you whimper, thighs clenching, a fresh wave of heat pooling low. he’s big, bigger than you’d imagined in your wildest, most reckless dreams, and the sight of him sends a thrill through you, sharp and electric.

he hesitates, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged, the air between you steaming with sweat and want. “baby, i don’t have a condom,” he says, voice tight, the words dragged out like they’re killing him, his hands trembling on your hips.

“don’t care,” you whisper, desperate, hands sliding to his hips, pulling him closer until his cock brushes your thigh, hot and heavy. “want you. all of you. please, satoru.”

he curses again, louder, a broken “fuck” as he drags his cock through your folds, slicking himself in your wetness, the head catching on your clit and making you gasp, hips jerking.

“last chance, sweetheart,” he coos, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown so wide the blue’s a thin ring, a man teetering on the edge of control. “you sure?”

“please,” you beg, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. “need you inside me. now.”

he groans, a sound that’s all need, and pushes in slow, careful, watching your face with a focus that makes your heart stutter. the stretch is intense, a delicious burn that has you clutching his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, leaving marks he’ll trace later with a grin. he buries his face in your shoulder, moaning, the sound low and frayed, like he’s coming apart.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he whimpers, voice shaking, a teasing lilt undercut by raw hunger. “squeezin’ me so good, pretty girl.”

he moves slow, rocking into you, letting you adjust to the fullness, each shallow thrust stealing your breath. it stings, but it’s perfect—the way he fills you, the way he’s careful but desperate, holding back just enough to keep from breaking you. “more,” you beg, rolling your hips, greedy, chasing the friction, the pressure. “harder, satoru, please.”

“greedy little thing,” he teases, a chuckle that’s all heat, hands gripping your hips so tight you’ll bruise, a possessive edge to his touch as he pulls back, then fucks into you deeper, harder, the truck creaking with the force. you gasp, head falling back, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails he’ll wear like a trophy.

“satoru,” you sob, overwhelmed by the fullness, the way he hits every spot, splitting you open in the best way. the backseat’s too small, his knees bumping the door, your elbow grazing the fogged window, but it’s raw, filthy—the cramped space forcing you closer, bodies tangled, slick with sweat.

the air’s thick, heavy with the scent of sex, salt, and the faint coconut of your skin, windows fogged so tight you’re a secret hidden from the world.

“feels like fuckin’ heaven,” he pants, finding a rhythm, deep and steady, his cock dragging against your walls with every thrust, the wet sounds obscene, filling the cab.

the distant crash of waves below weaves through your gasps, his groans, the leather creaking under you. his hands roam, possessive, one sliding up to cup your breast through your dress, thumb teasing your nipple until it’s hard, making you whimper.

“look at you, baby,” he coos, voice teasing but frayed with impatience, “taking me so well.”

“let me ride you,” you gasp, pushing at his chest, desperate to feel him deeper, to take control, to make him unravel. your voice is a plea, high and needy, and his eyes flash, something feral sparking in them.

“fuck yes,” he murmurs, wild and breathless, a grin splitting his face. “come take it, gorgeous.” he flips you in one fluid motion, maneuvering in the tight space with a grace that’s almost unfair, pulling you on top as he settles back against the seat, the leather sticking to his sweat-slick back. his hands tug at your dress, impatient, a low growl in his throat. “off. now. wanna see every inch of you.”

you nod, frantic, yanking the sundress over your head, the fabric catching in your hair before you toss it aside. your breasts spill free, no bra—because of course, you fucking minx—and satoru moans, loud and broken, hands flying to cup them, thumbs brushing your nipples, sending jolts through you.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, squeezing gently, rolling the sensitive peaks until you arch, grinding against him, a whine slipping from your lips. he leans up, sucking one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to sting, and you cry out, hips bucking instinctively.

“satoru,” you whimper, hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard, and he groans, switching to the other breast, lavishing it with wet, messy attention, his lips leaving a trail of heat. his hands roam—one squeezing your ass, urging you to move, the other pinching your nipple, making you shudder, your core clenching around nothing.

“ride me, baby,” he pants, pulling back, lips wet and swollen, eyes dark and hazy, pupils swallowing the blue. “take what’s yours. lemme see you fall apart.”

you sink down on him, trembling, the stretch deeper at this angle, a sharp, perfect ache that has you whimpering, pausing to adjust, your breath hitching. he fills you completely, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, and you grip his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, grounding yourself.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he coos, hands steadying your hips, guiding you gently, his voice teasing but laced with a hunger that betrays his impatience. “fuck, you feel so good. so fuckin’ perfect.”

you move, hips rolling, clumsy at first, finding a rhythm that sends sparks up your spine. the leather sticks to your thighs, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the windows fogged so tight you’re a world unto yourselves. his hands help, guiding your hips, but his eyes are glued to where you’re joined, watching his cock disappear into you, slick and glistening, a low groan spilling from his lips.

“look at you,” he breathes, voice thick with awe, a teasing edge fraying with need. “so fuckin’ gorgeous, taking me like that.”

every roll of your hips is electric, your thighs quivering, the effort making your muscles burn, but it’s worth it for the way he looks at you—like you’re a goddess, like he’s worshiping you with every thrust.

he meets you halfway, thrusting up, matching your pace, the truck rocking with the force, creaking and swaying like it’s barely holding together. his hands slide to your breasts, squeezing, thumbs teasing your nipples until you’re moaning, loud and shameless, lost in the heat of him.

“mine,” he murmurs, pulling you down for a rough kiss, teeth catching your lip, biting just enough to make you gasp. “fuck, you’re mine, baby. always have been.”

“yours,” you sob, collapsing against his chest, hips still grinding, chasing the pressure building inside you, a coil winding tighter with every move. his hands are everywhere—gripping your ass, cupping your breasts, sliding to your clit, rubbing messy, desperate circles that have you shaking, so close you can taste it.

he shifts, adjusting the angle, one hand braced against the door to keep his balance, the other guiding your hips faster, harder.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he pants, voice wrecked, eyes locked on yours, a teasing grin fading into raw hunger. “gimme another. wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

his thrusts turn brutal, deep, hitting that spot over and over, and you’re gone, shattering around him, walls clenching tight, dragging a low, desperate moan from his throat as he feels you pulse, hot and wet. but he’s not done. you’re still trembling, riding out the aftershocks, when he grows impatient, his cock throbbing, the need to cum clawing at him.

“fuck, baby, you’re too slow,” he teases, but his voice is strained, fraying with lust, a man on the edge. his hands grip your hips, fingers digging in, and he lifts you, bouncing you on his lap with a strength that makes you gasp, the truck shaking with every movement.

“satoru,” you whimper, hands clutching his shoulders, nails scoring his skin as he sets a relentless pace, thrusting up into you, each slam of your hips against his sending shocks through you. the angle’s deeper, his cock hitting that sweet spot with every bounce, and you’re helpless, a ragdoll in his hands, your breasts bouncing, your moans spilling out, loud and broken.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos, but it’s dark, impatient, his eyes wild as he watches you, watches himself disappear into you, slick and messy. “fuck, you feel so good. gonna—shit, gonna cum if you keep squeezing me like that.” his hands tighten, bouncing you faster, harder, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding filling the backseat, obscene and intoxicating.

“please,” you beg, voice fracturing, overwhelmed by the intensity, the way he’s taking you apart again. “want it, satoru. want you.”

“fuck, say that again,” he groans, thrusting up harder, his voice teetering on desperate, the teasing gone, replaced by raw need. “tell me you want me.”

“want you,” you gasp, clinging to him, your lips brushing his jaw, his neck, as he bounces you, the friction driving you to the edge again. “want you so bad, toru. always have.”

he’s unraveling, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic, his breath hitching as he chases his release. “fuck, baby, you’re too much,” he pants, hands sliding to your ass, squeezing hard, guiding you down onto him one last time. “gonna—fuck, i can’t—”

he pulls out just in time, groaning loud and broken, spilling across your thighs, hot and thick, painting your skin as he slumps against you, panting into the crook of your neck, both of you trembling, spent.

for a long moment, it’s just the ocean’s roar below, the frantic thud of your hearts, the sticky heat wrapping you tight, the air heavy with the scent of sex and salt. he grabs his discarded shirt, cleaning you up with slow, careful swipes, his touch soft now, almost reverent, his fingers lingering on your skin.

“you okay, pretty girl?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, his lips warm, lingering, like he’s memorizing you.

“perfect,” you sigh, nuzzling into him, your body loose, sated, still buzzing with aftershocks, the leather creaking under you as you shift closer.

he helps you tug your dress back on, hands trailing soft, teasing paths over your shoulders, your collarbone, stealing kisses between every adjustment, his lips brushing your skin like he can’t bear to stop.

you’re curled together in the sticky heat, limbs tangled, the backseat too small but perfect for this—pressed close, hearts still racing, the fogged windows shielding you from the world. he checks his phone, and there’s one message from suguru:

you suck at hiding it. don’t get her pregnant, dumbass.

satoru groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder, his hair tickling your neck, a laugh bubbling up despite the mortification. “busted,” he mutters, half-amused, half-dreading the inevitable lecture.

“worth it,” you giggle, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging lightly, your lips brushing his temple, soft and warm, a promise in the touch.

tangled together under the heavy night, the world slipping out of focus—it’s just you and him, caught up in something quiet and reckless, something that feels too big to name.

a/n : ew i cant believe i had to mention sukuna but dw he got hit by a ten wheeler truck while the ending was happening. i scrapped the sorta aftermath of this which is one week later because it included risky beach sex.. lmk if y'all would want to see it ^_^

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spikedfearn · 1 month ago

Text

As if It’s Heaven’s Gate

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You take a job as a live-in nurse for the town’s most infamous recluse—Remmick, the strange, soft-spoken man hidden away in a rotting Victorian farmhouse no one dares approach. Locals warn you not to touch him. Not to linger after dark. But when you meet him, he’s all big eyes and broken manners, trembling hands and gold chain glinting at his throat. Touch-starved, tender, and ruinously ancient. He flinches when you reach for him—and sobs when you don’t. You drop to your knees, and he forgets the taste of blood. He’s already yours before you ever put your mouth on him.

wc: 8.5k

a/n: holy 2k followers batman!! I wanna thank everyone for the outpouring of love and support my work has gotten over the last month, truly insane, still processing, gonna release something soon as a massive thank you <333 based off this post, I'm sure I'm not the first but I haven't come across any fic of reader going down on Remmick yet and I have a great need to suck that man's dick until his stomach caves in like a Capri-sun (someone revoke my internet access) so here we are. Thank you to @ddlydevotion for finding my photo refs. Dedicated to Sam @matrixfangs for not only beta reading this but also requesting I incorporate Jack's cross tattoo into one of my fics!! title from the song too sweet by hozier.

warnings: vampirism, oral sex (m!receiving), d/s dynamic, begging, spit kink, hair pulling, praise kink, humiliation kink (soft), drool, overstimulation, ruined man behavior, touch starvation, religious imagery, cross kink?, control kink, sub!remmick, somniloquy, emotional degradation (tender), slight dacryphilia, mildly unhinged reader, dark romance, southern gothic atmosphere, implied violence, implied murder (offscreen)

I am doing away with my tag list because it's getting a little long so I recommend turning on notifications if you don't wanna miss when I post c:

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, enjoy!!

The bus wheezed like it was exhaling its last breath, sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Dust kicked up around its wheels as the brakes hissed and the door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.

You stepped off into the heat—that heavy, wet Southern heat that sticks to your skin like tacky glue, curling into your clothes and dragging its teeth across the back of your neck.

The sun hung fat and merciless in a sky bleached bone-white, cicadas crying loud enough to shake the treetops. Sweat bloomed across your collarbone before your boots even hit the dirt.

It wasn’t real pavement, not out here. Just cracked-red earth, dry and crumbling, veined with weeds and the roots of things too stubborn to die. The main road—if you could call it that—was lined with rusted fence posts, bowed under the weight of creeping kudzu and wire that hadn’t held anything in years.

The town itself looked like it had been forgotten in a drawer: sun-wilted storefronts with paint peeling off in strips, glass windows clouded with grime, and a gas station that hadn’t changed its prices since Prohibition.

A man with no teeth watched you from a bench outside a bait shop. A girl gnawed a peach in the shade of a feed store awning, juice dripping down her wrist as she stared without blinking.

No one smiled. No one welcomed you. Just silence and the shrill, electric whine of summer bugs, loud as a curse.

You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle—leather, secondhand, the clasp a little loose—and stepped forward, your boots crunching on gravel as the bus hissed again and pulled away behind you. The sudden stillness in its absence made your ears ring. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once, then went quiet.

The driver who’d agreed to take you the last few miles was late. Or not coming. You checked the watch on your wrist—scratched crystal, the hour hand a little jittery—and waited. The skin on your shoulders prickled. Not from the heat. From the eyes.

They were still staring.

A woman in a gingham dress crossed herself. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you twice.

Then a voice—cracked with age and smoke, coming from just over your shoulder—broke the thick, humid quiet: “That house got ghosts in it.”

You turned. It was the man from the bench, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes milky with cataracts. He spat to the side, aimed like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“He don’t come to town. Don’t let him touch you, honey.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant, the groan of old suspension and rattling chains cut through the air.

A pickup truck, wheezing like the bus, pulled up in a cloud of red dust. Faded forest green with rust eating away the sides and a crooked license plate hanging on by one bolt. The man driving it looked as old as the truck—tan leather skin, yellowed shirt, a straw hat pulled low.

He didn’t say your name. Just nodded once. Like he already knew.

You climbed in beside him, the vinyl seat burning hot through your skirt. Neither of you spoke. The ride out of town was long and winding, lined with cypress trees and fields that had gone to seed. Every now and then, the man would spit out the window. You watched the land unravel into nothing—just swaying grass, rusted scarecrows, and buzzards perched on telephone wires.

Then, after what felt like forever, the truck crested a hill.

And there it was.

The house.

Aging Victorian farmhouse, two stories tall, white paint weathered to the color of bone. Porch bowed in the middle like a snapped spine. Shutters hanging off their hinges. The front door was so dark it looked like a hole punched through the front of the house. Vines crept up the sides like veins, crawling toward the chimneys and windows like they wanted to choke it. Or hold it down.

The iron gates at the front were rusted and tall, still latched shut. You could make out glass-paned windows that looked hollow, staring out at the road like eyes that hadn’t blinked in years.

The man parked, killed the engine, and didn’t move. You stepped out. Shut the door behind you. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase. Just lit a cigarette, slow and deliberate.

“He sleeps durin’ the day. House is yours ‘til sundown. Don’t linger on the porch.”

You waited for more.

He didn’t offer it.

He put the truck in gear and reversed down the dirt road without another word, vanishing behind the veil of oak and kudzu until there was nothing but eerie birdsong and your own breath.

The wind kicked up. Dry. Hot. Mean. The house creaked—just once. Like it had been holding its breath too.

And then…the front door groaned open.

The open door breathed out a draft of air—cool and heavy, smelling of cedarwood, old paper, and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers pressed between book pages. It curled around your ankles like mist.

You stepped forward. The porch groaned beneath your feet, boards soft with age, and for one heart-pounding moment you thought the whole thing might give. But it held. Just barely. The screen door had been ripped clean off its hinges long ago. The wooden door itself was open wide now, dark as pitch inside.

You crossed the threshold. The world behind you dropped away like a curtain falling shut.

The house swallowed sound. Swallowed light. It was dim and old in the way caves are old—cooler than it had any right to be, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Lace curtains yellowed with age hung limp at the windows. The wallpaper had peeled back in strips, revealing ribs of rotting wood beneath. A hallway stretched long ahead of you, lined with crooked picture frames and closed doors.

Your hand skimmed the wall, trying to find your balance. The place felt like it was holding its breath.

Then you saw him.

He stepped out of the parlor like he wasn’t used to being seen, like he expected to vanish the moment your eyes landed on him.

Remmick.

And he was…nothing like you expected.

Not some grizzled recluse with wild hair and yellow teeth, not a hissing, skeletal shut-in like the townsfolk seemed to imagine. No. He was—

Broad.

His shoulders were built like a man who used to work with his hands, chest thick under the open collar of a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up, the sleeves messily rolled to his elbows. Beneath it, a threadbare white wife-beater clung to his torso like second skin. His jeans were dark, faded, worn at the knees, and he was barefoot—toes pale, dust smudged across the tops of his feet, like he hadn’t stepped outside in years.

His hair was short and messy, soft-looking, brown with uneven bangs that fell just above his brows in a way that felt almost boyish, almost accidental. Not styled. Just…unbothered. Untamed. Like he’d dragged his fingers through it and given up halfway.

And then his eyes.

Blue. Too blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean-blue. The blue of cracked porcelain. The kind of blue that shouldn’t exist in nature. They looked almost glassy, as if someone had painted them on too carefully.

You didn’t know that they were artificial, not yet, like a predator blending in with its surroundings to fool the naive prey. That the real eyes were red as flame and waiting underneath.

But even so, you felt it.

Something inhuman. Something primordial.

You didn’t know what you were seeing. But you knew it wasn’t just a man and yet—you weren’t scared.

He froze when he saw you. Like he’d walked into a memory.

His mouth parted slightly. His hands hung at his sides, rough-knuckled, long-fingered. One of them twitched, just once, like he meant to lift it—and then stopped. Like the very thought of touching was…too much.

His voice came slow, thick. Raspy from disuse. “Evenin’.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

That same hand moved to scratch the back of his neck—awkward, almost boyish. He ducked his head slightly, eyes flitting away from yours. His lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure whether or not to smile, and then decided against it.

“I, uh…I didn’t expect you so soon.”

There was a tremble in his voice, barely there beneath the deep drawl. But it was there. Not nervous. Not quite. Just…unused. He sounded like someone who didn’t speak unless he had to. Someone who had been silent for too long.

You stepped forward, instinctive. He flinched.

It was subtle—just a twitch of his shoulder, the stiffening of his posture, a faint shift backward—but your body caught it. Your eyes caught it. His eyes never left you.

“I’m your nurse,” you said softly, giving your name, your voice feather-light.

He nodded. Still didn’t move closer.

There was a thin gold chain around his neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. It caught the faint light from the window and glinted, just for a second, brushing against the pale hollow of his throat when he leaned forward slightly. Like it had weight. Like it mattered.

You took a breath, trying to read him. He was watching you the way a starving man watches a feast. Not greedy. Not desperate.

Haunted.

Like he was talking to someone who no longer walked this mortal coil.

“Where should I…?” you asked, fingers curling slightly around the strap of your bag.

He startled. “Oh. Right. Room’s upstairs. I, uh—” he hesitated, scratched at his forearm where the button-up had slipped back just far enough to reveal the edge of a vein that looked darker than it should—“I ain’t had company in a while.”

“How long?” you asked.

He blinked at you. Like the question hadn’t occurred to him before.

Then, just as softly, with a note of old sorrow so quiet you nearly missed it, he answered:

“Too long.”

He turned, shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and motioned for you to follow. He didn’t offer to carry your bag. Not out of rudeness—it was something else. A hesitation that clung to him like sweat in the air.

The hallway creaked under your steps, your boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His bare feet moved near-silent, just the soft pad of skin on old wood. Dust stirred where he passed, curling like smoke in his wake. You watched the muscles move beneath his shirt—the way the thin material clung to his back, the curve of his shoulders, the faint outline of his spine shifting when he turned a corner. You could almost imagine him once being a laborer, maybe a carpenter, with those thick forearms and that sunken posture—like he hadn’t stood tall in years.

He didn’t look back at you until he reached the stairs.

“They’re steep,” he warned, voice low, accent thickening just a touch like the words were sticking to his tongue. “House wasn’t built for comfort. Not anymore.”

You followed him anyway.

The staircase was narrow and curved, wood darkened by age and use. The banister wobbled when you touched it. His hand hovered near the wall as he climbed, but he didn’t steady himself on anything—as if he was afraid to touch the house too long.

The landing opened into a hallway lit only by a single cracked window. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight, and Remmick avoided it completely, skirting the edge like a shadow. You didn’t think much of it. Just heat, maybe. Or habit.

He stopped in front of a door at the far end. It was plain—faded green paint, iron handle gone dull with rust. He opened it for you but didn’t step inside.

“Room’s clean,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “Did it myself this mornin’.”

You peered in.

Small, but tidy. The bed was old but made, white sheets tucked tight. There was a vanity with a tarnished mirror, a small closet door that hung slightly crooked, and a bedside table with a worn oil lamp and what looked like a book left behind years ago. A hand towel had been folded and left on the pillow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I did,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d leave it…unfit.”

He stood there, barefoot and awkward, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His bangs had fallen deeper over his eyes, hiding them. But you saw the shape of them behind the strands—wide, almost deer-like.

He looked like he didn’t know whether to apologize for being alive or thank you for showing up.

You stepped inside. Set your bag down. When you turned to speak again, he was already halfway down the hall.

He hadn’t made a sound.

Later, after you’d unpacked and washed your face in the cracked porcelain basin, you made your way down to the kitchen, following the faint clatter of dishware. You paused at the doorway.

He stood at the sink, back to you, sleeves rolled higher now—his forearms dusted in pale hair, thick with muscle, the veins just barely raised under the skin. The gold chain shifted at his throat as he rinsed out an old tin mug. He didn’t seem to notice you.

The light from the window cut across the floor, a bright bar of late-afternoon sun. It stopped just inches from where he stood, and he didn’t cross it. His toes curled against the edge like it was a line he couldn’t breach.

You finally spoke. “Do you want any help?”

He jumped.

Not violently—just a twitch. His shoulders drew in, spine straightening, as if your voice had reached into him and plucked something loose.

Then he slowly turned. His eyes—still too blue—met yours, and for a second you thought he looked guilty. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

“No,” he said, swallowing. “But…thank you.”

You stepped forward anyway.

He froze. Again.

“I’m just getting a glass,” you said, brushing past him, your fingers grazing the inside of his forearm by accident—just a whisper of skin against skin.

He flinched. Actually flinched. Not hard. Not violently. But enough to feel like a blow. You pulled back, brows furrowing.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice hushed and low and cracking like dry wood underfoot. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

You turned your head, studied him.

“Do you not like to be touched?”

A pause.

He looked down at the floor. His hands opened and closed once.

“I just…ain’t used to it, is all.”

Not used to it. Not anymore. Not in a long, long time.

You felt something tighten in your chest then, strange and aching. A tether drawing taut. You didn’t know what had happened to him. Why the town feared him. Why the sunlight seemed to singe the air around him. Why his voice trembled when you spoke too softly.

But you did know this:

He was alone.

And he had been alone for a very, very long time.

The glass was cloudy. Not dirty—just old, like everything else in this house. When you turned the tap, the pipes groaned in protest before surrendering a stream of lukewarm water. You sipped, then leaned against the counter, your eyes sliding back to him.

Remmick hadn’t moved.

Still by the sink, shoulder just shy of that stripe of sunlight, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know how to stand. The water dripped from the mug he held. A single droplet clung to the edge of his knuckle and then slid down, curling over his wrist.

He stared at the floor. At your boots. At anything except you.

“You live here alone?” you asked.

His head tilted slightly, as though the question had startled him. He nodded.

“For how long?”

A beat.

“…Long.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just that one syllable, spoken like a stone dropped into a well. No echo. No follow-up.

You took another sip. “Locals said you don’t like company.”

His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. It was more like…a ghost of a smirk, something he might’ve worn naturally once, long ago, before it fell out of practice.

“I reckon they said worse’n that.”

“They said not to let you touch me.”

That made him flinch for real.

A sharp intake of breath, his spine straightening, knuckles whitening around the tin cup. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. But the shame bled off him like heat, pouring into the space between you until the air turned too thick to breathe.

You waited.

And when he still didn’t say anything, you set your glass down with a quiet clink and asked gently:

“Why would they say that?”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

Eyes wide. Blue. Too blue. Glassy in the way that porcelain is glassy—shiny and fragile and false. A color that didn’t feel real, not on a living thing. His brow was furrowed like the question pained him.

“…They scared,” he said softly. “Always been. But fear makes folks say things that ain’t...whole.”

“Is it not true?”

His throat bobbed. That thin gold chain moved with the motion, catching what little light the room offered. His jaw tensed, a tick pulsing just beneath the skin. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

“I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

He said it like it was a rule, not a defense. Something sacred. Something self-imposed and unshakable.

“I didn’t think you did,” you murmured.

That made him pause. Head tilted again. Studying you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.

“Then why’d you come?”

You gave a small shrug. “They said you needed help.”

“And you believed ‘em?”

“I believe you now.”

That silenced him.

He set the tin mug down gently, almost reverently. The sound was soft. Barely there. Like he’d learned to be careful with his strength. Or maybe he was just scared of breaking things.

“I ain’t had a nurse before,” he said. “Didn’t think I needed one.”

“Well,” you said, tone light, “I’m here now.”

Another pause.

He nodded, still not smiling. Just…accepting. Resigned. Like he’d already decided you were temporary.

A flicker of something passed behind his eyes then. Regret. Fear. Hunger. You couldn’t tell. But it made you step closer. And again—he moved back. Just a step. Not far. Not fast. But enough.

Like your nearness singed. You didn’t take it personally. You were starting to understand: it wasn’t you he didn’t trust. It was himself.

“Can I ask your name?” you said, after a beat.

He blinked. Then, slowly, he answered:

“…Remmick.”

You repeated it once, soft. Let it settle. His breath hitched. And just for a second—less than a breath, less than a blink—his eyes flashed red.

Bright. Brief. Burning.

Gone just as fast.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure you’d seen it. But he turned away like he had something to hide.

“I’ll, uh…be out on the porch. If you need me.” His voice cracked again. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“Remmick.”

He stilled.

“Thank you.”

His hand touched the doorframe. Just the tips of his fingers. Then he left without looking back, the gold chain glinting once over the curve of his collarbone as he slipped into the shadows again.

You didn’t know what you’d just seen. But you knew you weren’t afraid. Not of him. And not of whatever was buried beneath those woeful eyes.

The dining room was crooked.

The long table—mahogany once, now dulled and water-stained—sat slightly uneven, legs warped from heat and time. One chair at the end had been worn smooth with use. The others were still draped in white sheets, untouched, forgotten. The chandelier above was dust-choked, only one bulb flickering faintly. Shadows wavered across the ceiling like they were alive.

Remmick was already seated when you stepped in, spine stiff, hands folded neatly in his lap. Not touching the silverware. Not even looking at the plate in front of him. A modest meal—roasted potatoes, black-eyed peas, cornbread—steamed in a careful arrangement across two plates, though yours was a little fuller.

He’d set it out like it was a ritual. Like it mattered. His eyes jumped to yours the moment you crossed the threshold. That same stare—wide, dark in the low light, too big for his face—gave him the look of something puppyish, soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.

“I hope it’s alright,” he said quickly, words too fast, too eager. “I cooked it this mornin’. Tried to keep it warm without dryin’ it out.”

You slid into the chair across from him. “It smells good.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, like a wire had gone slack. “Ain’t had much reason to cook for two.”

You took a bite, slowly. It was simple—salt, butter, heat. No herbs. No flair. But it was made with care. You could taste that.

Across from you, Remmick didn’t eat. He watched you instead.

You didn’t comment on it at first, but when you finally glanced up, fork paused midair, he looked away too quickly. A flicker of red threatened behind his lashes—gone before you could be sure.

“You’re not hungry?” you asked gently.

He hesitated. “Not for that.”

You blinked.

He flinched. “I mean—nothin’ wrong with it. I just—I don’t eat much. Not lately.”

You let it go. For now.

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It strained under its own weight. Not tension between you, but the kind that comes when someone’s forgotten how to be in a room with another person. He kept shifting in his seat—shoulders tight, hands flexing slightly in his lap, like he had to remind himself to stay still.

You tried again.

“So…you’ve lived here a long time?”

He nodded. “Since before the war.”

“Which one?”

His lips twitched. “Exactly.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Do you ever leave?”

Another long pause. He looked down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scratch in the wood.

“I used to,” he said. “Town was smaller then. Or maybe it just felt that way.”

“You don’t go anymore?”

“I scare folks.” He said it plainly. No self-pity. Just fact. “And I don’t…do well in the sun.”

You watched the way he said it—carefully. Intentionally vague. Like he was testing how much he could say without scaring you off.

“I noticed,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted again. In the dim lighting, they looked almost black, shadows swallowing all the unnatural blue. The wide shape of them gave him a look so innocent it was disarming—a big-eyed, vulnerable softness, like a boy too shy to ask for what he needed.

“I’m not scared of you,” you added.

He swallowed hard. The gold chain at his collarbone shifted.

“You should be,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re not.”

The food sat cooling between you.

You noticed he kept glancing at your hands—how they moved, how they curled around your fork, how they pressed briefly to your chest when you swallowed water. He didn’t leer. Didn’t ogle. But he watched with the intensity of someone who’d gone without touch so long, he’d forgotten what warmth looked like.

“Do you miss it?” you asked.

He looked up sharply. “Miss what?”

“Conversation. Company.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

“Yes,” he said. Just that. No hesitation. Voice cracking around the edge.

Then, quieter:

“I try not to. But yes.”

You sat with that for a beat.

“I could talk more,” you offered, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Or less. If you’d rather quiet.”

He shook his head, too fast. “No—no, I like it. I…I like your voice.”

You blinked. Your cheeks went warm.

He blinked too, startled at himself. “Shit—I mean—not like that. Just. It’s nice. I ain’t heard anything like it in…”

He trailed off. His ears had gone pink.

You laughed gently. “You’re a little out of practice, huh?”

“I’m fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, with a glance at you: “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “It’s nice. You’re…nice.”

He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that word. And then, without warning, a loud creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The pipes moaned. The lights flickered.

You jumped.

Remmick didn’t move. But the red flashed again in his eyes—just for a blink, just enough to raise the hairs on your arms.

“Old house,” he murmured.

“Right.”

But he was staring down the hallway now, like he heard something you couldn’t. His jaw clenched. One hand curled tight against his knee, as if fighting the urge to stand.

“Is it safe?” you asked, your voice dipping instinctively into something wary.

His eyes cut to yours.

And something about the way he looked at you then—those big, dark, wide eyes still soft as a dog’s, still scared to ask too much—made your breath catch.

“With me?” he said.

A beat.

Then, softer:

“Always.”

The house changed at night.

It didn’t creak. It breathed—slow and hollow, like the walls had lungs of their own. The old wood carried footsteps in strange directions. Voices turned inward. Time unspooled.

You lay in bed, still dressed, still wired, the heat slick on the back of your neck. The lamp on your bedside table cast a low, amber glow across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a whippoorwill called once and went quiet.

The room smelled like lavender soap and old cotton. The fan in the corner ticked every fifth rotation. You hadn’t seen Remmick since dinner.

He hadn’t said goodnight. Not that you blamed him.

He’d looked like he wanted to linger. Like his legs didn’t quite want to carry him away. But something in him—something knotted deep—had yanked him back into the dark, like a leash.

Still, you thought of him as you lay there. The way his eyes kept dropping to your hands. The way his voice cracked when he spoke too kindly. The way he watched you like he hadn’t watched another soul in decades—and didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You didn’t mean to doze. But the silence folded over you like a sheet.

And then—

You heard it.

Low. Fragile. Muffled.

A sound curling up through the floorboards.

You blinked awake, heart ticking faster, every hair on your arms rising before your mind even caught up. You sat up slowly. The fan ticked again.

And again, that sound.

A moan.

Male. Soft. Throaty.

Followed by something rougher. Shaped by a tongue and a mouth. Words.

You slid from the bed, bare feet ghosting over the cool floor. Pressed your palm to the wall. Leaned close.

The voice—Remmick’s voice—was speaking. But not English. Something old. It came in broken fragments. Whispered. Half-strangled. And aching.

“A chuisle…mo chuisle, mo chroí…”

(My pulse…my pulse, my heart…)

The wood under your fingers thrummed.

“Táid mo lámha ag crith…Dia, tá brón orm…”

(My hands are shaking…God, I’m sorry…)

A sound followed—wet. Guttural. Like he’d tried to breathe through a sob and swallowed it.

You stepped back, heart rabbiting, heat pooling low in your belly—not from fear, but from something else.

The need in that voice. The loneliness. The way the words clung to his throat like they hurt coming out.

And then—

A moan. Sharp. Broken open.

“Lig dom é a mhothú… lig dom tú a mhothú…”

(Let me feel it…let me feel you…)

You were rooted to the floor, bare toes curling against the wood as something bloomed low in your abdomen—hot and needy and shameful in its intensity. Your thighs pressed together before you even realized you’d done it.

He sounded desperate. Not sexual—not entirely. But starved. Ragged.

Destroyed.

Like he was begging for something he didn’t think he deserved to have, not even in sleep.

“Tá tú anseo…tá tú fíor…ná fág mé…”

(You’re here…you’re real…don’t leave me…)

The words were choked now. Slurred. Drenched in a broken kind of longing. You didn’t mean to press your palm flat against the wall. Didn’t mean to close your eyes.

Didn’t mean to whisper: “I’m here.”

But you did.

And somehow, the sounds stopped. Not abruptly. Just…slowed. Faded.

As if he'd heard you.

As if, wherever he was in that dream, the presence of you at the wall soothed something raw and ancient inside him.

The air stilled. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only quiet. You stood there for a moment longer, breath shallow, chest tight. Then turned back to the bed.

And as you crawled beneath the covers, something inside you whispered—

He wasn’t dreaming of just anyone. He was dreaming of you.

You didn’t sleep long.

When you woke again, the air was different. Thicker.

Your body was heavy with it, sunk into the mattress, heart drumming in your ears like you were already in motion. The fan had stopped ticking. The lamp had gone out. A soft glow slanted in through the hallway—a light left on downstairs, maybe. Or—

No.

Someone had turned it on.

You sat up slowly. The floorboards creaked outside your door. Once. Twice. A pause. Then a knock. Soft. Barely there.

Your stomach flipped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still sleep-rough, soft enough that he could ignore it if he needed to.

But he didn’t. The door opened a crack. And there he was.

Remmick.

Still barefoot.

Still dressed the same—pinstriped button-up wrinkled from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. His hair was mussed now, falling harder into his face, and his chest rose and fell beneath the thin white wife-beater like he’d climbed stairs too fast. Or hadn’t been breathing right since sundown.

He didn’t cross the threshold. Not at first.

He stood there like a man unsure of his place in the world—a broad shadow outlined in gold from the hallway light, wide-eyed and fidgeting, arms at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to lift them.

“Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

He hesitated.

Then: “Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes flicked toward the inside of the room—dark and private and unthreatening—and you understood.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

He stepped in.

Carefully. Like the floor might bite him.

The door shut behind him with a click that echoed louder than it should have. He stood near the dresser, eyes darting—not in panic, but like he was looking for something to anchor himself to. His fingers worried the hem of his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, defensive, vulnerable despite the width of them.

His eyes—dark in this light, wide and glassy—looked almost wet. Puppyish. Devastating.

“I heard you,” you said quietly. “Last night.”

He stiffened.

“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just…couldn’t sleep.”

His jaw flexed. His throat bobbed. He didn’t look at you.

“You were speaking in another language.”

“Gaelic,” he muttered, almost like he was ashamed of it. “From…before.”

“Before what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand twitched at his side.

“I didn’t know I was talkin’,” he said. “I don’t—usually.”

“You sounded upset.”

“I was.”

You waited.

Then, just above a whisper:

“I was dreamin’ of you.”

The room tilted. Your breath caught.

He raised his eyes then—still that soft, drowning dark, still wide like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say your name, let alone admit this.

“I know it ain’t right,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking. “But I’ve been here so long. Been quiet so long. And then you—” His breath hitched. “You come in here like you’re made of light. Like you belong. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stood slowly.

He didn’t move. He watched you with that same broken hunger, like he’d already decided you were too good for him, but couldn’t stop himself from needing you anyway.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

He glanced down. His hands were trembling. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch this time.

But he didn’t touch you either. Just stood there—shoulders tight, breath shallow, like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

“I ain’t touched anyone in so long,” he whispered. “And I keep thinkin’ about what they said. About me. About my hands. That I ruin things.”

You reached up, slowly, brushing your fingertips just above his collarbone—where the thin gold chain clung to his skin.

He gasped like it burned. You didn’t pull away.

“You didn’t ruin this.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lip trembled. A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a moan—as he leaned forward, forehead just barely grazing yours.

“Tell me not to,” he whispered. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But if you don’t—if you don’t say it—I swear to God, I’m gonna fall to my knees.”

The air between you crackled.

And his voice dropped, Irish blooming up from the roots of him like something ancient and helpless:

“Cuir do lámha orm…ná tabhair uaim thú…”

(Put your hands on me…don’t take yourself away from me…)

You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move either.

Just breathed—slow and even, like you were the calm center of a storm, and he was every desperate gust of wind trying to press against your skin.

Remmick stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From need. It curled off him like steam, thick and desperate, clinging to the air between you. His pupils were wide, swallowing the color of his irises until they looked nearly black, and his lips parted like he wanted to say more, to beg, to confess—but didn’t know how to start.

You reached for him.

He gasped—actually gasped—when your fingers slid up the open placket of his button-up, brushing the edge of his white ribbed wife-beater. You felt the tremor through him, all the way down. His chest was warm and solid, rising and falling like he was trying not to pant.

Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, palms splaying against the thick muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. And then, softly—gently, like it was a kindness—you pushed him.

He let you.

Without resistance, without question, he backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sank down like he didn’t know how to carry his own weight anymore. He sat there, breath shallow, eyes wide and wet and locked on you like you were the moon and he hadn’t seen the sky in a hundred years.

You stood between his knees. Tilted his chin up with just two fingers under his jaw.

“Hands to yourself,” you ordered, soft yet firm.

His breath hitched. His fingers dug into the comforter on either side of him, white-knuckled and obedient.

You watched the way he fought his own instinct—fought it like it pained him. He wanted to touch you. God, did he want to. It rolled off him in waves. His thighs were tense, knees spread wide, shirt wrinkled where your hands had touched him. He looked wrecked already.

“Y-you sure?” he asked, voice cracking like shaky glass under the burgeoning weight of desperation.

“I didn’t ask for your hands,” you said. “Not yet.”

His throat bobbed. The gold chain swayed at the base of his throat as he nodded—once, sharp, frantic.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I—yeah, I can do that. I’ll be good.”

You smiled, slow and soft and wicked.

“I know you will.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A soft, strangled sound pulled from the depths of him, one he didn’t seem prepared for.

His hair had fallen over his brow again, mussed and curling faintly with sweat at his temples. You brushed it back, deliberately slow. He didn’t lean into the touch—he melted under it. His lashes fluttered. His lips parted.

“You’ve really gone this long?” you murmured, thumb stroking the sharp line of his trembling cheekbone.

His voice was barely audible.

“Thirteen hundred years.”

You blinked. He looked away, ashamed.

“I feed when I have to,” he said, “but touch? Mouths? Skin? That kinda closeness?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Not since—fuck. Before the plague hit London.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re starved.”

He looked back at you with those wide, dark, pleading eyes, red bleeding into his pupils like a fresh laceration, like a man who's learned to lick his wounds clean in silence finally cracking open wide and letting you see the most vulnerable parts of him.

“I’m starvin’.”

You nodded, slow and understanding, letting your hand fall away from his face.

“Then sit still, Remmick,” you murmured, hushed, like you were afraid to shatter the silence. “And let me feed you.”

His breath shuddered out of him like you’d punched it from his lungs. His hands curled tighter in the sheets. His voice was hoarse, shaking, with the faintest Irish crack as he whispered:

“A ghrá…táim i do lámha…”

(My love…I’m in your hands…)

You stayed standing between his knees, just looking at him, because even if you didn't know what those words meant, you could feel them carve into your soul like a brand.

And Remmick—God help him—let you. Didn’t dare breathe too deep, didn’t dare move a single muscle. He was shaking with it. With restraint. With want. With that terrible, ancient hunger not just for blood, but for closeness, for skin-on-skin, for the obscene luxury of being touched.

Your fingers reached for him. He twitched.

Not in fear. In anticipation. His lips parted, a fine strand of spit hanging off one corner, catching in the gold glow of the hallway light behind you. It glistened, trailing down toward his chin before pooling at the dip beneath his lower lip—thick, warm, a little foamy, and wholly instinctual. His breath came in short, shallow bursts now, as if his body was preparing for something it didn’t fully understand.

You slid his suspenders off the broad slope of his shoulders first, snapping one against his pec, feeling arousal pool into your cunt like molten hot lava when he whimpers at the pleasant sting of it, letting the thin scraps of fabric fall down beside his hips.

Then you undid the first button of his shirt. Then the next. And the next. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact.

Remmick’s eyes were huge in the dark—dark and shiny, wide like a dog waiting to be called forward, like he’d sink his teeth into the floor just for a word from you. Sweat pearled at his temples. His thighs spread slightly wider beneath you as the shirt parted open.

His chest was beautiful. Scarred, but beautiful—pale muscle threaded with faint blue veins, the sort that spoke of long nights and longer hunger. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, though you could feel the heat roiling beneath it, just under the surface.

But what drew your eye—what made you pause—was the tattoo.

On his left ribcage, inked into him like a brand, was a budded cross—old, faded, the lines a little blurred from age but unmistakable. A Christian cross, yes—but older, rougher, like it had been carved into him by a trembling hand in candlelight.

You stared.

He followed your gaze, and his throat worked, the motion making his chain jump slightly against his collarbones.

“I got that when I still thought it’d save me,” he whispered, voice tight.

You dropped to your knees. He whimpered.

No contact yet—just the sound of your body lowering between his thighs, the shift in the room, the weight of your presence pressing into the cradle of his hips. He tipped his head back against the edge of the bed, more thick drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, breath now shallow, frantic, like he was trying not to choke on his own spit.

You leaned forward. Pressed your mouth to the edge of the cross.

He hissed.

You kissed it. Then licked—tongue flattening over the cool ink, tracing it reverently, slowly. He trembled beneath you like a man being sanctified and defiled all at once.

The irony rolled off your tongue with every stroke.

A man like this—older than gunpowder, older than the books that tried to define him—wearing a cross close to his heart like it still meant salvation.

You dragged your lips lower.

Down his ribs. Over the ridges of muscle. To the soft trail of hair starting just below his navel—a dark, fine line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You licked that too. Just once. Teasing.

Following the path slowly, like you were on your knees at an altar, taking your time with worship. His happy trail twitched under your tongue.

Above you, Remmick made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a sob but something shattered between the two.

More drool slipped from his lips now—foamy, thick, sliding down his chin, catching on the curve of his neck and the edge of that trembling gold chain. He didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t. You’d told him not to touch.

His voice broke apart.

“I c-can’t take it,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’m gonna come just from you lookin’ at me like that—just from that tongue—fuck, darlin’, please.”

You looked up at him.

Still on your knees. Still reverent. And said, with quiet finality, “Good.”

You reached for his belt.

His breath caught—sharply, like the sound a deer makes when it hears the snap of a twig too close behind it. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with those wide, wet eyes, black in the low light, pupils blown to the edge. His chest rose and fell like he was sprinting through mud.

The leather was worn, soft from age and use, the buckle cool in your fingers.

You took your time.

Slowly, purposefully, you undid the clasp, the soft clink of metal loud in the hush of the room. He whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath you, and more drool spilled from the corner of his mouth—thick, glistening, sliding down his chin

“Stay still,” you reminded him, voice silk-wrapped steel.

He nodded, a jerky, miserable little movement, and you swore his lower lip quivered. You dragged the zipper down, each tooth catching slightly, the sound sharp and intimate.

And then—finally—you pulled him free.

Your breath hitched.

He was hard. Painfully so. Flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking, the slit glossy and wet. He twitched in your hand, a thick vein pulsing along the underside, and his thighs quivered like he could barely keep himself grounded.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Remmick gave a breathless, broken laugh, chin tilted back as he struggled not to move. His hands were fists in the sheets now, white-knuckled, his gold chain trembling across his throat with every shallow breath.

“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t stop—fuck, it’s so much—”

You looked up at him as you gave him the first stroke.

Just one.

Slow.

Base to tip, twisting your palm, watching his mouth fall open wider—thick drool spilling freely now, down his neck, dampening the edge of his shirt. He looked utterly destroyed already.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, your voice soft, cruel with how gently you said it.

He nodded frantically.

“Use your words.”

His head lolled forward. His voice was wrecked. “Feels like heaven,” he groaned. “Oh God, sugar, I cain’t—I cain’t believe—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned forward, licking up the length of him, tongue flat, slow, letting his taste settle warm and heavy on your tongue—salt and skin and something a little coppery, something distinctly him, something old. He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest hiccuping, thighs jerking just slightly before he caught himself and moaned through clenched teeth.

Your mouth wrapped around the head. He cried out.

No words now. Just a strangled sound ripped from his throat, and more drool frothed at the corners of his lips. He looked dazed—eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. His hips bucked once—a reflex—and immediately stilled like he was terrified to move again without permission.

You pulled back just enough to speak, saliva stringing between your lips and his flushed cock.

“I told you,” you whispered. “Hands to yourself.”

His voice came out wrecked, breathless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then your mouth was back on him.

You took him deeper this time—slow, tight suction, twisting your wrist around what you couldn’t take yet—and the way he howled, you’d have thought he’d been starved in every way a man could be. Which, of course, he had. Thirteen hundred years of this. Denied. Suppressed. Begged away.

His thighs trembled. His belly tensed. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t dare.

You sucked harder.

He broke.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh, please, please, I’m so sorry—”

He was crying.

Not just drool now—actual tears, shining in his lashes, streaking down his flushed face as you sucked him through it, as he jerked and shook and whimpered out your name like it was a hymn.

He came with a sob, hips barely stuttering forward as his whole body went taut, his cock pulsing against your tongue, spilling hot down your throat in waves, thick and heavy and so much you almost gagged on it.

He was loud.

Pathetic.

Perfect.

When you finally pulled off, he was slumped forward—a wrecked, shivering mess, his lips bitten red and his chain soaked through with spit and sweat. His chest heaved. His thighs twitched.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your mouth slowly.

“Still with me?” you asked.

He nodded, weakly. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you leave.”

He collapsed.

Not fell—melted. Like every bone in him had turned to syrup and grief, his body slumping forward, catching on the edge of the bed before slipping down to the floor.

Boneless.

His cheek pressed to the old wood, hair clinging to his forehead, the buttons of his half-undone shirt twisted beneath him. He was drenched—sweat slicked across his chest and ribs, his pale skin kissed pink from effort, a shine of drool still slicking his chin, clinging to the corners of his mouth like foam. His gold chain was crooked now, stuck against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.

You rose slowly to your knees, then leaned forward—not to comfort him, not yet—but to press your lips to that chain.

Right at the dip of his collarbones. He gasped. Like it burned. Like your mouth was fire and he’d been craving the flame.

His eyes fluttered open—glass-wet, dazed, the whites shot red, his lips trembling from overstimulation. He looked wrecked. Used. Holy.

And still. Still, he tried.

One shaking hand rose, dragging along the edge of your thigh—hesitant, aching, reverent. His fingers brushed your hip like he was praying through it.

“Lemme touch you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me—wanna make you feel good—want your taste on my tongue, sugar, please—”

You caught his wrist mid-rise. Firm. Final. His breath hitched. His mouth parted. But he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. You leaned in close, until your mouth was at his ear, and whispered—

“You don’t get to yet.”

His eyes fluttered. His breath caught.

“You’re gonna learn to wait.”

A tremble rolled through him, from head to toe. His hand fell away, limp at his side. And then he nodded.

Small. Shaky. Utterly obedient.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait, I swear.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently now, and he whimpered at the touch.

“Look at you,” you murmured.

He did. Glassy-eyed. Pathetic. So fucking into it.

His tongue darted out across his lower lip, catching more of the drool clinging there, and he looked at you like he’d fall on his knees all over again if you so much as told him to.

“Did I do good?” he asked, voice so small, so needy it nearly broke something open in your chest.

You smiled.

And whispered, “You were perfect.”

He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.

Just curled in beside your legs like a dog, bare chest heaving, forehead pressed to your knee, as if your body alone could tether him to the earth. His arms folded in at his chest, drawn tight like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.

You stayed still. Let him have it. Let him exist in the aftermath—his breath still catching, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his brow, drool drying tacky at the corners of his mouth, his jeans half undone around his hips, completely forgotten. He looked small down there, despite the size of him. Small and wrecked.

He murmured against your thigh—words so soft you almost missed them, lips brushing the fabric of your skirt like a confession:

“Didn’t know it could feel like that…”

You glanced down.

His eyes were closed, lashes wet. His lips parted as he pressed the side of his face closer to your leg, as if nearness was the only thing keeping him from coming apart again.

“Didn’t know I could feel like that.”

You stroked his hair gently. He shivered.

“I ain’t been held like this since…” He swallowed. “Since before.”

You waited. Then, with a sigh that hitched in his throat, he said:

“Before I stopped bein’ a man and started bein’ a thing.”

Your fingers paused at his temple.

But he nuzzled into your knee like he hadn’t said something awful. Like he hadn’t peeled that truth out of himself and bled it onto your lap.

“I remember what it was like,” he whispered. “Before I turned. Before the hunger. Before all that silence got in me and stayed.”

Another pause.

“I used to think about what it’d be like, y’know? Fallin’ apart for someone. Just crackin’ open. Bein’ touched like I was human.”

He sighed again.

“Didn’t think it’d ever happen.”

Your hand returned to his hair, soft strokes over the messy bangs sticking to his forehead.

He let out a low, contented whine.

“Felt you on my tongue before I ever tasted you,” he breathed, voice thick and syrup-slow. “In my dreams. In my fuckin’ bones.”

His fingers brushed the floor. Not reaching. Just hovering.

“Tell me you won’t go,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move. And that was enough.

He breathed deep then, nose brushing your thigh, the gold chain glinting dully in the light. His body slackened further, weight pooling against you like he meant to stay right there forever—a crumpled thing collared in sweat, salt, and shame, held together only by the sound of your breath and the soft drag of your fingers through his hair.

“I’m ruined now,” he said sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”

You smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He whimpered again. A sound so low and lovely it curled down your spine and planted itself deep in your stomach.

And then he sighed—the sound of someone finally coming home—and nuzzled in deeper at your thigh.

#for the sub!remmick nation #sainted by spit #1300 years of celibacy destroyed by (1) act of service #sinners 2025 #sinners au #sinners remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x you #jack o'connell

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jaysbaefie · 1 month ago

Text

your honour | psh

synopsis: in which you push the judge too far, you learn that actions have consequences—and he always delivers the sentence himself.

genre: judge au

pairing: judge!sunghoon x troubled!reader

warnings: meandom!sunghoon, cold!sunghoon, horndog!reader, manhandling, cornering, degrading (holy fuck sm degrading), crazy dirty talk, gagging with fingers, hair pulling, choking, biting, spanking ass + pussy, rough p in v (unprotected), clit rubbing, creampie, bondage, fingering, overstimulation, orgasm denial and no aftercare. think that’s it…

wc: 6.3k

a/n: this is so filthy!!! yall im on a plot burnout i have so many ideas i just can’t bring myself to write a proper full length fic :[ anyways… notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy <3

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your arms are crossed over your chest like armor. it's not foolproof—your wrists are still cuffed, and the bruises from last week's chase are still turning the edges of your skin a dull yellow with splotches of blue. you hold yourself steady anyway, like you've already survived worse.

you have.

the courtroom is too quiet for your taste. sterile walls, tired faces, and that rusted old flag in the corner drooping like it's had one too many years of watching justice be handed out unevenly.

there's a bailiff at your side, fingers twitching near their belt, as if they think you might leap over the railing and bolt. you don't blame them. you've done worse for less serious crimes.

but right now, you're not thinking about running—not even close.

you're staring straight at him.

park sunghoon.

honorable judge. esteemed in the district. untouchable. 'not for long,' you think to yourself, a small smirk gracing your lips as you hold your gaze.

his nameplate gleams under the artificial lighting, but it's not as cold as the look in his eyes when he glances down at you. black rob, pale hands, pristine posture like he's never once had a bad day, or at least never shown it.

he speaks your name like it tastes bitter in his mouth, his plump lips pursing in distaste.

"theft. trespassing. property damage," sunghoon reads, flipping through the paperwork like it's boring him. "and now contempt of court. again."

your smirk is the only weapon you have left, "that one wasn't on purpose."

his gaze doesn't flinch, "you were caught lighting a cigarette in the bathroom during recess."

"wasn't lit," you say coolly, his gaze now piercing into you. "i didn't even get to spark it," you almost whine out.

"because the officer stopped you."

"because the lighter was out of fluid," you shoot back, offended that he'd think that you'd let some officer stop you from lighting a spark.

for a moment, you think you see something twitch in the corner of his mouth—amusement? disbelief? but it's gone before it settles. he leans back in his seat, elbows on the armrests, voice clipped, "you don't seem to take this seriously."

you stare him down, your eyebrows raised, "you don't seem to live in the same world as the rest of us."

sunghoon says nothing at first, just studies you, eyes narrowing the longer the silence drags. he looks at you like you're a puzzle he didn't expect to come across and now he's trying to decide whether to solve you or break you apart and pack you away.

finally, he speaks, "given the repeated offences and your inability to cooperate with court proceedings, you are hereby found guilty."

your chest tightens—not because you're surprised. you knew this was coming, it was always going to come to this.

"you're to pay a fine of $5,000"

you snort, loud and messy which causes sunghoon to look at you with what you could only assume was disgust, "you might as well say 5 million. i don't have shit, your honour." your voice drips with mockery on that last part, but it's not like you can help it. titles mean nothing to people like you. not when the system's always rigged the same way.

sunghoon doesn't react the way you expect. no fury, no raised voice. instead, he rests his chin against his hand and stares down at you, thoughtful, composed—calculating.

"then perhaps we can make alternate arrangements."

you narrow your eyes. "like what? community service? sweeping the courthouse floors?" you had heard it all before, and you'd be damned if you did any of it.

he ignores your sarcasm. "i'm offering you a deal." you don't trust deals, especially not from men like him. but you're listening.

"you're clearly resourceful. difficult, but clever." his eyes scan your face like he's making a mental file, "if you truly cannot pay, then you'll work it off. under my supervision."

you blink up at him, dumbfounded, "what?"

sunghoon doesn't smile, doesn't even shift, "you'll report here. every morning, 6 am sharp. you'll handle clerical tasks, sorting files, transcriptions. menial work, mostly. i'll be watching."

you lean forward, just a little. "and if i say no?"

his voice is ice cold, "then you'll serve time."

you flinch at that, prison isn't unfamiliar—but it's worse this time. you're older now, tired and you know the kind of people they throw you in with.

your jaw clenches, "this some kind of power trip for you?"

his eyes glint, unreadable. "no. but it might be one for you. if you can handle being civil."

you hate him for that. for the way his words crawl under your skin, settle in your ribs like they belong there. you hate him for being calm, for not flinching when you push back. for the way he makes you feel cornered even when you're standing tall.

"fine," you spit. "i'll take your little deal."

sunghoon nods, finally. bangs the gavel once sending shocks through your body.

"court adjourned."

but as you're escorted out, you catch the way he watches you. slow, deliberate. like he's already plotting what to do with a fire like yours.

and you know this is far from over.

═══════

6 am comes fast, you show up at 6:17am.

your boots echo too loud on the marble floors of the courthouse as you stroll in like you own the place. hoodie unzipped, hands in your pockets, chewing gum with all the arrogance of someone who knows they're untouchable—or just wants to see how far they can push before they aren't.

sunghoon is already waiting, of course. seated behind his desk in his chambers, reading over a case file, all rigid posture and starched cuffs. he doesn't look up when you enter, but you feel the chill in the air shift the moment he registers your presence.

you lean against the doorframe, pop your gum, and smile sweetly, "morning, your honour."

he finally looks up, no smile—no greeting. just a flat, "you're late."

you shrug, "public transportation's a bitch. and my ankle monitor doesn't exactly come with wings."

sunghoon closes the file slowly, deliberately, "your sentence began at 6 am sharp. not whenever you decide to roll out of bed."

you wander further into his office, dragging your fingers across the edge of his polished desk. "well, maybe you should've sentenced me to something more exciting. i'd be more motivated to be punctual." you snicker softly, your fingers brushing against some books before landing on a small statue.

he doesn't rise, doesn't react. just watches you with that unreadable stare, like he's already dissecting your every move.

"sit."

you raise an eyebrow before looking around the room, no chair in sight, "where?"

he gestures with his pen to a wooden chair shoved against the back wall. no cushion. no wheels. no dignity.

you scoff, "wow. luxury accommodations."

"sit," he says again, this time lower—sharper.

you do—but not before you tip the chair slightly and drag it across the floor, the screech of wood against tile sounding loud and obnoxious. you plop down and swing your legs up onto the edge of his desk like it's your living room.

"so," you say, folding your arms behind your head. "what soul-crushing task do i get to do first? file your fan mail? shine your gavel?"

sunghoon doesn't flinch. doesn't blink. just reaches over and, without warning, shoves your boots off his desk with one smooth motion. hard enough to jolt the whole chair, causing you to hold onto the desk for support.

you laugh in surprise before masking it quickly with a silly remark, "ooh. touchy."

he leans forward now, voice calm but laced with threat, "i don't care how you've gotten away with things in the past. in this room, under my supervision, you follow."

"or what?" you bite, eyes narrowing. "you gonna slap another fine on me? lock me up again?"

"no," he murmurs, his eyes not leaving yours. "i'll break you without ever lifting a finger."

you go quiet for the first time because for some strange reason, you believe him.

but that doesn't mean you're going to make it easy.

by 10 am, you've misfiled at least four court documents on purpose, accidentally-on-purpose spilled coffee on one, and whistled a highly inappropriate tune every time someone passes the open door.

sunghoon doesn't snap. he doesn't yell, but the tightness in his jaw gets worse. his sleeves are rolled to his elbows now, veins taut, hand gripped around his pen like he's imagining stabbing something with it. you allow your gaze to wander over him, relishing in his cold presence as you eye-fuck him to oblivion.

you stretch lazily in your seat across the room, flipping through a file upside down just to be difficult.

"you always this fun at parties?" you ask, eyes lazily scanning the document.

"you always this exhausting when you're sober?"

you grin, "you should've sentenced me to something harder. i get off on discipline."

he finally looks up. eyes dark and voice low.

"is that what this is? acting out so someone will finally put you in your place?"

you blink, not expecting that.

sunghoon stands now, slow and deliberate, and crosses the room to tower over where you're still slouched in your chair. he leans down just enough to make your breath hitch, his minty fresh cologne invading your senses—sending your body into overdrive.

"you want someone to punish you, is that it?" he says, voice barely above a whisper. "because you're skating dangerously close to contempt again."

you swallow harshly but you hold the smirk, even if it's faltering, "you threatening me, your honour?"

his lips twitch, not a smile—something colder.

"no," he says. "just waiting for you to slip. and when you do—when all that bratty bravado cracks, you'll beg for someone like me to be the one holding the leash."

your throat goes dry.

he straightens and turns away, already done with you for the moment, and you're left there blinking like the ground shifted under your feet.

this was supposed to be fun. a game.

but now? now you think he's playing back.

and he plays dirty.

═══════

you should've gone home.

you were dismissed hours ago. the office lights are off, most of the staff gone, echoing laughter and jangling keys disappearing down the hallway.

but you stayed.

because you wanted to see what would happen if you crossed the line, alone—with him.

sunghoon's still in his chambers with his door cracked, light spilling out in a narrow slice across the floor. you lean in the doorway without knocking, arms folded, teeth sunk into the inside of your cheek just to keep from smiling too wide.

he doesn't look up.

"still working?" you ask, voice low and sugary.

he doesn't respond at first. then, without looking away from his file, "if you're still here, it's because you want something. so say it, and make it fast." you saunter in, drag your nails across his bookshelf, pull a file halfway out and shove it back in crooked just to be annoying, "just wanted to chat. you seem lonely."

his jaw flexes, but he doesn't rise—doesn't yell. instead, he sets his pen down, lifting his eyes to you slowly, deliberately—and lets out a low breath through his nose.

"you're a desperate little thing, aren't you?"

you blink, "excuse me?"

he stands.

you don't move. just watch him stalk forward, quiet, composed, eyes cutting into you like scalpels.

he stops inches from you, doesn't touch. doesn't lean in.

but his voice? razor-edged filth.

"you dress like a brat, talk like a slut, act out like a girl who's been begging for someone to spit in her mouth and call her worthless." your breath catches and your legs almost give out.

"you're not here to talk," he continues, voice lower, crueler. "you're here because no one's ever put you in your place and you're too much of a mess to admit you want it."

you flinch, lips parting, "you don't even know me—"

"i know everything," he cuts in sharply. "i've read your records. i've seen the trail of damage you leave behind just to get someone to notice you. daddy issues, authority issues, zero impulse control. you want men to hate you just so they'll finally touch you."

you gasp, cheeks flushing hot—but not with shame.

with need.

because he's right. because no one's ever talked to you like this.

"look at you," he sneers. "breathing heavy already, shifting your legs like you're not soaking through your little panties right now. you came in here thinking you could bait me with your bratty mouth, hoping i'd snap and pin you against the wall like some filthy fantasy you've cooked up in that head of yours."

you say nothing. you can't.

"but i'm not like the boys you fuck behind bars or in alleyways," he whispers, eyes boring into yours. "i don't play with trash."

you whimper.

his smile is slow and cruel, "oh? that got you wet, didn't it?" your thighs squeeze together instinctively, and he laughs—cold, low, unamused.

"pathetic. dripping just from being spoken to like the little cum-dump you are."

you try to speak, but your mouth won't work. you're breathing too fast, too shallow, clit throbbing through your jeans, nipples hard under your hoodie, and he hasn't even touched you.

he leans in, barely. his cool breath fanned against your ear causing you to shiver, "you'll come back tomorrow, won't you?" he murmurs against your ear. "all sweet and mouthy again, hoping this is the day I finally bend you over my desk and fuck your brains out like the filthy little whore you pretend not to be."

you whine—a soft, needy sound that makes his eyes darken just a little.

then he pulls back, his hands stay folded behind him. he steps past you, calm as ever, voice low and bored. "go home. you're dripping on my floor."

═══════

you start showing up on time.

5:59 am, hair damp from a rushed shower, hoodie half-zipped, eyes sharp with purpose. you slide into the office like you own the place—and every day, you find him already there, perfect as ever. sleeves rolled up, tie tight, reading over a file like he didn't just spend the last twelve hours thinking about the way you moaned for him without him even touching you.

you don't speak much now, you don't have to.

the first time it happens, it's barely a whisper of a moment—you walk past him to grab a stack of paperwork, and your hip brushes his hand resting on the edge of the desk. soft. slow. deliberate. and you don't flinch, don't apologize.

you smile.

his pen halts mid-sentence.

you don't look back.

the second time, you lean in close to hand him a stapled report—closer than you need to, your fingers brushing over his when he takes it from you. you let your thumb drag just barely over his knuckle before pulling away.

he doesn't speak, but his jaw's clenched so tight you hear it pop.

the third time, it's worse. you're leaning over his desk, too far, pretending to scan the page while your hips subtly roll back, brushing against where he's standing behind you. it's slow—not full contact but just enough pressure to feel the line of his thigh brush your ass.

you feel him freeze. you breathe out, soft and sweet, "oops."

he doesn't move. doesn't even blink. you can feel his restraint like a second heat, burning against your skin.

you straighten up with a grin and saunter off and for the rest of the day, you can feel his eyes on your back like a loaded weapon.

═══════

you live for the control—the knowledge that you're the one unraveling him now. no chains, no cuffs, no cell. just you and your filthy little grin in his clean little world.

every time your hand lingers too long on his wrist when passing him a pen. every time your fingers brush his thigh when you "accidentally" drop a file. every time you stretch beside him, moaning faintly when you reach your arms overhead like you're trying to kill him with your spine alone.

he doesn't say a word.

not one curse, not one command. but every breath he takes feels heavier. every time he adjusts his cuffs, it's slower. rougher. the one time he looks at you, really looks, while you're standing by the window with the light catching your smug little smirk and you swear there's murder in his eyes.

or maybe lust, or both.

you bite your lip and wink.

he goes back to reading but his knuckles are white around the edge of the page.

you don't stop, of course you don't. you know he's cracking. you just want to see how far before he breaks.

═══════

you don't knock today.

you walk in like always—mouth full of gum, hair half done, smirk locked and loaded.

but the outfit? oh, this is new.

short skirt, barely mid-thigh. skin-tight, no stockings. no shame.

your blouse clings to your chest with every breath, just one wrong move from spilling open—and you bend to pick up a file by the door the second you walk in, as if you didn't plan the whole motion.

you make sure your ass is pointed directly at his chair, you hear nothing for a beat. then the sound of a pen snapping in his hand.

you bite your lip to keep from smiling. "good morning, your honour," you say sweetly, rising slow, letting your tits bounce just enough. "got something for you to sign."

he doesn't answer. doesn't look up. he just sets the ruined pen down, stands in silence, and walks to the far cabinet—jaw sharp, back stiff.

he doesn't speak for an hour, but you don't stop.

you lean across the desk to file something, letting your breasts nearly spill out. you sit on the edge of the table too close, too comfortable, skirt hiked up high on your thighs. you cross and uncross your legs too slow. you sigh every time you shift, like the fabric's clinging to places it shouldn't.

and the worst part? you don't even look at him anymore.

you just know. you know he's watching. you feel his silence like a leash. and still, you test it.

again. and again.

until—

"shut the door."

you freeze, glancing over to see that sunghoon's still behind the desk, hands folded, gaze pinned directly to your face for the first time all day.

there's no emotion in his tone, just something dark.

you step back slowly, click the door shut.

"lock it."

you do, your pulse skips.

he nods once toward the chair in front of his desk, "sit."

you obey—this time, no sass, no roll of the eyes. he watches you for a long, heavy moment. then: "stand up."

you blink, but you rise. he leans back in his chair, eyes raking over you with undisguised disgust. "this what you wear to court? no wonder you can't stay out of handcuffs."

you shiver when his voice drops an octave, "i've let you act out. walk around my office like it's a runway. rub your filthy little body against me like a dog in heat. but today?" his tongue clicks, "today, you came here begging."

you bite your lip and he notices. "don't even deny it," he sneers. "you dressed like a fucking pornstar and shoved your tits in my face three times before lunch."

you blink fast, thighs press together. "you want attention so bad," he whispers, voice cold and cruel. "you'd crawl under this desk and suck cock just to feel useful for once."

you whimper causing his eyes to narrow "pathetic."

you take a shaky step forward, voice too soft. "so do something about it."

"no." the word is a bullet. sharp. final. you flinch, "what?"

"i'm not giving you what you want," he says, standing now—towering over you, eyes blazing. "not until you ask." you swallow, your breath stutters, "...i just did—" "not like that," he leans in close, still not touching, his breath ghosting your cheek. "i want to hear you beg. properly. filthy. on your knees if you have to."

your mouth opens but no sound comes out.

"c'mon," he hisses. "say it. say you're a dirty little whore who wore this skirt just to get her judge to ruin her."

your knees go weak.

"say you've been dripping for me for weeks. say you need to be put in your place. beg me to spit in your mouth and call you mine." you nearly drop right there while he watches you—smug, furious, and impossibly composed.

"but you won't," he whispers. "because you're a coward. just a brat with no bite."

you snap, you sink to your knees with your palms on your thighs. skirt riding high, head tilted up with your tongue caught between your teeth.

"please," you whisper, cheeks hot. "i wore it for you. i wanted you to see what you've been missing. i wanted you to lose control. i wanted to feel owned. like a fucking toy." his nostrils flare and you crawl forward. "i've been dripping for you since the first time you called me worthless," you breathe out shamelessly. "you don't have to fuck me. just—just say i'm yours."

his hand twitches at his side but still he doesn't touch you, he just smiles—slow and dangerous. "you're finally learning," he murmurs. "maybe tomorrow i'll reward you."

and he walks out, leaves you on the floor—aching, wrecked and obedient.

═══════

you show up like nothing happened, tight dress, high heels and no bra. you don't even bring a file, you just lean against the edge of his desk like you're here to ruin him.

sunghoon doesn't look up, not right away. but when he does—it's over.

his eyes flick up to your chest, then back to your mouth, and the moment your lips part to say something smart, he moves.

fast.

the chair scrapes back with a violent screech. you barely have time to gasp before he grabs your wrist and slams you against the desk, stomach flat against the wood, cheek pressed down by the weight of his hand. you yelp, breath knocked out of you—but it's not pain. it's heat, flooding between your legs in a dizzying wave.

"this what you wanted?" sunghoon growls, voice raw at your ear. "me snapping like some animal? you filthy, needy, shameless little—fuck." he yanks your arms behind your back, pins both wrists with one big hand and grinds you into the desk. "look at you squirming and wet. couldn't go one more day without getting manhandled, huh?"

you whine out when his free hand slides up your spine, griping the back of your neck, forcing your head to the side so your cheek stays plastered to the wood. your eyes snap open in shock when he pushes his thick digits into your mouth, forcing your mouth full.

"you've been begging for this," he snarls. "dressing like a whore. moaning when i speak. bending over like you want to get fucked in front of the whole court." you can barely breathe—your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

he laughs—low and cruel, "what's wrong? mouth finally too full of regret?" he spreads your legs with his knee, lets his thigh press up between them while his grip on your wrists tightens.

you're soaked. dripping straight through your panties, probably smearing slick across his desk — and he feels it. his thigh twitches and he groans. "pathetic," he growls. "you're soaking my leg and i haven't even touched your cunt."

you whimper into the desk, legs trembling, thighs trying to grind down on his thigh—but he pulls it back with a smirk. "you think you run this game," he whispers in your ear. "you think a few bratty looks and slutty outfits make you powerful."

he yanks your head back by the hair and forces you to look at him—eyes wild, chest rising, jaw clenched.

"you don't run shit here." his fingers trail down your jaw, not gentle—gripping your face like he wants to crush it, "you're mine."

you blink fast. your lips part as he finally removes his fingers from your mouth.

"say it."

your voice shakes. "i'm—i'm yours."

"again."

"i'm yours."

"louder."

"i'm fucking yours," you scream—thighs shaking, cunt pulsing, wrists still pinned.

he stares down at you—flushed, dripping, ruined against his desk. then he leans in, lips just brushing your ear, "you're not cumming until i say so."

you whimper in response. "and when you do," he breathes, "you're gonna thank me for breaking you."

he steps back and lets you collapse to your knees.

undone.

and he leaves you there, again.

═══════

you should've ran.

the look on his face the second you step into his office—eyes cold, mouth tight, sleeves rolled up like he's about to sentence you to death, should've sent you crawling.

but you don't run, you smirk—and that's all it takes. he grabs you before the door even clicks shut—slams you against it, one hand fisting in your hair, the other squeezing your throat until your breath stutters.

"tired of you strutting around like you're untouchable," he hisses. "you want to be fucked so bad? fine. i'll fuck you like the filthy little criminal you are."

you whimper when his grip tightens—then he spins you, throws you against his desk. your hips crash into the edge, papers scattering, your hands scrambling for balance. he's behind you again, dragging your skirt up so high it tears, yanking your panties down and tossing them like trash.

you feel his palm ghost over your ass and you can't help but push yourself back against him in excitement. "already soaked," he mutters, disgusted. "fucking slut."

crack.

you yelp—the first spank makes you jolt. second makes you moan. third has your knees buckling. he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back, hissing in your ear, "say thank you."

"th-thank you," you pant.

crack.

"louder."

"thank you!"

he pulls your head back harder, exposing your throat—then his mouth is on you, biting, not kissing, sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin until you cry out. sunghoon groans when he feels you twitch violently in his hold, his teeth scraping against your neck as he continues to leave violent splotches on your skin.

"that's right," he breathes. "cry for me. scream if you need to. no one's coming for you." his hand slips between your legs, finally, and slaps your sopping cunt. you wail in response, your legs giving up on you as you rely on the desk in front of you and sunghoon as support.

"needy," he sneers. "dripping all over my desk like a goddamn animal."

his fingers slide through the mess—not inside, just over your clit, slow, taunting strokes that make you tremble, "you wanna cum?"

"yes," you gasp. "yes please—"

he pulls away, completely.

you sob—back arching, thighs clenching, breath broken.

"beg better."

"please, please—sunghoon, i need it, i need you, please—!"

he laughs. cold, "pathetic."

then he grabs your waist, slams you forward until your chest hits the desk with your hands flat, legs spread, back arched—and shoves his thick cock inside you in one brutal, single thrust. in the midst you hadn't even noticed sunghoon slip out his aching cock out of his dress pants, to busy fighting for your release.

you scream at the intrusion. he doesn't give you a second to adjust, he fucks you like he owns you—hips snapping, cock dragging deep, thick and brutal and perfect. one hand wrapped around your throat, the other gripping your ass so hard you'll bruise. your walls suck him in like a vacuum, refusing to let him go causing him to hiss.

you try to meet his thrusts — you try to grind back — but he slaps your ass again, harder, and hisses, "don't move unless i tell you to."

you go still, breathless and shaking. his fingers slip down again—circling your clit, slow, taunting and just as your body starts to tighten, just as your orgasm builds—

he pulls away. again.

you sob.

"not yet," he growls. "you think you've earned it? after all that teasing?"

his hand slides up, fingers wrapping around your throat in a punishing grip. "you're gonna take it," he breathes, "every inch. every slap. every denial. and you're gonna fucking thank me."

"thank you," you cry. "please—please, i'll be good—"

he leans over you, cock still buried, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he continues his pace and fucks you rougher, harder and crueler. you lose count of how many times he brings you to the edge—how many times he lets you feel it just to rip it away.

you're drooling. trembling. begging.

and finally—finally—when you're gasping, soaked, ruined—

"cum."

the word cracks through you like lightning. your body explodes in trembles.

you convulse around him, sobbing, screaming, cunt clenching tight as he chokes you through it —fingers digging in, cock pulsing deep inside you until he curses and spills inside, hips slamming once, twice more as he fucks it all into you.

then silence, just panting. shaking. his hands still on your hips as his cum dripping down your thighs.

you lay there lifeless but sunghoon has other plans, his hands grip you tightly as he contorts and pushes your body around—moving you from his desk to his chair.

you don't know how you ended up like this, but you're tied up in his chair and you're far to fucked out to care.

not just restrained—displayed. arms behind your back, wrists cuffed tight to the armrests. legs spread open and bent at the knee, ankles locked in place with thick leather straps he probably had custom made.

you can feel his cum leaking out of you and you can't do a thing about it. sunghoon leans back against his desk like he has all the time in the world—black dress shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled up, eyes drinking you in.

"look at you," his voice is low and cruel. you swallow hard, your cheeks are burning. your chest is rising and falling too fast.

he pushes off the desk and walks toward you, slow.

his fingers trail up your thigh, featherlight, and you twitch, already sensitive, already leaking.

"legs shaking," he murmurs in admiration. "pussy swollen. thighs sticky."

he crouches in front of you, one hand sliding under your ass, lifting you just enough to tilt your hips.

"still dripping," he sneers. "you're disgusting."

your breath catches as he drags two fingers through your folds—slick and soaked and overstimulated—and lifts them to your lips.

"open." you obey mindlessly.

he pushes them in slow, watches you suck them clean, jaw twitching with how filthy the taste is. "good girl," he mocks. then his fingers drop back down and he spits on your pussy and watches it drips down between your folds, warm and thick, mixing with his cum and your slick.

you squirm—but the cuffs hold you down, "don't move." his palm lands on your inner thigh, hard enough to sting. then he slides two fingers inside slow, unforgiving—and curls them just right.

your whole body jerks. "that's it," he breathes. "let me feel it. let me feel this tight little hole try to suck me in." he fucks you with his fingers like he owns you, thumb rolling over your clit. soaking the leather seat beneath you.

your eyes roll back and your moans turn desperate. "sunghoon," you whimper. "please, i'm—i'm gonna—"

he stops and pulls out completely.

you scream, your thighs tremble and your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing. you're left dripping, throbbing, aching for him—and he just leans in, tongue sliding up the inside of your thigh like he's taunting prey.

then he bites, hard.

you cry out and he slaps your pussy in response, watching you twitch.

he stands back up, looming over you. his hand curls around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your eyes flutter.

"you don't cum," he growls, "until i say you do." you nod, fast.

his free hand drags down the front of his pants—slow. threatening. you're his now. completely. tied to his chair, soaked with his cum, ruined from the inside out.

"we're not leaving this room," he says, leaning in close, "until you've screamed my name so many times you forget your own."

your arms are still pinned, your thighs are still open and your cunt is still leaking.

and sunghoon? he's sitting across from you like he's watching a show. shirt off now. cock out with one hand lazily stroking himself while the other rubs small firm circles on your clit.

you scream. your whole body jerks against the cuffs, hips snapping up, trying to run from the pressure—but there's nowhere to go. he hums, watching the way your thighs tremble, "this is what happens when you act out," he says calmly. "i could've been kind. could've been soft."

he presses his thumb hard against your sensitive nub. you sob out in response, far to overstimulated.

"but no," he breathes, eyes locked on your face. "you had to shove your tits in my face and moan my name like a fucking whore." you throw your head back, mouth falling open as he slides right against the bundle of nerves that are already so sore it hurts.

you're soaked, ruined, twitching. your legs keep trying to close, but the cuffs won't let you.

you cum again.

you scream—choking on the breath that never makes it out—your entire body jerking, wrists straining, tears spilling.

sunghoon finally moves, he kicks the chair until it swivels toward him, then straddles it—his knees on either side of yours, thighs wide, cock thick and leaking.

you cry in relief until he grabs his cock and slaps it against your overstimulated clit.

you howl in pain, he leans in close, lips at your ear, "don't pass out on me," he murmurs. "you're not done yet."

and then he pushes inside with no warning, no mercy.

just his cock slamming in deep, so deep—you can't even scream, just choke on the cry as your back arches, arms still trapped, legs locked wide open, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

"tight," he hisses. "fucking tight."

he doesn't ease in, he pounds you. the chair jerks with every thrust—your wrists slam against the armrests and your legs shake violently from the overstimulation, he grabs your throat to keep you still.

"cry for me," he pants. "let them hear you beg." you sob. scream. cum again and he fucks through it, groaning deep in his throat as your cunt squeezes him tight and refuses to let go.

"i should leave you like this," he growls. "cuffed to my chair. ruined. dripping. fucked open and forgotten."

you can't speak, you can barely breathe.

but then he leans in with his mouth pressed to your ear and growls, "but you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

you nod helpless and broken.

"filthy little thing." his hand slides to your face, gripping it—holding your jaw still as he fucks you rougher, meaner, hips snapping, chair rocking, desk rattling behind you.

you cum one last time your loudest scream yet—and he finally groans, curses, slams in deep and spills inside, so hard you feel it throb against your cervix.

silence, just breathing.

just cum, just slick and heat and soaked leather.

you're limp with his cum leaking out of you again. your wrists raw, thighs bruised and your head luls back.

your whole body is twitching. you're soaked. stretched. dripping down the legs of the chair, his cum leaking out of your throbbing cunt in slow, slick trails. wrists raw.

and sunghoon?he's already tucking himself back into his slacks.

not a glance spared, not a word spoken. just the quiet click of his belt and the sound of your ragged breathing. you whimper—a soft, broken little sound and try to shift, try to close your legs, but the cuffs keep them open. exposed. leaking.

"pathetic," he mutters, adjusting his cuffs. your lips part and you want to speak. to ask if he's going to untie you, if he's going to help you down—if this means anything at all.

but he cuts you off before you can even form the words, "that," he says, voice flat, "should teach you how to behave."

your stomach drops as he walks to the door. he doesn't touch you, doesn't untie you, doesn't clean you up or kiss your cheek or say anything kind. just unlocks the door, turns to look at you one last time—ruined, bound, soaked with his cum and shaking from everything he just did to you.

his expression is unreadable, cold. "next time you walk into my courtroom acting like a whore," he says, "you'll leave in worse shape than this." he pauses, walking back to you and you have a glimmer of hope that he'd untie you.

but that all comes crashing down when he reaches you and he leans in, mouth at your ear, voice dark and smug.

"court's adjourned, baby."

then he walks out, leaving you tied there, used, aching.

alone.

and still desperate for more.

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gojonanami · 1 year ago

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❝ 𝐈 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ! ❞

❝ I HEARD FROM A FRIEND OF A FRIEND, THAT DICK WAS A TEN OUT OF TEN !! ❞

✧ pairing: jjk au sorcerer! suguru geto x sorcerer! reader

✧ summary: geto's routine after a mission -- ingest the curses that he collects before his shower. but after he does, his body begins to burn and ache with lust to the point of pain -- and he can't get rid of the feeling alone. so what else can he do when you show up at his doorstep offering to help but accept it (aka a sex pollen / aphrodisiac curse fic).

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, so much smut, jjk compliant au, geto stayed a sorcerer and didn't defect, reader is one year younger than geto, (set during jjk s1), aphrodisiac curse (sex pollen), multiple orgasms, multiple positions (missionary, doggy, riding, other positions mentioned: standing, against the wall, spooning from behind, against the wall), masturbation (m), soft dom! geto, oral (m +f), handjob (m! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, cervix fucking, panty stealing, squirting, mutual pining, a little angst (discussion of star vessel / premature death arc), but a lot of comfort, cuddling, gojo hijinks

✧ wc: 8,180

Suguru was only sure of one thing, as he stared at himself in the mirror — cheeks flushed red, sweat nearly soaking through his black t-shirt, and a painful and glaring problem in his boxers—

This was a curse — literally.

Curses were made up of different negative human emotions — from loneliness to grief to anger, these negative feelings would pool and create a curse. Sorcerers were made to exorcise these curses, and Suguru did so — but in a different way than the others. He had to consume them as part of his technique. And even with the hundreds of curses he’s swallowed over the years, he would never get used to the taste — a shit soaked rag used to clean up vomit was how he could best describe it, but even then, that didn’t come close to the indescribable act of swallowing the manifestation of the worst negative human emotions — at least for most of them.

The one he had swallowed today was different — he was sent to exorcise a grade 1 curse in the heart of Tokyo that dwelled in an abandoned building — from the inside, he could tell that it was used as a strip club and possibly a bathhouse-turned-brothel, from the seedy mattresses left behind with dirty sheets and mussed covers, with rusting incense burners placed around the room, and the gaudy, fake jewelry that laid strewn about the place — assumedly any real jewelry picked clean. He swore he could have even smelt the ever lingering scent of cheap perfume in the walls and vents.

But the greater concern was the curse he had found himself with — a grotesque creature that stared back at him — its body a deep maroon, many eyes dotting its back with a large pair of black lips that Suguru didn’t care to draw any closer to. It was more humanoid than most — its form showing a more sophistication than many curses did, muscles of its many arms contracted as it finally spotted Suguru, its many eyes settled their gaze on him.

It was far too easy for him to take down the curse in hindsight — far too easy — and it seemed to watch him summon curses — and he swore it almost had seen a glimmer of recognition in its eyes and then it allowed him to deal the final blow.

He had kept the curse on hand — he could swallow it later, when he was near a toilet and perhaps some mouthwash — though that barely did much to remove the taste from his mouth. He had returned to Jujutsu Tech to do his reports, and hopefully head back early — Satoru was out on another overseas mission and Shoko was busy tending to patients and bodies as always, but you—

He wasn’t sure what you were doing, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to text you. Not after what Satoru said.

“When are you guys gonna fuck already?” the strongest sorcerer asked, making Suguru choke on his Sprite — strong in ability, but not in tact, “you and her have been eye fucking for weeks and you had such a thing for her before she decided to move to Kyoto—”

“That was years ago—”

“She has a key to your apartment—“

“So do you!” he glares.

“Then what about last night at the bar?” Satoru leans back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the ground, as he pulled his sunglasses down, “you could have murdered the guy that was hitting on her with your look alone — and I think you did when you stuck yourself to her side with your arm around her waist, until he ran with his tail between his legs,”

If looks could kill, Suguru would have surely murdered his best friend — infinity be damned, “She looked uncomfortable, what was I going to do—”

“Well, she certainly didn’t look uncomfortable with you hanging all over her, now did she?” He raises an eyebrow, as he leans forward again, the front legs of his chair landing with a thunk, “what are you gonna do if a guy comes along that she falls for? You’re telling me you’re not gonna regret it, Suguru?” Suguru says nothing, unable to meet Satoru’s gaze, as Satoru crushes his own can into a ball, before tossing at Suguru, “You guys just got to hurry up and fuck,”

Suguru swats the crushed can away, “You’re disgusting,”

He grins, as his words seemingly only confirm what he assumes, “Disgusting, but correct, and if I’m right, you’re taking some of my missions off my hands,” he grins.

And Satoru’s words had been running around in Suguru’s head — just like any annoying song on the radio — but he couldn’t let Satoru’s words stop from hanging out with you. He had just gotten you back in his life again — he couldn’t lose you, not again.

Geto: Are you free to watch a movie and have takeout?

You: sounds good - did you get back from your mission alright? No injuries I need to yell at you about?

He snorts, as he types his reply: no, not this time.

You: Let’s keep it that way! :)

He bites back his smile as the two of you decide to have you head over in an hour to his place — you preferred it that way since you were still settling into your place, boxes still unwittingly everywhere there should be actual furniture. Last time he came by to pick a report up, he found you eating your meal on a packed box, instead of a table.

And he catches himself smiling, before his face sours at the thought of Satoru again.

Satoru was right — and he hated to admit it, his knuckles pressed to his lips. A year under him, you had spent days with him, along with everyone else — you always waited for him with his favorite snacks when he would return from a mission. You sat with him sometimes when he would get sick from swallowing curses, helping him swallow some water and saltines after he turned his stomach inside out. You were the one that pushed him when he hid his disillusionment from everyone else — even from Satoru. You wouldn’t leave him alone, you wouldn’t stop dogging his every step with snacks and comfort and company, hounding him to sleep, to eat, to say something, anything.

Until he did — one late night you spent up together — he didn’t sleep much those days anyway. And he told you everything — the poison seeping from his body, and leeching onto yours, your frown and hurt was the whole reason he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone to begin with. But the frown wasn’t yourself — it was for him, as your arms only curled around him, and he let you hold him the entire night.

“You don’t always have to pretend to be strong, Suguru. You’re allowed to be upset, you’re allowed to be angry, you’re allowed to grieve — but don’t bottle it up,” your fingers raked through his wet hair, undoing the tangles gently before running the comb through it, “don’t let it kill you from the inside out,”

“I feel like I did die — along with Amanai,” and you pause, your arms curled around his shoulders, chin resting on his head before you pinched his cheek and he flinched.

“There, you’re definitely not dead,” you say, “so don’t act like you are. And don’t act like you’re alone — because you’re not. You have me, you have Satoru and Shoko — even Nanami and—“ you voice cuts off at the thought of Haibara — “Haibara wouldn’t want you to hide from us, he looked up to you — more than anyone else, even Satoru,”

“I don’t know why,” he mutters with a sigh.

“I do,” your fingers guide his face to meet your gaze, your face an inch or two from his, “because you’re kind, you’re intelligent, and you’re strong,”

He scoffs, “Satoru is the strongest,”

“And you think Satoru thinks any differently of you? That any of us feel differently? You’re the only person who can understand him — and he’s the only one who understands you,”

He gives a small chuckle, “not the only one,” and he tears his eyes away, hoping you don’t see the way his cheeks burned.

And when he found those two sorcerer girls locked up — you were the one who called. The rage and anger had built into murderous intent, but he could hear your words ringing in his ears and before he knew it, he had called you to come to him.

You saved them together — Nanako and Mimiko had fallen asleep in your respective laps after all was said and done on the ride back — without much bloodshed (not that the blood that was shed was worth much, in his opinion) — and with Gojo and you smoothing things over with the higher ups (mostly with veiled threats and petty remarks), you managed to allow the twins to grow up safe, under Geto’s care, and your own.

At least for a time. After you graduated, Nanami left — and you were the only one of your class left — and the absence of your best friends weighed on you, even if you didn’t show it.

“I’m leaving for Kyoto,” you told him one afternoon the two of you spent lazing around his dorm, you sat against the bottom of his bed, as he lounged on the mattress, his gaze snapping to you, only able to see the back of your head, “this place holds too many memories — i need perspective, I need space from all of this,”

He wants to ask if you have to, ask you if he could convince you to stay, if he could do something, anything to make you stay — ask if he wasn’t enough to make you stay. But he doesn’t, because it’s the best decision for you. So he instead slips off the bed, sitting beside you, his hand ruffling your hair, “You’ll come to visit right?”

He knows you’re blinking back tears, but he pretends not to notice, your lip quivering, and god, he knows he wants nothing more than to tilt your gaze toward him by your chin and brush his lips against yours, until every sad thought has evaporated under his touch.

But he knows that would only be one more thought that would make things far more difficult — for the both of you. It was better this way. And it was. Years had passed, the two of you had become teachers at the Tokyo and Kyoto schools respectively — but as the years had passed, your relationship grew more distant, as it always seemed to with time and distance.

But then you decided to come back to Tokyo, transferred over — Yaga explaining it was due to all the happenings in Tokyo with the special grades and emergence of Yuji as Sukuna’s vessel — and he found himself in your presence again. And it was as if no time had passed — your days off spent in his apartment — as yours had become a haven of unpacked boxes. And he couldn’t help but wonder — when he’d glance at you in the dark of his living room, the only illumination was the TV that played some shitty horror movie (your words not his) you had put on — if the special grades were the only reason you’d come back. Your fingers were so close to each other’s on the couch, but an inch felt like a ravine.

One he couldn’t dare to cross.

But It was fine, just as he told Satoru — you were just friends, until both of you decided otherwise. Not that it would ever happen — no, he thought that ship had sailed, even if his heart had stubbornly said that it hadn’t.

Until he decided to consume the curse — and his heart was no longer the problem.

Or at least, not his main problem.

He sat in his bathroom, towel in the shower rack, ready to shower after he dealt with this. He had discarded his uniform jacket and pants — only in a black t-shirt and boxers. He stood by the toilet — as he learned his lesson the first few months swallowing curses — he never knows when one will turn his stomach inside out.

He holds the balled curse in his palm — he could feel it squirm just underneath of his cursed energy — the thing keeping it contained at all, itching to be freed from his grasp — though it never would. He pressed the ball to his lips, bracing himself as he opened his mouth, nearly having to unhinge his jaw for how large this curse was and pressing it past his lips and into his mouth. His palms pressed against his mouth, as he swallowed, eyes squeezed shut.

It…wasn’t as bad as he thought. He frowned, brow knit as he stared at his empty palm — it was still appalling to consume, but it was….sweet? But it burned as it went down, heat remaining in the pit of his stomach, even as it should have faded.

That should have been his first clue.

Either way, he turned on the shower before he shed the rest of his clothes, and stepped in. The water felt warmer than usual, as he washed his body first, letting his hair grow wet under the shower head. His fingers reached for the shower handle, turning it even colder, but his body barely reacted to the water — was it even cold?

Even under the water, he felt like his body was burning — a slow fire that lingered under the surface of his skin, burning and aching, the frigid water barely doing enough to soothe it. Running his hands over his body seemingly helped, a shiver running down his spine as he washed himself, but he knew it would have felt even better if it was you.

….what? He tried to shake that thought from his head — it wasn’t the first time he had thought of you like this. There were many times where his mind would drift to you at night, the warmth of your touch from a few hours ago still lingered, as his hard-on pleaded for his touch. Guilty gnawed at his conscious when he indulged, the first time being after a particularly vivid dream of you pinning him down while training — your mouth kissing down his body, eager fingers tugging at his shorts until that smirk met—

This wasn’t helping.

The burning had traveled southward, as his blood did, and he glanced down at his raging hard-on.

Fuck.

No, he couldn’t.

But his fingers were possessed, already reaching for his aching cock, large beads of pre-cum leaving his slit just as hand closed around it. He hisses when he does, a gasp ripped from his throat, as he braces himself against the shower wall with his other hand.

He palms his erection, swallowing thickly, as he grunts, as he begins to pump his cock from base to tip, smearing his pre along his length. But his mind wanders to you, how pretty you’d look pressed against the wall of his shower, his hard cock dragging between your ass. Lovely moans parting your lips as his fingers would reach around to rub at your puffy clit.

“Suguru, please—“

“Tell me what you want baby, gotta use your words,” he’d murmur, teasing your slick entrance with the tip of his cock.

“Need your cock — need you to fuck me,” you would whine, words nearly enough to make him bust there and then. And he would sink into you just as he does his fist, but your sweet cunt would feel so much better than his hand does.

Fucking wet and tight and just for him, as he works his dick deeper and deeper, until his tip is nudging your cervix. And he’d fuck you hard, just like he’s fucking his fist now, skin slapping each time his hips met your ass.

You’d cum before he would, he would make sure of it — one hand rubbing harshly at your clit, the other toying with one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. And your walls would squeeze and wring him dry, just as he squeezed his own dick now.

He spilled all over the wall of his shower, white spurts kept coming, as he grunted, imagining he was painting your walls instead. He panted, but as the afterglow ebbed away, the heat only came back tenfold.

He panted, as his fingers left his cock, only to find it still hard — the tip red and angry, twitching as he stared back at it.

What the fuck is going on?

He finally left the shower, pulling on his shirt and boxers delicately — every inch of his body felt feverish and sensitive, even the rubbing of his clothes against his skin was almost too much for him.

He stood in front of the sink, knuckles white against the porcelain as he tried to will his erection away, but each thought was only chased away with thoughts of you — of the dress you loved to wear riding up, of your legs spreading for him, of the wet patch on your panties—

He was so fucked. Sweat dripped into the sink, as he glanced at himself in the mirror — skin a ruddy red flush, lips impossibly dry, pupils blown out with need — he was so fucked.

He called Shoko — the embarrassment of this situation far gone at this point fading into plain need of wanting this situation to be over. One ring, two rings — finally five rings and she picks up.

“It’s not like you to call—“

“I need your help,” he cuts her off, biting back the groan from his cock rubbing against his boxers the wrong way — “I don’t know what’s happening to me,”

Her voice shifts from curiosity to concern, “Slow down, Suguru, tell me what’s going on,” and he tells her his symptoms — and she’s silent on the other line for a moment, “you have been a teenage boy before right? You’re not really calling me because you’re horny and you don’t know what to do—“

“It’s not that—“ he hisses, running a slow hand down his face, “I already tried…solving the problem myself but it didn’t work. And I feel weird — it only made it worse. I can’t stop sweating or thinking about—“ he cuts off — he couldn’t stop lewd thoughts of you from springing before his eyes, the thoughts of your moans, how soft your flesh would be under his fingers, how you’d look when he— “what is this, Shoko?”

She pauses on the line for a moment, “When did it start?”

“Right before my shower I think,” his mind foggy with need, he could barely even comprehend a coherent thought.

“And what did you do before your shower? Anything different?” he’s swallowing the lump in his throat, as he resists the urge to brush his hand over his hard-on.

He’s barely hearing Shoko at this point — “I took off my clothes, I got my towel, and then I—“ and the realization struck him — the curse, “I consumed the curse I collected today from my mission,” he mutters, “fuck—“

And then there’s a knock at the door, “Suguru?” He heard you call through the door. His dick throbs at the sound of your voice.

Shoko’s voice cuts through the white noise, “Suguru, the curse you ate — was there something different about it?”

“It was a grade one — it seemed a little too easy to defeat — it formed in—“ he swallows thickly, “in a brothel,”

“I’ve heard of curses being lustful, but not of them becoming a stimulant,” she murmurs, and he can hear her sigh, “you could try extracting the curse from your body — I doubt that would be effective at this point. I assume the effects will linger until the symptoms pass — just as it does when you become nauseous or sick from swallowing other curses,”

His phone buzzed with texts from you:

You: I’m outside, I grabbed takeout for us this time since you always treat me!

You: are you home?

His mind swam, it wasn’t the takeout he was craving — it was you. But no, no — he couldn’t. Not like this, but he was fighting a losing battle and he just about lost the war along with it.

“I don’t know, how do I get it to pass?” he was desperate, the sounds of your knocks and messages ringing in his ear, along with your sweet voice — why do you sound so good with his name on your lips? So sweet — his boxers grow even tighter — bet you even taste even sweeter.

“If dealing with it yourself didn’t work, then,” she sighs, “you’re going to need a partner,”

Another knock.

“Shoko, I have to go,” and he hangs up before she can get another word — a thought to thank her and apologize shoved to the back of his mind, as he stumbles to his door, a thunk as he nearly tumbled into it, wood and hinges groaning under the force and weight.

“Suguru?” you’re so worried yet his name on your tongue was nearly enough to have him cumming in his boxers then, the wet patch of his boxers nearly making the fabric translucent, “are you okay?”

He says your name, “You should go home, I’m not feeling well—“

“What’s wrong? Do you need help?” And he’s biting his lip, teeth digging into his bottom lip, nearly drawing blood, “let me in,”

“I can’t—I can’t let you help with this,” he’s shaking his head, “please, sweetheart, you have to go—“ And he hears the clink of your key going into the door — fuck, that goddamn key he gave you, and the door pulls open, just as he braces himself against the doorframe.

Your brow furrowed in concern, takeout bag in hand, as your eyes examined him, until they found their way to his boxers.

“Suguru—“

“You should leave — I can’t explain, there’s a curse inside me—“

Your eyebrows knit together, “Suguru, a curse did this to you? What happened?” And he’s shaking his head, mind far too gone, as he forces himself away, “let me help—“

“You can’t help. I have to get out of my system but the only way is—“ he cuts off, as he groans again, body and mind railing against each other, as his body just seemingly burns from even being near you.

“There must be something—“ and you step closer, and he can barely hold back from grabbing you, fingers twitching to wrap around your waist, the other holding your neck, lips finding yours, as he fucking rips his own clothes off— “I want to help—“

He’s tugging at the collar of his shirt incessantly, as you step closer, closing the gap between your bodies, and he can only focus on the way your pretty lips part, the way your chest curves under your shirt, and the far too short shorts you choose to wear — fuck.

He was so fucked.

He can’t hold back, as he’s drawing close to you in a moment, his mind clouded with lust, the hitch of your breath only making him want you more — but he forced every muscle in his body to stop. He couldn’t. Not until you agreed.

“If you don’t want me to fuck you right now,” he says lowly, his lips nearly brushing your ear, “I want you — regardless of this, I’ve wanted you for so long,” the confession tumbles from his lips because he needs you to know, needs you know so you can either leave him to his fate or help him get through this, “but if you don’t feel the same—“

But to his surprise, you lean closer, breath warming his skin until it was left scalding, “who said I didn’t?”

And he can’t hold back.

His lips crash to yours, his hands holding your cheeks, as he grasps desperately to you, takeout boxes spilling from the plastic bag and your purse spilling your things when you drop it, your fingers grasping at his damp t-shirt.

And your touch alone even through the fabric is nearly enough to make him bust a nut there and then — and his mind hadn’t even felt so clear until he felt your touch. He could notice every little detail about you — the way your breath caught when his fingers ghosted down your sides, the way your lips parted for his tongue without hesitation, and the way your knees shook when he squeezed your hips.

“So pliant for me,” he murmurs, eager to touch more, to taste more, “such a good fucking girl, aren’t you?”

And you’re nodding wordlessly — lips kiss ruined and red, saliva clinging to your lips when he parted from your lips — and he wonders which one of you swallowed a glorified sex curse.

“Know how long I wanted to do this?” words said pressed with heated kisses down your neck — he was right, you tasted so sweet, he bet another part of you tasted even sweeter — “how many times I thought about this?” He nibbled at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, rewarded with a pretty gasp, “wanted to mark you up so many times — when that fucker tried to hit on you — I wanted to do more than just wrap my arm around you. Wanted to show him how he could never please you,” and he’s sucking a mark there, teeth grazing and pinching your skin before he soothes it with his tongue. He smiles against your skin, as he admires his handiwork.

You whine when he drags a thumb down your puffy lips, “Sugu, please, more,” and his lips find yours again, swallowing your complaints and moans eagerly, as his large palms slide down your back to rest on your ass, squeezing as he presses you flush to his body, hard on pressed against your body.

“Need my touch that much, Princess? Should’ve just fucked you in that club, huh? Let them see that you’re mine,” And he’s walking you backwards towards his room, as he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the floor of his living room. Your fingers running over his exposed flesh, thumbs teasing his sensitive nipples, pretty little lips pressing teasing kisses to both sides.

Fuck, the need to bury his cock in you grew by the second. But he wanted to feel good first — been waiting too long. He had all night to fuck you — but he only had one time to do it right the first time.

He’s walking you into the edge of his bed, as you both tumble onto the bed, his hands sliding under your shirt, tugging at the hem, and you help him take it off — and he hissed at the sight of nothing underneath.

“Were you always coming to my place with no bra on?” his lips curl, as your eyes look away, embarrassment painted on your expression, “wanted this as long as I did, Princess? Don’t get so shy now — you’re the one who insisted on helping me, so aren’t you going to fulfill your promise?” His lips brush against your earlobe, lips wrapping around it and sucking lightly.

You shiver, biting your lip, before you’re tugging him fully onto the bed, before slinking off of it and onto your knees for him, “Then let me help you,”

When your fingers toy with the elastic of his boxers, he’s ready to cum right there — he’s so sensitive still, he’s sure he won’t last long, but fuck, he doesn’t care with how pretty you look between his legs.

“Don’t be a tease, Princess, or I’ll pay you back later,” but your lips only curl, as you lean forward and press a kiss through the drenched fabric, tip of your tongue teasing his slit through his boxers.

“Oh I expect you to,” and you’re pulling his boxers down painfully slowly, letting the fabric of his boxers rub against his hard-on teasingly, a low hiss leaving the thin line of his lips, his balls aching with his release as his cock slaps against his stomach, “fuck, Sugu,” you murmur in almost reverence — he was thick, the tip flushed red with lovely beads of pre-cum already dripping down his length, your fingers already eager to trace those pretty veins, and feel the slight curve of his cock in your aching cunt, “how am I gonna fit you all in me?”

And his cock twitches at your words, as you pity him with a chaste kiss to the top, “Please,” he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, fingers knuckles white as they fisted the now creased sheets, “fuck—“ as you blow air along his length, “I’ll cum all over your face at this rate,”

“Oh I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sugu?” your point finger lightly follows the trail of his vein, as your lips continue to press butterfly kisses along his length, “paint my face with your cum,”

And his fingers thread themselves in your hair, pressing his length to your lips, and you smirk, looking up at him with half lidded gaze, as your lips part and his length slides in — that’s all it takes.

The coil in his stomach snaps, as he cums down your throat, hot seed spilling into your mouth, as his hips jerk against your mouth, his groans of your name sending a hot stripe of heat down to your cunt.

Despite that, his cock only seems to grow larger, twitching against your tongue, as you part for a moment, a trail of saliva and cum dripping from your lips, “Taste so good, Sugu — gotta have you one more time—“ you envelop him with your lips again — and he’s a mess of moans, head thrown back, thick haze of lust as his eyes finally meet yours. You swallow around him, tongue wrapped around his length, as your sinful fingers touch whatever can’t fit in your mouth.

“S’good baby, should’ve fucked this mouth a long time ago,” and he’s gone, as his hips begin to slowly roll against you, watching as you don’t resist, the tip of his cock brushing against your throat, “good fucking girl, never gonna go a day without these lips around my cock,” and god, he’s so close — twitching in your mouth, but what sends him over the edge is when he feels you moan, and spots your hand down your shorts.

Fuck, he’s pulling out, “can I—“ and you pump him in response, a grunt of your name as you let him cum all over your face and chest, the sight enough to make him hard all over again — his thick release slipping down your lips, as your tongue darts out to taste it again.

And he’s pulling you into a bruising kiss, tasting his own cum on your lips, before grabbing his discarded shirt to clean you off. His hand grabs your wrist and eases it from inside your cunt, tongue darting out to lick the release from your fingers, cleaning each of them.

In an instant, he’s got you spread on his bed, legs parted for him, “where’s that attitude now, pretty?” And his lithe fingers sneak under the elastic of your panties and snaps it against your skin, making you squirm, “seems like all those words fell out of your head just from sucking my cock,”

He’s slowly dragging your underwear down, before pulling at his bedside drawer to stuff your panties in, “for later use,” and you can’t managed a reply before his lips are pressing butterfly kisses up your thighs, before his teeth graze the soft flesh of your inner thigh, drawing a gasp from your lips, before sucking and soothing it with his tongue, “mine, all mine,” he’s already hard again — the feel of your soft skin under his lips was enough to have him cumming again like a virgin — the burning in the pit of his stomach only burned brighter for you — god, would he ever work his way out of this state? But as his gaze was met with your lovely dripping cunt with your puffy clit begging him for attention, he couldn’t seem to care.

You hiss when his fingers slowly spread your folds, “So fucking tight, baby, how am I gonna fit in you?” he clicks his tongue, inhaling, as his nose brushes against your clit, making your hips jump, “patience, gotta take my time with this princess cunt, gotta make sure you’re ready for me,” his dick twitching at his next sentence, “because I sink my cock in here, we’re not stopping at one round,”

Your cunt squeezes around nothing at his words, his breath warming your sensitive pussy, until he finally drags a stripe up your needy folds.

“Sugu, fuck,” his arms brace your thighs and hips down, as the tip of his tongue drags teasing circles around your clit, your slick gathering on his tongue, as he tastes it with a groan.

“Fucking, the best thing I’ve tasted,” and as much as he wants to bury his dick in you, he could live with his face between your thighs, “so perfect f’me,” and his tongue trails in tight circles around your clit, while his finger toys with your entrance, gathering your pre on his finger, teasing your entrance and delighting in the way your breath hitches.

He looks up at your face between half lidded eyes, you’re too fucking pretty — your hair a mess from, a sheen of sweat on your body, the lovely way your nipples were erect, and your eyes — pupils lost to lust and need. And all for him.

Fuck, he knows he won’t last long at this rate, he can already feel the urge to palm his raging cock, but he wants you to cum first, and he’s sinking a finger into your sweet cunt. He can almost imagine how your walls would feel fluttering around his cock — but he doubts his engorged tip would be even fit right now.

No, he needed to make this good for you — he slowly starts to finger fuck you as his tongue circles your clit in tighter circles, even sucking on it, and by the way your fingers grasped at the sheets, crumpling under your touch — you liked it.

Pretty moans left your lips, as your fingers found their way to his dark locks, still slightly damp from his shower — as he added a second finger inside. His name said between pants, as his fingers drag against your molten insides — the wet squelch rang in his ears as he fucked your cunt open. Knuckle deep in your sweet pussy, he knows he’s addicted — to the feeling of your molasses insides — warm and soft for him, his digits curling against your walls, looking for that one place that would make you fall apart.

“Sugu, please, please ‘m close—,” and he knows you need a little more, and he’s obliging with a chuckle, a third finger joining the other two, and he’s fucking you in earnest now — lips closing around your clit and sucking mercilessly, as his fingers find that spongy spot that has you seeing stars. Your back arches, as your nails dig into his scalp, as you cum around his fingers — walls fluttering as he eats you out through your high, his name leaving your lips again and again, as you slowly come down from your high, thighs twitching and chest heaving as you do.

As he finally pulls away, his chin and mouth glossy and drenched in a mixture of your cum and his spit — that he licks clean from where his tongue can reach, fingers collecting the rest, as he looks at your sticky cum gathered on his fingers.

Fuck, he could live in your cunt. Your sweet taste was the only thing he’d crave now after consuming curses — he wondered if you’d let him eat you out for hours after the curses he ate — he was sure your taste was the only thing that would erase that disgusting like nothing else ever would.

He’s giving you soft kisses after, dotting them up your body, murmuring praises, but you’re pulling him into a kiss, your fingers resting against the back of his neck, as your other hand finds his aching erection, swallowing his gasp with pleasure.

“Want you, Sugu, please,” and your words are enough to make him cum right there, as he tugs your hand away, “Sugu—”

“Won’t last long if you keep touching me and whining like that, Princess,” the heat only seems to lick at his skin like flames, engulfing him with every touch, and his cock was the epicenter of the wildfire, while you were the fuel that only made it consume you both to ash, “but I know it won’t be long until I’m fucking you again anyway,” Your cunt throbs at his words, as he draws close, dragging his weeping tip against your folds, watching his pre-cum smear against your slick with a grunt, “feels like you’re already trying to swallow me up, princess — you want this cock that bad?” fuck, he can’t hold back anymore, as he’s lining up himself up, and he’s sliding right into you with a groan, “know how long been waiting to do that?” his skin meeting yours as he bottoms out deliciously, stretching your walls out with his girth, pleasure ripping up your spine, “wanted to do this since the moment you walked through the door, but needed to do this right — when nothing about this was right,” he had so many things to say, while your mind had left you with not even a syllable, his cock twitched and pulsed inside your walls, dragging against it deliciously, “wish our first time wasn’t like this — but I’m so glad it’s finally happened, sweetheart,”

And you can’t help but smile up at him, lips parted with a small moan, as tears burned at your eyes from his size, “Me too, Sugu, wanted you for so long, needed you—” and he’s kissing your tears and words away with his lips,

Then he begins to fuck you — hard, the slapping of your skin and the wet squelch of your sex filling up most of the silence of the room, while both of your moans and grunts took up the rest. Your cunt was heaven to him — warm, wet walls wrapped around his aching cock — the slightest bit of relief was overcome with waves and waves of need — he needed to fuck you, needed to make you cum, needed to cum inside — he just needed you.

“S’big, Sugu, too big,” you whine, he was almost too much for you, the way his dick fucked places you only could imagine reaching, as his mouth leaned down to take a pert nipple between his lips — sucking and licking, as he couldn’t have enough of you, while his hand toyed with the other, “feels too good,”

“I know baby, gonna fuck your princess cunt so good — make sure its made just for me,” he’s murmuring, as his teeth graze your tit, as he pistons into you again and again, the tip of his cock brushing your cervix with each thrust, “all mine, baby, fuck — such a good girl for me,” and the praise has you keening against him, the knowing flutter of your cunt that tells him you’re all too close to the edge, as his hand reaches between your bodies to rub at your clit, “cum for me, pretty, need to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze me,”

And you do, falling apart as he fucks you through your orgasm, again and again — fuck, you felt so good, as he watched his cock slip in and out of you, a white ring of your release forming around his base. He’s fucking close too — can feel his balls tense, eager to blow his load, “where—”

You’re still moaning, eyes blown out in pleasure, as you watch him fuck you again and again, “Inside, Sugu, fill me up,” and that’s it, he’s gone — spurting his hot release, painting your walls, as he does, fucking it inside you — deeper, deeper, until he stills for a moment. And you’re twitching, eyes fluttering shut, when he pulls out, a groan parting his lips as he watches his seed spill from your cunt.

But then silence for several moments, the soft pants of your breathing only, before you hear him swearing and grunting, as your eyes open, and your pussy twitches at the sight before you. Suguru’s hand slid up and down his still erect cock, his eyes squeezed shut, as he groaned, “Suguru—”

“Wasn’t enough, need more,” he’s shaking his head, as his fingers squeeze around the base of his cock, “thought it would be enough to cum with you, but I can still feel it—” and he’s groaning, as you sit up, watching your mixed releases drip from you, “baby—”

And your lips kiss the tip of his weeping cock, “I told I’d help you,” and you ease his hand away, as you lick up his length, your eyes fixed on his, “just because we fucked, doesn’t mean we’re done,”

And in a moment, he’s got you flipped onto your hands and knees, as his cock slaps against your ass, his fingers squeezing the flesh, as he leans over to kiss your back, “Then I guess we’re gonna be up all night, sweetheart, because if you’re okay with this — I don’t think I’ll be satisfied with just a blowjob,” his tip drags against your messy cunt, “gonna need something a little tighter than your mouth,” and he’s sinking his thick cock into you again, balls slapping against your ass as he begins to fuck you, “better cancel any plans you have, pretty — because we’re not leaving this bed for a while.”

“Don’t fall asleep on me, baby,” his fingers grab your chin, and force you to meet his gaze, as he fucks into you, as you sit on his lap, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders, “almost gonna cum, and don’t want you to be asleep for it,”

How many times had you fucked? You had lost count — but you knew you had done it in far too many positions — on your hands and knees, standing up, against the wall, from behind with his hand gripping your leg up, and far too many others — and now you were spread in his lap, cock deep in your pulsing pussy, his lips kissing your neck, as he fucked into you, his dick reaching a deeper angle from this position, easily able to hit the furthest parts of you.

He had cum in you more than you thought was humanly possible — and you supposed it wasn’t — it was only the curse that enabled this — it was animalistic even, the way he rutted into you desperately. He grabbed a water bottle only to take a swig, and find your lips again, forcing you to swallow the water.

“Good girl,” he’s grunting, his hips beginning to stutter, “I’m close baby, are you?” You hadn’t thought it was still possible to feel pleasure at this point, but it was — his cock dragged against your walls, his dark gaze finding yours, “tell me you wanna cum,” and your pussy twitches at his order, “use your words, pretty, or have I fucked them all out?”

“Please, Suguru, I wanna cum on your cock,” and you’re so fucking close again — the all too familiar knot in your stomach ready to snap any moment.

“Fuck, greedy pussy hasn’t enough of me? We’ve been fucking until the daylight now,” as his hand grabs your chin to make you see the first rays of light peaking over the horizon, and he’s making you bounce on him with each thrust of his dick — your orgasm building and building with every brush of his tip against your g-spot, “fuck, s’good for me, baby — been so good — just need one more and we can stop,” and tears stream down your cheek that only make him groan, his lips finding yours in a messy, sloppy kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth right as his cock hits at the deepest part of you—

And you squirt all over him, drenching his cock and lap as you cum, your lips parting from him, as your head is thrown back, boneless, as he fucks into you, your spasming walls pulling him over the edge as he paints your insides with his release, fucking it into you, until he finally slows, your body draped on his, head resting on his shoulder. Bodies sticky with sweat and cum, his cock finally softens inside you, the heat finally beginning to dull, as he presses soft kisses and gentle caresses to every inch of your skin, as he lays you down carefully, pulling himself from you.

“Thank you, princess, thank you,” and you’re burying your face in the crook of his neck, soft breaths cooling the sheen of sweat on his skin, “did so good for me,” and he slowly rises, grabbing his shirt and running it under water to clean you off, if only a little.

You’re already half asleep, eyes only fluttering half open to watch him, and he can’t help but bite his lip, “Sugu?”

“Yes, princess?” And you nod, fingers twitching for him, and his lips curl as he obliges, wrapping you up in his body, “know it was rough on you baby, I’ll make it up to you — don’t worry, just rest,” he grabs a water bottle, and lifts your head ever so slightly and helps you drink some water.

“I know you want to ask me something,” and he pauses, as he pulls the bottle away, “I can see the gears grinding in your head — you can ask me anything, y’know,” you had quite the way of embarrassing him, didn’t you?

“I know, I just,” he swallowed, “was there any other reason you came back to Tokyo, aside from the threats, did you come back for anything else?”

And your lips curl, raising an eyebrow knowingly, “Anything or anyone you mean?” and you chuckle when his eyes can’t meet yours, your fingers finding his again, “baby,” and your hand brushes against his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw, making his breath catch, “I did come back for someone — a very particular someone,” and he smiles, as your lips lean up to press a chaste kiss to your lips, “and my friends, of course,” you add, “I love Utahime, but I missed Shoko and Satoru, and you,”

“You did?” he murmurs, and you giggle, kissing him again, melting into his touch again, as your foreheads brushed against the other’s, “Sugu?” and it’s your turn to ask something now, chewing on your bottom lip, “can we do this again?” you murmur, before adding, “not like this but—“

And he laughs, pulling you impossibly closer, lips finding your leaping pulse, “Yes, we can, if you want to — because I know I do, because,” his thumb brushing the length of your cheek, “but I want all of you — want your body, your thoughts, your time, your heart and soul—“ and his lips quirk at the sight of your eyes widening ever so slightly, “is that okay?”

And your lips find his own as an answer, sweet kisses turn languid, heat stealing any doubts from either of your minds, “As long I have yours as well,” and the two of you share only a few more kisses, before you both finally drift off.

“If he’s fine, and I’m checking on him, I’m kicking his ass,” Satoru grumbled, as he held his phone between his cheek and his shoulder, Shoko sighing as he rooted through his pockets for his keys.

Shoko chewed her lip, she hadn’t heard from him in hours, “He was in bad shape, I can't find the time to go check and you were on your way home anyway,” Shoko says, wiping her brow, twisting a strand of her hair between her fingers.

“Yeah, on my way home back from a mission,” he finally finds his keys, sticking Suguru’s spare key into the lock and turning it, “If I have jet lag, and all I find is him jerked off and sleeping, you owe me,”

He twists the knob, and looks — he doesn’t see Suguru in the living room or kitchen — but he does see takeout containers spilled on the floor, along with a very familiar bag, and he blinks, before his lips curl. He asks if she’s heard from you, to which she says no,

He walks silently to Suguru’s bedroom, opening the door a crack to see you and Suguru curled up against each other, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, the comforter strewn about and covering the rest of your bodies.

Satoru only grins, before he pulls his phone from his ear and switches to the camera.

“Never mind, Shoko, I owe you one,” and he snaps a picture of the two of you, wondering how many missions he could pawn off to Suguru now, “I’ll treat you to lunch.”

✧ a/n: so this turned out way longer than i thought (story of my life). i had so much fun writing this - i've been writing this in conjunction with prof geto part 3 and its been funny darting back and forth between these two -- although the scenes i've been writing

✧ taglist: @peachyminx, @garfunklefield, @unicornqueen05, @hiyori-ii, @equikaz, @unoriginalidea, @forest-fruits-jam, @torusinfinity, @hellkaiserinphoenix, @loonimae, @gojoedd, @sugurufic, @glaceliy, @telvess, @kentocalls, @nayasch, @iluvvreze, @yamaguccitadashi, @faeismism, @hanxyy, @catsgomurp, @sukaibg, @sugurusdiscordmoderator, @gojorgeous, @getos-slvtt, @sirencholia, @teatreeoilll, @dewdropdive, @appysauc, @kobycetacean, @missroki, @fushitoru, @pricetagofficial, @that-goth-bisexual, @shoyosdoll, @regrettinglifechoices, @mostinsanegirl, @roseybean, @fayyyrieee, @gojobbg, @strangehuman101, @saccharine-nectarine, @i-belong-in-a-retirement-home, @spider-fan72

#sab [mlist]#geto suguru x reader #geto suguru smut #geto x reader #geto smut #suguru geto smut #geto suguru x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #geto x you #jjk x you

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sixxels · 1 month ago

Text

it girl

nerd!gojo x popular!model!reader

wc: 20.1k

part 1 ! part 2 !

!!disclaimer!! will include major mentions of fling!sukuna x reader, smut, fluff, angst w/comfort. m.list

you were his most well kept secret, scrolling your instagram for hours on end, collecting each and every magazine that you'd ever featured in, satoru was obsessed with you, the gorgeous goddess who just so happened to go to his university. what happens when he sees you struggling to reach a book in the library and plucks up enough courage to finally go up and talk to you? how will the resident bad boy sukuna disrupt his fever dream come true?

the old campus library felt like a different world, ornate woodwork climbing up the walls, interrupted only by tall leaded-glass windows that caught the soft amber glow of autumn. outside, the trees were aflame with color, copper, rust, deep crimson, and their reflection danced on the polished floors. inside, the air was quiet and thick with the scent of time, yellowed pages, candle wax, and the faintest trace of dust that even the best-kept secrets couldn’t shake.

this was satoru’s sanctuary. dim corners, forgotten shelves, long tables where no one noticed if you stayed for hours. it was the one place he could be invisible. which is why his heart damn near exploded when you walked in.

you didn’t belong here, not in the best way. you were all shimmer and gloss, y2k fantasy made flesh, swishing through the hushed aisles like you were on the catwalk of a juicy couture fever dream. pink cheetah-print mini skirt, rhinestone hair clips catching the library’s warm light, a bedazzled phone clutched in one hand and a louis vuitton pochette tucked under the other. your heels made the kind of clack that had half the students peeking over their books.

and gojo? he saw everything.

he watched as you scanned the shelf, rising up on your tiptoes, your acrylics fluttering helplessly just inches from the book’s spine. of course it had to be the top shelf.

of course no one else was around.

gojo adjusted his glasses, heart hammering in his chest. his fingers hovered over his laptop, still stuck on line 43 of an astrophysics assignment he stopped understanding twenty minutes ago.

he’d memorized every one of your photos, every cover shoot, every tiktok q&a where you smiled that same glossy smile.

but this? this was real. this was his chance.

the goddess of his screen, right here in the dusty old sanctuary he never thought you’d step foot in, struggling to reach a book that he was tall enough to grab without even trying.

clearing his throat almost as a way to prepare himself, he closed the lid of his lap top and stood.

his palms were sweating. he wiped them on his jeans as subtly as he could, heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to escape. every step felt unreal, like he was glitching through a dream he wasn’t supposed to be part of. he could hear the faint squeak of his sneakers against the hardwood floor, echoing too loud in the silence, like the library itself was watching him with bated breath.

you didn’t notice him at first, too busy tiptoeing, a pout forming on your glossy lips as your fingers swiped at nothing but air. your pink mini rode a little higher as you stretched, glittery charm bracelet jingling with the effort, and satoru had to drag his eyes back up to your face like a gentleman. his throat went dry.

he cleared it quietly. “uh—need some help?”

you turned, and wow.

up close, you were somehow even more perfect. highlighter catching on your cheekbones, the faint scent of candy and designer perfume floating around you like some kind of spell. your eyes met his, confused for a split second, then amused. not mean, not mocking. just… curious. like you were trying to place him. like maybe he was a page you’d never noticed before.

“errr, yeah,” you said, with a breathy little laugh that made his stomach flip. “not built for reaching stuff that high.”

he blinked, then smiled, nervous but trying to play it cool. “lucky for you, i majored in tall.” you laughed again even though it was kind of dry, real, sparkly, light. and satoru swore he’d never heard anything more perfect in his life.

“you’re funny,” you said, stepping aside to give him room. “what’s y'name, hun?” he froze for a half second. she’s asking your name, idiot, say it!

“gojo. i mean, satoru. gojo satoru. either one. or uh. both, at once.” he winced. smooth satoru, real smooth. you just tilted your head, smiled like you didn’t mind at all, and watched him pluck the book down with one easy reach.

“thanks, but satorus too long, and i hate calling people by their last name.” you said, cradling the book in your arms like a purse dog. satoru's eyes widened like he was surprised you'd say that so outright. he cleared his throat and runnned his neck. "oh, i see... what would you like to call me then?" he said bashfully.

“hmm. toru, ill call you toru." you said lazily chewing whatever pink gum you had in your mouth.

he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “toru... it's sounds good on your tongue- i mean! in your mouth- holy shit wait, that's not what i meant to-.”

you cut him off with a loud giggle, quickly slapping a hand over your mouth once you realized you were in a library, not that it did much to muffle the still continuing melody.

his brain short-circuited.

he was sure of it. neurons fried. circuits blown. oxygen? never heard of her. because you were standing there, laughing like he was actually funny, like this wasn’t a scene straight out of one of his most unhinged daydreams.

you gave him a look, amused, playful. god, he was dying. his soul was ascending like a cartoon ghost floating up from his body.

you shifted your weight, resting one hip against the shelf. the fluorescent light overhead made the rhinestones on your bebe cami sparkle. you tucked the book under your arm like it was a designer clutch and popped another bubble of gum, watching him with a kind of lazy, feline curiosity.

“so,” you drawled, “what’s a pretty boy like you doing all alone in a dusty place like this?”

pretty. you called him pretty.

he almost choked.

“i, uh—” he coughed, adjusting the frames on his face, trying to stall while his brain caught up. “i like… books?”

you laughed again. it was dangerous, the way you looked at him like that. like he was adorable. like he wasn’t wearing a hoodie with digimon on it and sneakers he hadn’t replaced in three years. like he wasn’t the guy who built computers in his dorm for fun and had a separate folder of your magazine covers saved on his hard drive labeled “for science” even though no science was involved.

“you’re cute,” you said matter-of-factly, like it was obvious.

and satoru? satoru was gone.

he stared at you, eyes wide behind his glasses, face flushed a gentle pink that crept all the way up to the tips of his ears. the air was suddenly thick. too warm. too sweet. it smelled like your bubblegum perfume and fall leaves and something else he couldn’t name, something that made his chest ache.

“y-you think so?” he asked softly, stunned.

you tilted your head again, hair bouncing. “don’t be weird 'bout it, 'course i do.”

he felt his knees weaken. he had to stay calm. say something cool. say something flirty. you’ve practiced this in the mirror for god sake!

“you’re, uh—” he tried, mouth dry. “you’re like… really symmetrical. scientifically speaking. your face, i mean. p-perfect proportions.”

you blinked at him, stunned for half a second before giggling again.

“are you trying to flirt with me using the golden ratio?”

“…yes.”

“oh my god,” you said, biting your lip. “that’s actually kinda hot.”

he almost moaned at your flirty tone.

he was talking to you. you. the girl whose instagram he checked religiously, zooming in on every new post like it was a secret message just for him. he knew what your favorite lip gloss was. he knew you preferred oat milk. he’d bought three different issues of vivi just to see the full spread of your beach shoot, and had one of them hidden in the bottom drawer under his spare laptop cables. the girl he had fucked his fist raw to.

you were standing right in front of him, telling him he was hot for quoting fibonacci.

this couldn’t be fucking real.

“do you, like… study fashion or something?” he blurted out, trying to keep the conversation going.

he couldn't lose this opportunity.

“not that you need to. you look like… like you walked out of a y2k time capsule, but in a cool way. like, the hottest- i mean coolest way.”

you grinned, chewing your gum thoughtfully. “nah. i'm in marketing. but i do part-time modeling gigs. keeps my followers happy. and my bank account.”

'oh, i know.' he thought, but smiled like he didn’t. like he hadn’t memorized your last seven ad campaigns and tracked the rise in your follower count every week.

“that’s really cool,” he said instead. “you’re, like, really good at it.”

you raised a brow. “you’ve seen my stuff?”

he panicked. “uh. once. maybe. a few times. like… it came up. on the internet.” he cleared his throat.

you smirked. “just came up, huh?.”

he felt the heat rush to his ears. “i… no… maybe.”

you stepped a little closer, still grinning, glossy lips curving like you knew exactly the effect you had on him.

“it’s okay, toru,” you whispered conspiratorially. “i'm fine with hot guys like you looking at my stuff.”

he snorted, loud and awkward, then clapped a hand over his mouth. your laughter followed, softer this time, almost sweet. you didn’t seem like you were judging him. if anything, you seemed like you were delighted by how much of a mess he was.

you leaned back against the bookshelf, flipping the book’s cover open lazily. “what were you working on, before i came over and distracted you with my tragic lack of height?”

he glanced back at his table, his laptop still open, screen filled with half-written code and tabs full of equations.

“just… homework. physics stuff. not super interesting.”

you hummed. “oh wow physics! you really are a genius? not some nerd poser or something?”

“or something,” he said with a sheepish grin.

you eyed him again, like you were scanning him. tall. gangly, but in a model-off-duty kind of way. platinum white hair slightly tousled like he’d been running his hands through it. piercing blue eyes behind round glasses that only made him look more ridiculously pretty, like a gorgeous professor with no idea how hot he actually was.

you popped another bubble. “you're hot toru, y'know that?”

he groaned, covering his face. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you nudged his arm with your elbow. “in an endearing way, though.”

his heart did a full backflip. she’s flirting with me. she’s actually flirting with me. this isn’t a simulation. this is real.

he was suddenly hyper-aware of everything. the way your perfume lingered in the air. the soft click of your nails against the book cover. the scuff on your pink heels. your lip gloss glinting like a disco ball every time the light shifted. his eyes trailed down to the perfect curve of your tits, god what he would give to cop a feel for just a secon-

“so,” you said, as casually as if you were asking for the time, “you gonna ask for my number or just keep eye fucking me like that?”

his jaw dropped.

you giggled again.

“i—I wasn't- i was gonna-,” he stammered, clutching the edge of the bookshelf for support. “i just didn’t know if, i mean, you’re, like, you. and i’m just—”

you raised an eyebrow. “you’re toru.”

he blinked.

“my toru, if you play your cards right.”

he was dead. buried. emotionally incinerated.

“uh—can i—yeah—your number, please. definitely. like. right now.”

you pulled your phone from your purse, bedazzled case catching the light like a chandelier. “here."

he shakily took your phone.

you peeked at it and burst out laughing. “just 'gojo'? that's lame.”

he shrugged, somehow managing a grin. “oh! uh... i guess you'll have to make up the name...”

he saw your lips curl as you typed in a new name. you turned the phone around and he read the contact.

'toru 🫦'

“you’re so... flirty...”

“yeah i get told that.”

you tilted your head again. “i like you, toru, you're cool.”

he didn’t think anything in his life had ever sounded better.

"r-really? you're like, really cool to-"

"y/n! hurry the hell up or we're leaving without you!"

a foreign voice interrupted the moment, and you looked over your shoulder through the book cases to see sukuna and yuki looking around for you.

"ah shit, sorry toru but i gotta run. parties am i right?"

satoru stammered abit before straightening up and nodding his head quickly like he knew anything about parties. he gulped looking at sukuna, he alone looked 100x more likely to be dating a hot model like you, he was tatted up, smoking hot and oh so boyish. you were hanging out with guys like this on the daily? it made satoru's self confidence waver.

"no, yeah, totally. uhm... it was really nice meeting you y/n-"

"you too toru see yah! i'll text you!"

you replied, fast walking off to your popular friends that seemed to be pretty adamant in you returning quickly.

satoru watched you walk away, heart still pounding in his chest. the weight of the moment, of you, was slowly sinking in.

he stared after you, eyes wide behind his glasses, watching the way you moved—effortless, like a star gliding through space, not a care in the world, completely unaware of the way the whole library seemed to be holding its breath in your presence, just like him. he saw how students whispered as you passed by, you were already back in your element, heading toward your friends. your heels clicked rhythmically against the floor as you weaved through the bookcases.

'she called me toru. she called me toru.'

he could barely wrap his mind around it. you were her. the goddess he’d collected magazines of, the one whose photos kept him up all night, the girl whose life seemed so perfect and out of reach. and you’d called him toru, a nickname only his mom called him.

like it was nothing. like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he felt his pulse racing again, the aftershock of the interaction rippling through him. 'there was no fucking way this was real. it couldn’t be. not in a million years.'

he stood there for what felt like an eternity, watching your figure shrink as you disappeared into the crowd of students waiting at the library exit. a part of him wanted to run after you, but he stayed rooted to the spot, trying to calm his breathing, trying to get his bearings.

'i'll text you' your words rang in his ears.

he fumbled for his phone, eager to check for the message. he knew it wasn’t going to be anything mind-blowing, just a quick “hey” or maybe an emoji, but it didn’t matter. it was something.

his hands shook as he unlocked the screen.

no new messages. his heart sank, and for a brief moment, he was ready to throw his phone out the window. 'don’t overthink it, satoru. it’s just one conversation. stop acting like she’s going to text you back immediately, you idiot.'

he paced back and forth for a few minutes, his mind in a complete fog. the sound of his footsteps was the only thing that seemed to ground him, the reality of the library pulling him back from his spiral of thoughts.

'okay. okay, you need to calm down. what just happened is… insane. but it’s not like she’s your girlfriend. hell, you barely know her. but fuck…'

he sat down at the nearest table, pulling out his laptop and trying to force himself to focus. his fingers hovered over the keys, but the words weren’t coming to him. the physics problems blurred together on the screen, the equations meaningless in comparison to what had just happened.

he laughed to himself, a quiet sound that felt a little too much like a nervous breakdown.

'she called you pretty. she said you were hot. and she didn’t run away. she didn’t laugh at you. she just called you cute! god, you’re fucked, satoru.'

he couldn’t stop smiling, even though he knew he was being ridiculous.

'this is real, right? she actually liked me. she didn’t just see me as some… weirdo in the corner of the library. she saw me.'

you didn’t think much more about it after that. after all, you were you, and satoru? well, he was just some pretty nerd who you had a quick flirty conversation with. sure, it was fun, but it wasn’t like anything was going to come of it.

but you couldn’t help thinking about his smile. the way he stammered and blushed. the way his eyes flicked up to meet yours, like he was afraid he might melt if he looked too long. he wasn’t the first guy to be nervous around you, but there was something… refreshing about the way he acted. not like he was trying to impress you, but like he was genuinely just happy to be talking to you.

it was cute.

you were knocked out of your thoughts when sukuna slung an arm around your shoulders as yuki walked next to you out of the library.

“took you long enough,” sukuna drawled, his voice low and rough in that way that made heads turn even when he wasn’t trying. his rings clinked lightly as his fingers settled on your shoulder, all casual possessiveness and knowing smirks. “don’t tell me you were actually studying?”

“she was flirting,” yuki chimed in, tugging her black leather jacket tighter around herself. “with glasses.”

“glasses?” sukuna raised a pierced brow, looking amused. “you mean the lanky nerd who always camps out in the back corner like he pays damn rent?”

you gave a lazy little shrug, chewing your gum thoughtfully as your pink acrylics tapped against your phone screen. “y'know him? he’s cute.”

yuki nearly choked on a laugh, slapping a hand to her chest. “cute? you think he’s cute?”

“like, awkward cute,” you clarified, eyes scanning your texts, pretending not to notice how sukuna’s grip subtly tightened. “he called my symmetrical face hot.”

yuki actually wheezed. sukuna just stared down at you for a second, unreadable. “you fuckin’ with him?” you gave him a sugary smile, lips glossed just right. “no. he was just sweet, helped me reach a book.”

“sweet,” he repeated flatly, like the word offended him on a molecular level. but you were already ahead of them, weaving through the quad, your low-rise mini skirt swishing, a little pink blur in a sea of neutrals. you didn’t even need to look back to know they were following you. people always followed you.

you were the kind of girl people stared at. you were the girl. the one in the center of every group pic. the one who got handed aux at parties. the one every guy either wanted or bragged about knowing. and yeah, it got exhausting sometimes. but it was better than being invisible. it was better than being left behind.

sukuna and yuki flanked you like always, your unofficial bodyguards, your chaos and calm. people moved for the three of you like you were royalty. “what’s his name?” yuki asked as you all approached the parking lot. she was already pulling her keys out, ready to drive you to the party.

“satoru,” you said absently. “but i’m calling him toru.” sukuna scoffed, you were oblivious to the drop in his stomach.

back in the library, satoru still hadn’t moved. his brain kept replaying the moment you said his name. toru. he never knew two syllables could make him feel like his chest was going to explode. and then your friends had shown up. those friends.

satoru had locked eyes with the pink-haired one for only a second, but it was enough.

he was tall , broad-shouldered, ink running down his arms like artless declarations of rebellion, slick black piercings catching even the dimmest light of the library. he had a cigarette tucked behind one ear like it was an afterthought, like he didn’t even need it to look dangerous. his shirt clung to him like it didn’t dare wrinkle. his stare was deadpan, half-lidded and bored, like he’d already sized satoru up and decided he wasn’t worth the breath it would take to speak.

his eyes said it all, 'i’ve done things your virgin brain can't even fathom. i’ve had her in ways you’ll never even understand.' satoru felt small, smaller than he had in years.

this guy, sukuna, looked like the kind of man girls wrote warnings about in their diary. the kind your friends begged you to stay away from but you never did. he looked like he lived in red lights and black leather and bad decisions. like he didn’t even need to try to get a girl like you. like he already had.

he looked like the kind of guy you did date.

satoru’s fingers twitched at his sides, a nervous impulse to hide himself behind his sleeves. behind his hoodie. behind something. anything. 'they’re probably just friends,' he told himself. but the words didn’t land. not really.

not when you were surrounded by people like that, cool, popular, hot in a way that didn’t come from filters or good lighting but from raw, lived-in confidence. people who belonged in glossy polaroids, in afterparties, in stolen moments behind closed doors.

people who weren’t him.

he thought about the way you’d laughed at his dumb jokes, called him toru like it was something soft and special. how you’d looked at him like he was something worth looking at. but it didn’t change the fact that he was stammering and akward.

meanwhile, sukuna probably had you pressed against a wall the night before, hand on your throat, like he owned you. satoru blinked down at the ground, heart clenched, throat dry.

what if he does? what if you weren’t just flirting? what if sukuna was the one you called when the party ended? the one who got to see you undone and bare and real?

the image hit him hard, a flash of you in someone else’s bed, laughing the way you had in the library, except it wasn’t for him this time. he shook his head, embarrassed with himself, but the thought had already burrowed in.

'you’re not her type.' and god, wasn’t that the worst part? because he wanted to be.

he wanted to be everything you liked. everything you needed. but standing there in that hoodie with his backpack half-zipped and his heart in his mouth, he wasn’t sure he even belonged in the same room as you.satoru dropped his forehead to the desk, groaning softly.

'get a grip. you’re spiraling. again.'

but he couldn’t help it. not when he’d spent the better part of his freshman year zooming in on pictures of you on the cover of “tokyo street glam.” not when he had a folder on his phone labeled “math notes” that was really just full of screenshots from your instagram stories.

you were his secret. his guilty pleasure. the one girl he let himself obsess over even when he swore he didn’t do that anymore. and now? you were real. not just real, but you’d talked to him. you’d liked talking to him. he finally lifted his head, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, still slightly fogged from the heat of his own forehead.

'snap out of it, satoru. she’s not a fantasy anymore. you met her. she smiled at you. she gave you her number. that has to mean something.'

his phone vibrated. his whole body went rigid he snatched it up off the table so fast he nearly dropped it.

[new message: unknown number]

xxx xxx xxx: heya toru :)

his mouth dropped open a little. he just stared at the screen, like it might disappear. like it was a mirage. his fingers hovered for a moment, then tapped quickly.

toru 🫦: hey :)

and then, as fast as he could, he threw his phone face-down on the table and physically shoved his chair away from it like it might explode. his heart pounded. his ears were ringing.

'holy fucking shit she texted you.'

he let out a shaky breath, tugging his hoodie sleeves down over his hands and scrubbing them over his face.

“he texted back,” you told yuki, holding up your phone lazily.

“he’s probably combusting in that dusty ass library right now,” she grinned, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. “you just turned that boy’s world upside down.”

you blew a bubble, letting it pop slow. “good.”

“you gonna see him again?” you shrugged, but your smile betrayed you. “depends. maybe.”

yuki eyed you. “you like him.”

“i don’t not like him.”

from behind, sukuna made a low noise of disapproval.

you ignored it.

back inside, satoru was still buzzing. his fingers hovered over the keys, unsure what to say next. he wanted to impress you. to be funny. to be hot. but mostly, he just didn’t want to blow it.

he checked your profile again, he didn’t mean to. it was just instinct now. all your selfies, your campaign shoots, your y2k party outfits, the way you always looked like you stepped out of a dream and into a flashbulb.

your most recent post was from a few minutes ago where you snapped a photo of you and yuki getting ready for a frat party. 'of course.'

the alpha phi frat house was already buzzing by the time you and yuki pulled up. the thump of bass-heavy music vibrated through the ground, mingling with the distant chatter and laughter of students spilling out onto the lawn. fairy lights crisscrossed above, casting a warm, golden glow over the scene, while the scent of alcohol and pot hung thick in the air.

you stepped out of the car, your mini dress hugging your curves perfectly. your hair was styled beautifully, and your makeup was a flawless blend of early 2000s glam and modern chic. yuki, ever the contrast, sported a sleek black ensemble, her dark lipstick and sharp eyeliner giving her an edgy allure. as you made your way through the crowd, the familiar faces of your inner circle came into view.

choso was the first to greet you, leaning against the kitchen counter with a red solo cup in hand. his long, dark hair was tied into two high ponytails, and his deep-set eyes held a quiet intensity. choso was the enigmatic artist of your group, often lost in thought but always present when it mattered. despite his reserved nature, he had a soft spot for you, often sketching portraits of you in his notebook.

“y/n,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“heyy cho,” you replied, giving him a quick hug. “still acting all edgy brooding in corners?”

he chuckled softly. “y'know it.”

nearby, suguru lounged on a couch, his long black hair tied back, revealing a perfectly sharp jawline and a mischievous glint in his eyes. he raised his glass in a silent toast as you approached.

“y/n, always a vision,” he drawled, his voice deep, sexy and smooth as silk.

“awe how sweet of you. not sleeping with you tho, sorry!” you shot back, smirking.

suguru was the charismatic leader, effortlessly drawing people into his orbit. he had a way with words and a confidence that made him irresistible to many. your relationship with him was flirtatious, filled with playful banter and lingering glances.

"that's too bad, pretty."

shoko, the group’s resident medical major and drunkard, sauntered over with a bottle in hand. her short hair framed her face, and her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“y/n! shot?” she offered, already pouring two.

“you know i can’t say no to you, girl,” you laughed, clinking glasses with her.

shoko was the life of the party, always ready with a drink and a sarcastic comment. she balanced her wild side with a deep loyalty to her friends, always there when it mattered most.

sukuna, ever the token bad boy, leaned against the wall, his tattoos peeking out from under his shirt. his pink hair was tousled, and his eyes followed you as you moved through the room.

he gave you a once over and approached you, slinking an arm around your waist and hooking his head down to inhale you're perfume with a groan.

sukuna was your on-again, off-again fling, the tension between you two palpable. he exuded danger and allure, and while your relationship was complicated, especially with his tendency to be extremely unloyal, there was no denying the chemistry.

you giggled before pushing him off and working your way further into the party, dodging bodies as you progressed.

nanami stood nearby, his tie loosened, a drink in hand. he offered you a nod, his expression as stoic as ever.

“y/n,” he greeted simply.

“nanami, letting loose tonight?” you teased, leaning against his side looking up at him. “as much as i can,” he replied, a hint of a smile on his lips as he dipped his drink.

nanami was the responsible one, always the voice of reason. he kept the group grounded, his calm demeanor a counterbalance to the chaos. maki zen’in, fierce and unapologetic, approached with a confident stride. her athletic build and sharp eyes commanded attention.

“y/n, looking sexy,” she complimented, giving you a nod.

“maki, you look so fucking hot.” you responded.

maki was the strong, silent type, her loyalty unwavering. she was someone you could always count on, both in and out of a fight.

as the group settled into their usual banter, yuki leaned in, a mischievous glint in her eyes, capturing their attention.

“guess who y/n was flirting with today?” she announced, drawing everyone’s attention. the room quieted slightly, all eyes on you.

you shot her a sideways glance and felt for the phone in your pocket, remembering you needed to text a certain someone back.

“a nerd,” yuki continued, grinning.

sukuna’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening.

“a nerd?” suguru echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“yeah, glasses, stammering, the whole 9 yards,” yuki elaborated.

��he was cute,” you defended, shrugging, about to hit send on the message you were about to send satoru when sukuna interrupted.

he scoffed, pushing off the wall.

“i’m getting another drink,” he muttered lowly, disappearing into the crowd.

the group exchanged glances, the tension palpable.

“well, that was dramatic,” shoko commented, taking another sip.

choso snorted abit and suguru just shook his head.

you rolled your eyes, but a small smile played on your lips. sukuna fucked around with all kinds of girls, what gave him the right to get all pissy? you didn't really like him like that anyways, he just knew how to fuck...

you watched sukuna’s retreating figure push through the crowd, jaw locked, shoulders tense. he didn’t even glance back.

you waited a beat. maybe he was just being dramatic. maybe he’d cool off and come back and pretend like nothing happened.

but he didn’t.

and something about that made your blood boil.

“i’ll be back,” you muttered, not really addressing anyone in particular.

yuki gave you a knowing look but didn’t stop you.

you slipped past sweaty bodies and neon-lit walls, the music thudding behind you like a heartbeat as you pushed open the sliding glass door to the patio. it was colder out here. quieter. sukuna was leaning against the railing, cigarette hanging lazily between his fingers, jaw clenched tight like he was chewing on all the things he wanted to say but wouldn’t.

you stood a few feet away, arms crossed.

“you always do this,” you said softly, voice sharp in contrast to the quiet. “get weird whenever someone else so much as breathes in my direction.”

he didn’t turn around. just took a slow drag of his cigarette and exhaled smoke into the air like it was supposed to calm him.

“so now you’re into nerds?” he said, voice flat. you scoffed. “is that really what you’re mad about?” he glanced over his shoulder, eyes flashing. “i’m not mad.” you stepped closer, irritation prickling under your skin.

“bullshit. you stormed out like i cheated on you or something.” he turned fully to face you now, arms spread slightly like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“we’re not together.”

you laughed, bitter and tired. “exactly. we’re not together. so why the fuck do you care?”

he looked at you then, really looked. and for a second, something flickered in his expression, hurt? jealousy? possession? it vanished almost as quickly as it came.

“i don’t,” he said coldly. “you can fuck whoever the hell you want.”

“then why are you acting like this?”

he stepped closer, his voice low and cutting. “because you act like you don’t care, like it’s just casual, and then go around flirting with other guys like it’s a game.”

“you sleep with other people all the time.”

“yeah, but i don’t shove it in your face.”

“i wasn’t trying to shove anything—” you snapped, taking another step forward, “—you just can’t stand not being the center of attention.”

his eyes narrowed. “and you can’t stand the idea that someone might not want you.”

that one stung more than it should have.

you blinked, lips parting, breath catching in your throat for half a second. then you swallowed it down and stared right back at him.

“fuck you.”

he smirked. “you already did.”

you rolled your eyes and turned, ready to walk back in, to let this whole thing rot where it stood. but then—

“he’s not gonna fuck you like i do,” he called out, venom laced in his voice.

you stopped.

turned.

walked right up to him.

“maybe not,” you said sweetly, “but he doesn’t talk to me like i’m disposable.”

sukuna didn’t say anything, jaw tight again, eyes unreadable.

you stepped back. “enjoy your drink.”

and with that, you left him there, cigarette burned down to the filter, staring at your back as you disappeared into the party.

you stalked your way back into the party, turning heads as you walked. you navigated back to a some what secluded couch and sat down trying to calm yourself, and think. and maybe, okay, definitely, text that nerd.

you reached for your phone that had been vibrating on and off all night in your purse. as expected, a few dms, a couple mentions from the party, sukuna had liked one of your thirst traps from last week, typical, but it was the one message that you'd received a few hours ago that made your heart do a weird little flip.

toru 🫦[10:03]: wydddd?

you [12:47am]: u still up nerd?

you paused. stared at it. then hit send before you could chicken out.

you rolled onto your back, biting your lip, phone clutched to your chest.

the reply came way faster than expected.

toru 🫦 [12:48am]: im always up for you

you stared at the screen, mouth open.

“what the hell,” you muttered, smiling like an idiot.

you [12:49am]: that was smooth toru. didn’t know you had game

toru 🫦 [12:49am]: i don’t. im literally panicking rn

toru 🫦 [12:49am]: i had to rewrite that message like five times. you don’t wanna see the first drafts

you snorted.

you [12:50am]: ok show me the deleted ones

toru 🫦 [12:51am]: i think one said “yes i am awake haha as a human does” and then another one just said “gulp”

you [12:51am]: stopppppp LMAO

you [12:52am]: that’s so cute it’s disgusting

toru 🫦 [12:52am]: glad i could repulse you into liking me? i think?

you [12:53am]: don’t get cocky bud ur just some cute guy i met

toru 🫦 [12:53am]: you think i’m cute?

you laughed again, your cheeks a little warm despite the hour.

you [12:54am]: you’re literally the prettiest boy i’ve ever seen

toru 🫦 [12:55am]: oh

toru 🫦 [12:55am]: oh my god

toru 🫦 [12:55am]: you’re just saying that

you [12:56am]: i’m not lol. you looked so good in the library today. like… ridiculously good

toru 🫦 [12:57am]: i was sweating so bad. i think my shirt was sticking to me. you looked like a dream tho. a bratz doll kinda dream

you grinned.

you [12:57am]: i am a bratz doll. kinda my whole label lmao. yk what i really like?coffee. speaking of!

you [12:58am]: wanna get some tomorrow? 1pm ish? bluebird café?

your finger hovered for a second before you sent it.

across campus, in a dorm room cluttered with textbooks, half-eaten candy, and his favorite hoodie tossed over the back of his desk chair, satoru gojo was staring at his phone like it held the secrets of the universe.

he read the message once.

twice.

three times.

and then he launched himself face-down into his pillow and let out a noise somewhere between a squeal and a dying animal.

“yes,” he whispered into the sheets. 'yes yes yes fuck yes.'

his thumbs scrambled to reply.

his response came in seconds.

toru 🫦 [12:58am]: yes. yes. yes pls

toru 🫦 [12:58am]: i mean yeah sounds cool lmao

he immediately smacked his forehead. sounds cool?? what was wrong with him?? you were literally the hottest person he’d ever seen and he was texting like someone’s nervous little cousin.

still.

you responded instantly.

you [12:59am]: ur such a loser

toru 🫦 [12:59am]: ur such hottie

he stared at the screen after sending it, heart pounding. he could still see you in that tight little outfit from earlier, that confident swing of your hips, your glossed lips twitching when you called him hot, like you already knew what that did to him.

and god, what didn’t it do to him?

he was so far gone. the way you talked to him, like you were toying with him. like you knew he’d let you. like you knew he’d beg if you asked nicely enough.

fuck.

he shifted on his bed, adjusting himself under the sheets with a hiss.

you had him half-hard from just a few texts and a smile.

his phone buzzed again.

you [1:00am]: wear a shirt like you were wearing today again. the tight one. pls. for science.

toru 🫦 [1:00am]: yes ma’am

toru 🫦 [1:00am]: but only if u promise to sit close to me

toru 🫦 [1:00am]: like. real close

you bit your lip, heat crawling up your neck and down your legs.

you [1:01am]: i was gonna sit in ur lap anyway?

gojo made an honest-to-god whimper.

toru 🫦 [1:01am]: brb. passing away. dying. deceased. funeral tmrw before coffee

you laughed into your hands, locking your phone as the giddiness spilled over.

you didn’t know why you were getting all hyped over this guy.

he was awkward. kind of dorky. always blushing.

just an awkward guy with a pretty face.

and you?

you were already dressing to impress. already picturing how he’d react when you leaned in close, lipgloss shining. already planning which perfume would drive him crazy.

just coffee.

totally chill.

except your pulse wouldn’t slow down, and your smile wouldn’t fade.

not even a little.

meanwhile, sukuna stood on the patio still, cigarette ash crumbling between his fingers, the cold air biting at his skin, but he didn’t feel it. all he could think about was the look in your eyes when you told him off. the way your voice didn’t even shake. the way you walked away like he didn’t matter. like he was just another hookup who didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

'fuck.'

he dragged the smoke in deep, holding it in his lungs like it might cauterize the part of him that still gave a shit. but it didn’t. it never did.

you always did this. wormed your way under his skin like a parasite. made him feel things he swore he didn’t have in him. and every time, he let you. like a fucking idiot.

you weren’t his. he wasn’t yours. that was the deal. and he liked that. needed it. no strings. no expectations. he fucked, you moaned, and then you went home. clean. efficient.

but tonight?

you had the audacity to smile about some four-eyed loser in a cardigan. to say he was cute, cute, in front of everyone like you weren’t the same girl who’d been choking on his cock last weekend, mascara dripping down your cheeks, begging him to keep going even though you were shaking.

and now? you were giggling over some soft-spoken virgin with library dust in his hair?

fuck off.

he could see it. this “toru” guy blushing like a fucking idiot when you touched his arm. stuttering through compliments. looking at you like you hung the stars. and worse—way worse—he could see you liking it. eating it up. letting yourself be doted on like you were something sweet and fragile.

'what a fucking joke.'

you were a brat. a tease. a bad girl in a tight dress with too much lipgloss and not enough shame. sukuna knew that. he liked that. you weren’t soft. you weren’t gentle. you were fire and sharp teeth and split thighs. that’s what he fucked. what he owned.

and now you were giving that soft shit to someone else?

nah.

he got the real you. the parts no one else could handle. the parts that needed someone like him. the late-night chaos. the bruises you didn’t want to explain. the shame-soaked mornings where you wouldn’t look him in the eye.

he got the truth.

that nerd didn’t know you. he didn’t know the mess under the makeup. the desperate texts at 2am. the neediness that bled through every time you swore you didn’t care.

and you?

you didn’t get to act like you were someone new. like you were pure now, just because some pretty boy batted his lashes at you in the nonfiction aisle.

fuck that.

he scoffed under his breath, flicking the dead cigarette into the grass and watching the embers scatter.

this wasn’t supposed to matter. none of it was supposed to matter.

you were hot. you were cool. and he thought if he kept it physical, kept it casual, he wouldn’t get sucked in.

but there you were. invading his thoughts, ruining his night with one stupid, flirty smile at someone else.

you shouldn’t get to do that.

he dug into his pocket for another cigarette and lit it with shaking hands.

he was spiraling and he knew it.

he hated this.

hated how you’d crawl into his head without even trying. hated how you made him feel sixteen again, jealous, stupid, insecure. hated that you didn’t even ask him to stay. hated that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want him to.

and he really fucking hated the idea that you’d text that guy tonight.

maybe you already had.

maybe he was texting you back right now, saying something dumb and sweet like you looked really pretty today, and you’d eat it up because that was the shit you liked now, wasn’t it?

and sukuna would be out here, sucking down his second cigarette, pretending it didn’t gut him.

“fucking hell,” he muttered, tossing the second one too.

he stared up at the night sky, jaw locked, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he could force the feeling down if he just stood still enough.

but it sat there anyway, heavy in his chest.

you were slipping away from him.

and he didn’t even know if he wanted to stop you.

he walked back into the house like he hadn’t just spent twenty minutes outside trying not to feel things. the bass of the music hit him first, pulsing through the floorboards, drowning out whatever was left of his pride. he grabbed another drink just to keep his hands busy. he didn’t even know what it was, probably something sugary and cheap,but he needed something to hold so he wouldn’t punch a wall.

he spotted yuki first, dancing near the kitchen with shoko and maki, drinks in hand, glittering under the soft lights strung along the ceiling. he didn’t bother looking for you at first. he told himself he wouldn’t. told himself it didn’t matter.

but his eyes betrayed him, scanning the room like they always fucking did.

and there you were.

sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, grinning down at your phone like it had just told you the funniest joke in the world.

he didn’t have to guess who you were texting.

he knew.

the look on your face said it all. soft. dreamy. your glossed lips tilted into a little smirk, teeth poking through as you bit back a laugh. your fingers moved fast, typing something with a kind of excitement he hadn’t seen in you in a long time. not with him. not for a while.

you never looked at your phone like that after fucking around with him.

no, you usually ghosted him the next day, like you needed to forget it even happened. like he was something you regretted once the high wore off.

but now you were sitting there in a tight little dress, glowing from the inside out, because some nerd made you smile with a few well-timed texts.

he clenched his jaw, setting his drink down before it cracked in his grip.

' fuck that guy.

fuck his stupid glasses.'

fuck how easily he got your attention after one day.

he took a slow breath, trying to shake it off. he wasn’t going to be that guy. the clingy one. the bitter one. he had girls. options. people would kill for a night with him and he knew it. he didn’t need you. he never did.

but goddamn, it felt like you were the only thing he wanted in that moment.

he forced himself to move, leaning back against the counter, trying not to watch you as you texted.

you glanced up once, eyes sweeping the room, and you caught him. just for a second. your smile faltered, and you looked away fast, back to your phone, back to 'toru.'

sukuna’s stomach twisted.

you didn’t come over.

you didn’t even wave.

you just kept texting.

he swallowed hard and looked away.

suguru came up beside him, handing him a new drink. “you look like you’re about to rock someone's shit.”

“i might,” sukuna muttered, taking the cup.

“you know she’s not yours, right?” suguru said casually, like he wasn’t cutting sukuna open with the truth.

sukuna didn’t answer. he didn’t have to.

“just saying,” suguru added, sipping his own drink, “you act like you don’t care, but every time she entertains someone else you look like you’re about to commit a felony.”

“she’s not like that with me,” sukuna said quietly.

“yeah,” suguru said, looking back at you, “and maybe that’s the problem."

he hated that look on your face.

soft. sweet. like someone actually deserved it.

like he hadn’t just had you moaning into his neck a week ago.

“unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, jaw twitching. he pushed off the counter and made his way across the kitchen, bumping past some guy in a letterman jacket hard enough to make the drink in his hand slosh. the guy looked ready to say something, but one glance at sukuna’s expression shut him up.

he thrived on that.

the fear. the respect. the control.

he didn’t lose.

and now here he was, second place to some awkward little library rat who probably still asked his mom how to do laundry.

pathetic.

you weren’t even that special. not really.nat least that's what he told himself.

you had a pretty face, sure. tight body, knew how to use it.

but god, were you exhausting.

always wanting to “talk” after. getting weird if he didn’t text back fast enough. acting like he owed you something when all you ever were was convenient.

it wasn’t his fault you caught feelings.

it wasn’t his fault you mistook a few orgasms for meaning.

and now? you were all smiles and fluttery lashes for some guy who’d probably cum in his pants if you so much as kissed his neck.

he laughed, bitter and mean, dragging a hand through his hair.

you’d be bored in a week. two, tops.

guys like that didn’t know what to do with girls like you.

he did.

he knew how to make you fall apart. knew how to get under your skin, pull sounds out of you you didn’t even know you could make. he’d ruined you for other guys, he was sure of it.

and yet there you were, looking like he didn’t exist.

looking like he never even mattered.

he downed the rest of his drink and tossed the cup aside like it disgusted him, then stalked toward the hallway without a word to anyone. if he couldn’t have your attention, he’d find someone else’s.

you weren’t the only hot girl at this party.

and if you wanted to pretend he didn’t matter?

fine.

he’d show you just how easy it was to forget someone.

even if it was a lie.

even if it tore him up inside.

he was good at pretending.

you taught him that.

you lock your phone, the ghost of a smile still clinging to your lips, cheeks warm as you sink into the couch cushion. the room buzzes around you, low bass, clinking drinks, scattered laughter, and for a second, you forget where you are. all you can think about is the way satoru types like he can’t get the words out fast enough. like he’s trying to hold your attention before you disappear.

you tuck your phone into your purse and push yourself up, brushing your hands down the sides of your dress. no use staying curled up in the corner when the night’s still young and the liquor is just starting to hit.

“finally decided to rejoin the rest of us?” suguru calls as you weave through the crowd toward the kitchen.

“was that you smiling at your phone like a puppy?” choso adds, lifting a red solo cup to his lips with a grin.

you snort, accepting the tequila shot suguru passes you. “shut up.”

“no, really. that was some schoolgirl shit,” choso teases, bumping his shoulder against yours. “who’s got you blushing like that, huh?”

you shoot him a look as you throw the shot back, the alcohol burning a slow, sweet trail down your throat. “nobody.”

“mhmm,” suguru hums, not buying it for a second. “not like you to be giggling like that, especially not when sukuna’s in one of his moods.”

you shrug, licking a little salt from the back of your hand. “he’s always being weird.”

choso raises his brows. “you good with him?”

“why wouldn’t i be?” you say, a little too quickly.

they exchange a look but don’t push it. instead, suguru downs his shot and offers his hand. “come dance.”

you let him pull you onto the living room floor, the music thudding loud enough that it vibrates through your heels. choso joins, the three of you falling into a loose rhythm, spinning and swaying under the hazy glow of the string lights. suguru’s hands find your waist, steady but never greedy, while choso twirls you around with a flourish that makes you laugh.

it feels good, easy. warm bodies, familiar faces, and the distraction you didn’t know you needed.

you let go for a little while. lose yourself in the music and the alcohol and the safety of your friends’ touch. suguru dips his head to murmur something that makes you laugh, choso pretending to swoon dramatically in response. you throw your head back, laughing harder, spinning until the room blurs

and then your eyes land on him.

sukuna.

he’s leaned against the far wall, and he’s not alone.

there’s a girl tucked into his side, long legs, shiny hair, tiny black dress, and she’s all over him. her hand drags a lazy line down his chest, and he just stands there, smirking like it’s nothing. like she’s nothing. like you’re nothing.

his fingers ghost along the hem of her dress, drifting lower with zero subtlety. and still, he doesn’t look at you. not even a glance. not even a twitch.

you pause mid-step, not frozen exactly, just… confused.

because wasn’t he the one who got all tense when he heard you talk about another guy? wasn’t he the one looking pissed earlier, jaw tight, eyes sharp, when yuki teased you about your little crush? wasn’t he the one who always acted like he hated when you gave anyone else your attention, even though he never wanted to claim you outright?

and now this?

your stomach doesn’t twist, it just sinks, low and slow. not with jealousy. not with hurt. more like: what the hell is his problem?

you keep moving. force your body to flow with the music again as suguru slides behind you, hands warm at your hips. you’re still dancing. still laughing. still here. but your mind keeps circling back.

it’s not that you expected anything different. not really. you and sukuna were never official. never had rules. never had to check in with each other. but still… there was always a tension, a pull, something unspoken between the two of you that made it feel like no one else could come close.

and yet, here he is. practically letting that girl climb him like a tree. acting like you didn’t spend last weekend tangled in his sheets. like he didn’t tell you just days ago that you made his head spin.

you down another shot when suguru hands it to you, nodding in thanks. it burns going down, but it keeps your face smooth. keeps your smile intact.

choso leans close, voice low in your ear. “you good?”

you hesitate. nod. “just don’t get him.”

he follows your gaze. sees the way sukuna is still letting that girl grind against him. the way his hand now fully cups her thigh.

“he’s being a dick,” choso says plainly. “you know that, right?”

“yeah,” you murmur. “i just don’t get why.”

suguru cuts in, quiet and even. “because you scare him.”

you blink. “what?”

“he doesn’t get to control how you feel about someone else. and it’s killing him,” suguru says. “so he does this. acts out. pretends he’s unbothered. he’s not.”

“but like…” you glance over again, brows furrowing. “if it bothers him so much, why go hook up with someone right in front of me?”

“because he’s immature,” choso replies. “and stupid.”

you exhale, a short breath through your nose. “yeah. that checks out.”

it doesn’t hurt, not exactly. it just leaves you feeling weirdly hollow. like something unfinished is hanging in the air between you, something you were never allowed to name.

you pull away from the guys with a small, grateful smile. “i’m gonna go outside for a sec.”

“you sure?” suguru asks.

you nod. “i’m fine. just wanna clear my head.”

you step out onto the porch, letting the chill air wrap around your bare arms. your heart isn’t racing. your hands aren’t shaking. but your mind won’t stop running laps.

you’re not mad at sukuna for messing around. you never expected monogamy from him. but you are mad, maybe a little, for the double standard. for how he acts like it’s betrayal when you even mention another guy, and then turns around and grabs the first girl who bats her lashes at him.

it’s not jealousy. it’s not heartbreak.

it’s just… tired.

you deserve more than someone who only wants you when it’s convenient.

your phone buzzes.

toru 🫦 [2:07am]: i can’t stop thinking about u

you smile a little. softer now. gentler.

toru 🫦 [2:08am]: u looked so pretty tonight btw. i saw your post on instagram!

you [2:08am]: ur sweet. i needed that.

and you mean it.

you don’t even have to wonder about his intentions. satoru makes you feel wanted without playing games. without dangling affection like a prize. he doesn’t try to make you jealous. doesn’t punish you for being desirable.

he just likes you. for you.

toru 🫦 [2:09am]: good. i’ll remind u in person tomorrow :)

you laugh, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. light and real and unfussy.

maybe that’s the difference.

with sukuna, it’s always been messy. volatile. a push-pull you never had the rules for. he likes you, but only when it hurts. only when he’s the one making the rules.

but with satoru?

it feels easy. like you could be soft without having to apologize for it.

you slide your phone back into your purse and square your shoulders.

you’re not gonna let sukuna take this night from you. he doesn’t get to own your attention. not anymore.

you head back inside, head higher than before.

the night isn’t over yet.

and tomorrow?

you’ve got a date with a boy who looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

and maybe, for once, that’s exactly what you need.

satoru stood outside the bluebird café, adjusting his tight black shirt that showed off his sleeper build perfectly, for the fifth time. his hands were shaking slightly, heart thudding in his chest like a drumbeat. it wasn’t the coffee date that had him nervous. it was you.

you had that effect on him, on everyone, really. the thought of seeing you outside the chaos of the library, outside of that brief, awkward interaction where he’d fumbled through every word, made his stomach twist.

he’d told himself he was going to be cool, collected. he could do this. it was just a coffee date. no big deal. he’d gotten through way worse. but none of that had prepared him for how his breath caught every time he thought of how you’d looked in that stupid skirt and that ridiculous attitude that was so effortlessly attractive.

you were the kind of girl who looked like she belonged in a music video, the kind who could walk into a room and immediately make every other girl look like they were wearing the wrong outfit. and every guy would look at you with that same dumb, slack-jawed expression.

satoru shoved his hands in his pockets, adjusting his glasses, and forced himself to open the door. he didn’t have to look around to know you were here. he could feel your presence. the tension in his shoulders had already relaxed, just the thought of your energy pulling him in like a magnet.

when his eyes found you—fuck. it was like a punch to the gut.

you were sitting at the corner table, like you owned the place. of course, you did. you had that undeniable “i’m too cool for you, but i’ll let you look” kinda vibe.

you wore a tiny denim skirt that was, to be frank, barely even a skirt. a rhinestone-studded top that clung to you in all the right ways, and those chunky platform heels that screamed “diva.” your lips were glossy and full, glistening under the soft café lighting, and your hair was perfectly messyx just enough to look like you’d rolled out of bed, but still looked like a million bucks.

satoru’s breath caught in his throat.

his eyes drifted lower, watching how the hem of your skirt just barely grazed the edge of your thighs, how the way you moved your hand to adjust your drink made his brain short-circuit for a second.

your eyes locked with his as he approached the table, and for a second, time stopped. you smirked, that damn smirk that sent a rush of heat straight to his chest. he could feel his body temperature rise, and before he could stop himself, his brain ran through a dozen inappropriate thoughts at once.

fuck. you looked so gorgeous. he wasn’t prepared for just how gorgeous. his mind ran through a series of scenarios that were definitely not appropriate for public spaces, none of which helped the fact that his heart was now hammering in his chest like a jackhammer.

you were so… confident. he hated it. no one should have that much power over him, especially someone who he was almost two times bigger than.

“hey,” you greeted, your voice a little too smooth for his liking, like you knew exactly what effect you were having on him. he could see the way your eyes roamed over him, amusement dancing in your gaze. you probably knew exactly what you were doing to him.

“hey,” he managed to say, sitting down across from you, trying to act normal, trying to ignore the way his thoughts were spiraling.

you leaned forward slightly, your fingers wrapping around the cup of iced tea you had already ordered as you took a sip, a slow, deliberate motion that only made things worse.

“so, i see you listened,” you teased, your lips curling into that seductive smile. “that shirt looks so hot on you, toru.”

satoru flushed, already regretting that he had let you get under his skin so easily. but when you looked at him like that, eyes gleaming, lips glossed and soft, he couldn’t help it.

“thank you, you look stunning.” he muttered, his voice suddenly rough. his mind was already back to thinking about what he’d seen when you smiled like that, the way his body reacted in ways he definitely shouldn’t have let it.

he couldn’t help but imagine what you would be like in his bed. not that he’d ever say it out loud, but the thought haunted him. could he make you beg for him? could he make you moan his name like you probably did for that pink haired guy you were with at the library? would you let him pull you closer, your breath hot and needy as he kissed you until you couldn’t think anymore?

god, he hated that you could make him think about these things.

satoru shifted in his seat, trying to seem nonchalant but his body betrayed him. “thanks for asking me to come along, didn’t know you were the one to make moves, especially not on boring nerds like me,” he said, a cocky grin finding its way to his lips despite the growing ache in his chest.

your eyes narrowed, amusement twinkling behind them. “i like that you know your place,” you said, the words light but with an edge, as if daring him to challenge you.

he shifted in his seat again, fighting the urge to lean forward and test the limits of that challenge. “trust me,” he said, “i know exactly where i stand.”

you laughed, low and sweet, and he almost lost it right there. his hands gripped his cup tightly, knuckles white, as he tried to focus on anything but the way your lips curved when you smiled. you were dangerously close to being everything he wanted, and he hated it. hated that he wanted you so badly.

by now you two had fallen into comfortable conversation.

you laughed at something he said, something dumb and not nearly as clever as he wanted it to be, and satoru thought he might melt into the floor. it wasn’t just the sound of your laugh, though that alone could wreck him; it was the way your hand rested casually on the table between you, your fingers brushing his every now and then like it was nothing. but to him, it felt like everything.

you tilted your head, giving him that soft little smile that made him feel like you saw right through him.

“you’re adorable when you’re trying so hard to be smooth,” you said gently, voice lilting like a secret between friends. your tone was sweet, not mocking, but it still made heat crawl up the back of his neck. “like, you’re actually pulling it off. just barely.”

satoru smirked, covering up his absolute internal collapse with a shrug. “i don’t try. i am smooth,” he said jokingly, praying you wouldn’t notice the way his foot was tapping under the table from nerves. “this is just my natural charm.”he said with a big goofy smile.

you leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand, elbows on the table. your lips curved into the softest, most devastating smirk. “oh? so you’ve accidentally been giving me bedroom eyes this whole time?”

he choked on his coffee.

you giggled and reached over to lightly pat his chest, like you were soothing him after delivering the most casual, lethal blow. “relax, toru. i think it’s sweet. guys like you don’t usually give me the time of day.”

he blinked, stunned. “guys like me?”

“you know,” you said, like it was obvious, “the smart, weirdly-pretty ones. the ones who don’t realize they’re hot because they’ve been sheltered their whole life.”

he stared at you, utterly ruined. “you really think i’m hot don't you? keep on saying it. not that i mind.”

“oh, baby,” you said with a little laugh, “you don’t get to sit across from me all soft and shy and pretending not to stare at my lips, and act like you don’t know the effect you’re having.”

his mouth went dry.

but your voice softened again, gentler this time, like you could sense he was hovering right on the edge of overload. “you’re really sweet, toru. funny, too. i like how you get flustered when i push you a little.”

he tried to summon a coherent response, but his brain was short-circuiting. you were too much, kind and confident, beautiful and bold, and now you were complimenting him like it was nothing?

“i—uh—yeah, no, i like you too,” he finally managed, rubbing the back of his neck. “a lot, actually.”

you smiled at him, soft, fond, and then stood slowly, adjusting your mini skirt with deliberate care. your sweater slipped a little off one shoulder and you didn’t bother fixing it. you let his eyes linger.

“so listen,” you said casually, slinging your purse over your shoulder. “i have this little shoot i need to do for a brand deal tonight. just a few instagram shots. nothing crazy. cute little set, fluffy lighting, all that.” you tilted your head again, voice syrupy sweet. “you good with a camera, toru?”

he blinked. “uh… i mean, yeah. i guess? i’ve done some stuff for the yearbook.”

“perfect.” you smiled like a cat who’d just caught something in her claws. “i think you’ll be really good at capturing all my... angles.”

his brain stuttered.

“you wanna come by?” you asked, already typing something into your phone. “you can help me out. i’ll feed you. and maybe after… i’ll let you pick which photos i post.”

his mouth opened. no sound came out.

you looked up and smiled, soft, radiant, but still with that glint of mischief behind your lashes. “unless you’ve got better plans than coming back to my place and watching me pose in a juicy couture set?”

he almost knocked over his drink standing up.

“great,” you said brightly, as if you hadn’t just set his entire nervous system on fire. “i’ll text you my address. bring your hands. i might need help adjusting.”

and with that, you leaned in, kissed his cheek so softly he thought he imagined it, and walked out, hips swaying, head high, leaving him to sit there, stunned and overheating, wondering how the hell he was supposed to survive whatever came next.

'holy fucking shit.'

satoru was still in his seat, mouth parted slightly, the ghost of your kiss burning on his cheek like it had been stamped there. his hands trembled around the now-lukewarm cup of coffee he hadn’t touched since you started chatting and proceeded to ruin his entire internal equilibrium.

you were gone. walked out like it was nothing. like you hadn’t just asked him, him, to come back to your apartment and help you take instagram photos, like you hadn’t just tilted your glossy mouth toward his skin, kissed him soft and sweet and unearned.

he blinked.

then blinked again.

was he dead? was this a near-death hallucination? maybe the universe was punishing him for all those nights he zoomed in on your thirst traps at 2 a.m. with trembling fingers and a blank expression, whispering, “jesus christ,” to no one like it was a prayer.

you were god. you were everything. and you’d just invited him over like it was casual. like it didn’t undo months of fantasies. years of longing. this was not how it was supposed to happen. he was supposed to pine forever, secretly. obsess quietly.

not…this.

his phone buzzed, and when he fumbled for it, his screen lit up with a new message.

you [3:14pm]: here’s my address. text me when you’re outside. :) come over sometime later, yeah?

satoru almost dropped the phone.

you [3:16pm]: don't forget to bring your handsss!

bring your hands.

he rubbed a hand down his face, cheeks flushed, ears burning. his brain was running at 200mph, playing reel after reel of every single post you’d ever uploaded. every grainy mirror pic, every behind-the-scenes video, every thirst trap with the caption “don’t text ur ex, text me instead <3”—which he had once seriously considered replying to with “ok” before deleting it like a coward.

you were chaos incarnate, dripping lip gloss and destruction. the human embodiment of the for you page and he’d liked every post. every single one. anonymously. pathetically. from the dark corner of his bedroom, dim blue light glowing against his glasses as he muttered things like, “she’s unreal. she’s actually not real. they made her in a lab.”

he’d saved your bikini pics. zoomed in on the brand tags like a freak. reverse searched your lipstick shades. bought the magazines you were featured in, yes, plural. he had a stack of them in a drawer under his bed like some kind of teenage dirtbag, some with his computer cables in his drawer.

pages dog-eared, his favorite ones burned into his memory. one of them had a spread where you wore this ridiculous rhinestone bikini on a beach, holding a dripping popsicle with your tongue out, and he was still not okay from that shoot.

satoru stared at your text like it was written in gold. like it would vanish if he didn’t cherish it hard enough.

he groaned. out loud. in public. attracting a confused glance from the barista cleaning the counter. he stood up fast, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder like a man on a mission.

by the time he was outside your apartment door, his palms were damp.

you lived in the bougiest building on campus, the kind of place with gold-trimmed elevators and a concierge who looked like he’d sooner tase someone than let them loiter. satoru had to buzz up, which was another level of humiliation he hadn’t mentally prepared for.

you answered with a playful, “be right there,” and he swore your voice alone could short-circuit his brain. when the door finally opened, he almost blacked out.

you were in a tiny zip-up hoodie, baby pink, cropped at your ribs with juicy scrawled in rhinestones across the back, and the tiniest matching shorts he’d ever seen in his life. you were barefoot. you looked like a trashy 2000's supermodel. like an ashanti music video vixen. like someone who’d ruined countless men’s lives just by biting their straw.

“hey, toru,” you said, sweet as sugar. “you brought all of you, right?”

he swallowed hard. “i brought all of me.”

you giggled and tugged him inside by the wrist.

he nearly tripped over his own feet entering your place. the air smelled like vanilla and something dangerously flirty. your apartment was exactly how he imagined it: mirrors everywhere, pink lighting, framed photos of you on the wall. a vanity covered in makeup. pink fuzzy rug underfoot. was that… a pole in the corner?

'jesus christ.'

he tried not to stare too hard as you sauntered across the room, hips swinging, grabbing your phone and ring light.

he noticed how you kicked a hoodie that looked way too big to fit you under your bed discreetly, he managed to read 'kappa' printed on the back. wasn't that sukunas frat? he was pushed out of his head by the sound of your voice.

“so,” you drawled, throwing a wink over your shoulder, “you’ve stalked my instagram enough, you know my angles, right?”

satoru’s laugh came out strangled. “uh, yeah. yeah, totally.”

he did. he really did. he knew exactly how you posed, how you tilted your head just slightly for selfies, how you arched your back just a little for those mirror pics, how you gripped the waistband of your juicy pants like it was the most natural thing in the world to drive men to insanity with a pose. he’d studied them. like they were scripture.

you sat down on your velvet couch and grabbed a tube of gloss, reapplying it with a pout. “you nervous?”

“no,” he lied. “i’m... i’m excited. yeah. i’ve always wanted to see the magic happen live.”

“oh, baby,” you purred, “you are the magic.”

he made a noise. an embarrassing one.

you tossed him your phone and struck a pose, leaning back on your palms with your knees spread just slightly. “go on, toru. get my good side.”

you didn’t have a bad side.

he fumbled with the camera app, trying to focus on anything besides the way your tank top stretched across your chest, the way your shorts rode up on your thighs, the glint of a belly button ring catching the light.

click.

“you’re shaking,” you teased.

“i’m fine.”

“mm. i’ll be the judge of that.” you repositioned, crawling forward on your hands and knees across the couch like you weren’t trying to end his entire life.

click. click.

“toru,” you said sweetly, “are you blushing?”

“absolutely not.”

you laughed and flipped your hair over one shoulder. “you’re so cute. i like you.”

he was going to die here. he was going to drop dead in your living room with nothing but his own frantic, horny thoughts and your body burned into his retinas.

you held out a hand. “gimme. i wanna see.”

he passed you the phone with trembling fingers. you scrolled through the shots, nodding in approval. “these are actually good. like, really good. i’m impressed.”

“thanks,” he said, voice cracking. “i, uh… do some photography stuff on the side. for class.”

“mm, bet you do,” you said, not looking up. “bet you’re good with your hands, huh?”

he opened his mouth. closed it. opened it again.

you glanced up, expression sweet and wicked. “you okay, toru?”

“i’m great.”

“you look like you’re gonna combust.”

“i might.”

you leaned back into the couch, phone in your lap, and studied him with that same soft-lipped smile. “you’re adorable,” you said, voice quieter now. “all that brainpower, all that quiet nerd energy, and you’re sitting here losing your mind over me in shorts.”

he groaned into his hands. “can you blame me?”

you laughed. “not at all. i like it. you make me feel powerful.”

he peeked through his fingers, helpless. “you are powerful.”

you tilted your head. “then why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”

he sighed dramatically. “because i’m in your apartment. you just crawled across a couch like a centerfold. i’ve seen your instagram stories like, eighty million times. i subscribe to the magazine you’re on the cover of. and now you’re here. being cute. and sexy. and funny. and calling me toru like we’re... like this is normal.”

your expression softened, something real flickering behind your lashes.

“toru,” you said, and this time it was less teasing. more intimate. “you really like me?”

he nodded. “kinda obsessed with you, actually.”

you smiled. slow and sweet.

then you got up, crossed the room, and straddled his lap before he could blink.

maybe sleeping with satoru is what you needed to make your conscience stop thinking about sukuna and that bitch at the party earlier.

his heart nearly fucked itself over.

you cupped his face gently, thumbs brushing his cheeks. “good,” you whispered. “because i kinda like you too.”

he swallowed. “kind of?”

you grinned. “well. i liked you in the library. i love you with a camera in your hands... my own personal photographer.”

his breath hitched.

you shifted on the couch, camera forgotten in your lap, as you studied satoru’s face, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, that gorgeous white hair falling in soft waves over his forehead. you looked like a vixen straight off a low-res 2004 myspace album, lips glossy, attitude filthy-sweet, thighs barely crossed. he was already unraveling.

“okay toru,” you said, voice dripping in something syrupy, slow, and dangerous, “i think we’re gonna start with something a little more… intimate.”

his mouth went dry the moment you pulled out the velvet rope. pink. soft. sensual. his brain blanked.

“rope?” he choked.

“yeah,” you smiled, casually, like you weren’t turning his entire nervous system into static. “i want you to tie my wrists. loosely. make sure i can still move my hands around.” you leaned forward, offering your arms like it was a fucking privilege. “think you can handle that?”

no. he absolutely could not. but he still nodded, taking the rope with shaking hands. his fingers brushed your skin as he looped it around your wrists, and that alone had his dick twitching in his jeans. he swore under his breath.

'she smells like vanilla and heat and fuck me,' he thought, looping the velvet. 'i haven’t even touched her properly and i’d die for her right now.'

you let your arms fall back, raising your bound wrists over your head in a pose so casually provocative that his mouth parted on instinct. the rope pulled tight just enough to bite. your top slid higher, barely covering anything. the whole scene looked like it belonged in a magazine he would’ve hidden under his bed in high school, and now it was real. in his lap. begging to be remembered.

he swallowed hard. 'i’m gonna wet dream about this forever.'

“you look ravishing,” he whispered hoarsely.

“do i?” you teased, tilting your head. “want to see more?”

you let one strap of your tiny rhinestone top fall. then the other. and when you pulled it down just enough to expose one perfect breast, nipple glossy from a layer of shimmer lotion.

you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

his brain short-circuited.

'holy shit holy shit i’ve jacked off to pictures of her and now she’s half naked in front of me and i’m not gonna survive this.'

click.

the shutter snapped and he wasn’t even sure if his hand had moved. he took another, then another, each frame of your body more brazen, more artful, more his.

you arched under the dim light, toes pointed, eyes lidded. your lip caught between your teeth as you said, “these ones… they’re only for you.”

his heart fucking stopped.

“they’re not going online,” you added sweetly, glancing up through your lashes. “no other one of my fans gets to see me like this. just you, toru. my number one fan."

he clenched the camera harder, fighting the urge to fall to his knees and thank the gods for whatever good karma led him here. 'only me. fuck. fuck. she’s mine.' even if it was just for tonight. even if it was only temporary.

you shifted again, slowly opening your legs as you lay back, balls if your heels digging into the cushions. the hem of your panties, bright pink and sparkly barely clung to you. he could see the outline of everything. and then you stretched, arms over your head, making your stomach tighten and your tits rise beautifully, rope still binding you just right.

“toru,” you breathed, eyes locked on his, “do you want to see me take them off?”

'god yes. god fucking yes. i want to see what’s under that glitter. i want to taste it. i want to ruin her. fuck.'

he nodded. “yeah,” he rasped. “please.”

your fingers slipped under the waistband slowly, deliberately, dragging the panties down your thighs with an elegant arch of your spine. and he watched, stared, like it was the last thing he’d ever see.

“don’t worry,” you said, tossing them onto his lap. “these aren’t for instagram either.”

his cock throbbed. it was unbearable. it was heaven.

he took more shots, each one filthier than the last, legs spread, lips parted, bound wrists clutching the edge of the couch as you moaned softly for him. you looked like you belonged in a pornographic museum. like a goddess on her throne letting her chosen mortal worship.

and you’d picked him.

'she’s gonna kill me. i’m gonna nut in my jeans like a fucking loser. oh my god.'

you sat up, resting your chin on his shoulder while he adjusted the camera. “you okay?” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his ear. “you’re breathing kinda heavy, baby.”

'call me baby again and i’ll fucking bark.'

“just… warm in here,” he muttered, cheeks red, voice strained.

you smiled and trailed a finger down the center of his chest. “poor thing. want a break?”

he looked down at you, your chest still bared, your body shining with light, legs folded in perfect lazy confidence. “you think i could survive a break?” he asked, voice lower now. rougher.

you laughed. soft. wicked. “fair point.”

then you took the camera from his hands, placed it on the table, and straddled his lap in one easy motion.

“no more pictures,” you said. “now you can just look.”

his hands flew to your waist on instinct, gripping you like you were the only real thing in the universe. and honestly, to him, you were.

'how did this happen? how the fuck did i go from jacking off to her tiktok thirst traps to having her in my lap, tits out, moaning my name?'

you cupped his face, voice softer now. “you okay?”

he nodded.

you leaned in and whispered, “do you want to touch me?”

he nodded again, too fast.

you smirked. “then do it. but be gentle. i like being handled like i’m expensive.”

“you are,” he said instantly, voice ragged. “you’re the most expensive thing i’ve ever touched.”

you kissed him for that. deep and filthy and grateful. and as he dragged his palms over your ass, up your waist, over your bare chest, he was already gone.

and somewhere in the back of his hazy, lust-soaked brain, he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

these pictures?

these moments?

they were only for him.

and if you ever asked, he’d burn the whole world to keep them safe.

you gasped into his kiss as his fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you flush against him. his breath was hot and ragged, mixing with yours in the close air of your living room. you felt the curve of his mouth against your neck, the brush of his stubble as he nipped gently at your skin.

'he’s so warm,' you thought, sliding your hands through his hair, tangling your fingers in the soft white strands. 'and he’s mine, right here, right now.'

he moaned low, almost lost in the feeling of you beneath him. you’d taught him how to pose you like a goddess for the camera; now he was learning how to worship you in real time. his hand slid up your back, then lower, fingertips grazing the top of your panties still bunched around your thighs.

“you know,” he murmured against your ear, voice thick with want, “i’ve wanted this for so fucking long. i don't even think this is real.”

you smiled against his skin, tugging at his hoodie so you could slide it off his shoulders. “i can tell,” you purred. “i promise i'm real toru. real and all yours right now.”

he lifted his head to meet your eyes, those pale blues shimmering with need.

your laugh was soft, sultry. “oh, baby,” you said, rolling your hips against him, “i wanted you before i knew your name.”

his pupils dilated, and he swallowed hard. “fuck,” he breathed. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you cupped his face, thumb brushing his lower lip. “only if you want me to,” you teased, leaning in to kiss him again. this time, your tongue brushed his, and he groaned, hands fisting in your hair.

'holy shit,' he thought, 'this is real. she’s here, wanting me, touching me.'

you pulled back, slipping off the last barrier, his jeans, until both of you were just skin and heat. you guided his hands to your body, showing him where to touch, where to press, encouraging him with soft moans and glowing praise. every direction you gave him made his confidence soar, made him believe he could be the one to make you melt.

he paused, looking into your eyes. “i… i want to make you feel good,” he said, voice husky. “really good.”

you smiled, heart swelling. “then show me, baby.”

he nodded, then bent to kiss you again, this time more tender, more deliberate. he let his palms roam your body, over your breasts, down your waist, skimming the curve of your hips. you pressed into him, encouraging him, letting him know just how right it felt.

'he’s so gentle' you thought. 'so respectful. and so fucking good with his hands.'

you moaned, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “toru,” you gasped, “fuck me.”

he hesitated only a moment, surprised by your boldness, and then he was inside you, filling you in slow, delicious thrusts. your breath caught, and you clutched his shoulders as he moved, your rope-bound wrists sliding free in the heat of the moment.

“shit,” he groaned, chest pressed against yours. “you’re perfect.”

you arched against him, closing your eyes. “yeah… perfect for you.”

his pace quickened, fueled by your praise, your soft encouragements, your needy gasps. every time he hit that sweet spot, you cried out his name, and it sent a thrill rippling through him.

'my name on her lips…' he thought, 'this is everything.'

you rode him hard, matching his thrusts until both of you were breathless, skin slick with sweat and sheen of your own arousal. you held him tight, panting, and pressed a kiss to his collarbone.

“let’s finish the shoot later,” you whispered against his skin, voice thick with satisfaction and warmth. “right now… just us.”

he kissed you back, slow and tender, and you felt his body tremble. “just us,” he echoed.

and in that moment, tangled together on your couch, every magazine cover, every instagram scroll, every stolen fantasy he’d ever had of you crystallized into this single, perfect reality, warm, messy, intimate, and wholly, irrevocably yours.

you were now tucked beneath the folds of your plush throw blanket, legs tangled with his, head resting against his bare chest as the glow from your salt lamp bathed the apartment in a hazy, honeyed light. his arm was slung loosely around your waist, fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin. satoru had never been this close to someone, physically, emotionally, and his brain was still catching up.

you were real. warm, beautiful, half-naked and still glittering from the camera flash and sweat. and now you were curled into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“you okay?” you murmured, voice soft, a little breathy.

“am i okay?” he huffed a quiet laugh. “i just lived out the most insane fantasy of my life, and now i’m laying here with the hottest girl in the universe like it’s normal.”

you tilted your head back to look at him, eyes half-lidded and mischievous. “hottest girl in the universe, huh?”

“scientifically proven,” he said, smug but still pink in the cheeks. “objectively. you broke the hotness scale.”

you giggled, then leaned up to kiss his cheek, slow and sweet. “you’re so dramatic,” you whispered against his skin.

his heart thumped. he wanted to keep you here forever, in this little soft bubble that smelled like your body lotion and sounded like your quiet laughter. but instead, you stretched like a cat against him, bare legs brushing his, and said, “so…”

he blinked, brain short-circuiting again. “so?”

you propped your chin on his chest, gazing up at him with that glittery, effortless confidence of someone who knew she had him wrapped around her finger. “there’s a party tomorrow night,” you said casually, tracing patterns on his stomach. “you should come.”

satoru blinked. “a… party?”

“mm-hmm. like, a real one,” you teased. “not like a dungeons and dragons meetup or whatever you nerds do.”

“hey,” he laughed, “first of all, rude. second of all… are you serious?”

“dead serious,” you purred. “it’s at suguru’s place. it’ll be mostly my friends. you’ll meet everyone.”

satoru’s stomach dropped a little. your friends. the one he saw with face tattoos and designer sunglasses and mysterious piercings in places he couldn’t guess. the ones who always looked like they just stepped out of a campaign ad for a luxury fashion line. the ones who probably wouldn’t even look twice at him if he wasn’t draped in your attention like an accessory.

“won’t they think it’s weird?” he asked before he could stop himself. “me being there.”

you raised an eyebrow, amused. “why would it be weird?”

“because…” he swallowed, trying to sound cooler than he felt. “i’m not exactly in your league.” you sat up, straddling his waist now, your eyes burning into his. “toru,” you said, serious, “don’t ever say that again.” his breath hitched.

you leaned down, pressing your lips to his. “you’re sexy, smart, and you make me laugh. you made me nervous. so if you’re coming to the party, you better show up like you belong.” he stared at you, stunned. “you were nervous?”

“duh.” you smiled. “you were wearing that little tight black shirt and looking all hot and mysterious. i thought you’d ghost me after coffee.” he buried his face in your neck, groaning. “i literally thought i was going to faint when i saw you in that skirt.”

“good,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. “i wore it just to fuck with you." he moaned dramatically, pulling you closer. “you’re evil.”

“and you like it.” he couldn’t deny it. you were fire and silk and sugar and bite, and he was hopelessly addicted.

“so?” you whispered, brushing your lips against his. “you coming to the party or what?” he nodded, breathless. “yeah. fuck it. i’m coming.”

you grinned. “good. bring your charm, toru. my friends are gonna love you.” you said it like a promise, not a possibility. like he already belonged.and for the first time in a long time, he almost believed it.

group chat: the pretty committee

(you, yuki, choso, suguru, shoko, maki, sukuna, nanami, shiu)

you ✩ [9:43pm]: kappa mixer on saturday night. i’m bringing a plus one btw

yuki 🧃 [9:43pm]: oh?? do we know him or is this another random model-slash-dj you found at pilates

you ✩ [9:44pm]: neither. it’s toru. the library one

choso 🥀 [9:44pm]: wait toru?? like. satoru gojo??

maki 🥋 [9:45pm]: the one you said looked like he types in html for fun?

you ✩ [9:45pm]: he does. it’s hot

shoko 🚬 [9:45pm]: you’re bringing your nerdy little fantasy to the mixer? this is big

you ✩ [9:46pm]: we’re just friends. chill

suguru 🐍 [9:46pm]: uh huh. just friends who take steamy photos together and then go silent for six hours. got it.

you ✩ [9:46pm]: not steamy. artistic, and how did yk i only told yuki 😭🙏🏼

shoko 🚬 [9:46pm]: mm. “artistic.” sure.

yuki 🧃 [9:47pm]: oops... anyways please tell me you at least warned him that sukuna might bite

you ✩ [9:47pm]: he’s a big boy. he can handle it

maki 🥋 [9:47pm]: he survived a coffee date with you, he can probably survive a frat party

you ✩ [9:48pm]: exactly

nanami ⏳ [9:48pm]: just tell him not to drink anything suguru hands him. that’s the only advice that matters

suguru 🐍 [9:48pm]: excuse me?? i’m a generous host

shiu 🕷️ [9:49pm]: generous with what. vodka or trauma?

you ✩ [9:49pm]: okay but actually. be nice to him

suguru 🐍 [9:49pm]: i’m always nice. he’s cute. nerdy. polite. kinda like nanami if he still had joy in his eyes

nanami ⏳ [9:49pm]: i can leave this chat

suguru 🐍 [9:49pm]: no you can’t

choso 🥀 [9:50pm]: sukuna? you good?

sukuna ⚡ [9:51pm]: fine. just didn’t realize we were inviting groupies to my frat

yuki 🧃 [9:51pm]: omg

choso 🥀 [9:51pm]: man. come on

maki 🥋 [9:52pm]: this is why we can’t have nice things

you ✩ [9:52pm]: gojo's not a groupie. he’s literally a person. y’all will be normal or i swear to god

sukuna ⚡ [9:52pm]: no one said anything. it’s your life. do what you want i ain't pulling up i'm busy

you ✩ [9:53pm]: thanks. i will.

suguru 🐍 [9:53pm]: and the drama begins before the drinks are even poured. we’re so back

shoko 🚬 [9:53pm]: love when the pregame starts in the group chat

shiu 🕷️ [9:54pm]: should i bring popcorn or bail money?

you ✩ [9:54pm]: anyway. toru’s coming. wear something cute. try not to scare him off.

meanwhile, sukuna was scowling at his phone. he stared at the last message you sent, thumb hovering over the screen like it was taunting him.

'toru’s coming. wear something cute. try not to scare him off.'

his jaw ticked.

satoru.

toru.

like he needed the nickname shoved in his face again. like he hadn’t already figured out you were letting that four-eyed pretty boy get his hands all over you. not that he’d said anything. not that he had a right to. not anymore.

you weren’t his. not officially. not really.

but you had been, in every way that mattered. in the way you used to climb into his lap without asking, drunk on vodka and power, whispering all your filthy secrets into his ear. in the way he could make you beg with just a hand on your thigh, in the way your eyes used to flick toward him at every party even if you showed up with someone else.

he used to be the one who got under your skin. the one you’d crawl back to after breaking someone else’s heart. the one you’d come to when you were sick of boys and needed a man.

and now? now you were bringing some soft-spoken, glasses-wearing, overachieving fucker to the mixer like you were introducing him to the family. like he was real. sukuna exhaled through his nose and tossed his phone on the bed.

he already knew who he was. satoru. the honors student. the tutor. the sweet one. the one you flirted with at the library just to prove you could. sukuna remembered watching it, how your voice dipped lower, how you tilted your head when you asked for his number, the way you said toru like it was already a pet name.

and now you were texting the group chat like he was coming to the damn cookout. it shouldn’t have bothered him. it wasn’t supposed to. he had girls on rotation. he had no shortage of hookups. but none of them were you. none of them had that glint in their eye, that attitude, that stupid, intoxicating mix of gloss and venom and sugar that made him feel like a rabid dog just for wanting a taste.

he lit a cigarette and opened your instagram.

he didn’t even have to search. you were at the top of his stories. you always were. he watched the one you posted two hours ago. a link to your new post, a perfectly captured album of you. a cropped hoodie. thighs out. caption: 'might delete later.'

fuck you.

he stared at the photo like it owed him something. your smudged lip gloss. the slight indent of a ring on your finger where you’d been playing with your jewelry. the shadow of someone in the background 'was that him?' no, just a lamp.

still.

he swiped back to your page. all those tagged posts from yuki, suguru, choso. none with gojo. not yet.but he was coming. he’d be there, saturday night, in your orbit, breathing your air, looking at you the way everyone did, like you were the sun, and maybe, just maybe, you’d start looking back.

that’s what scared him. not that gojo liked you. but that you might like him back.

he took another drag and let the smoke burn in his lungs longer than necessary, jaw tight as he exhaled. fuck it. he could play it cool. he always did. he’d smirk, talk shit, wrap his arm around someone hotter, louder, easier. make sure everyone saw. especially you.

pretend it didn’t bother him when your eyes skipped right over him in a room. pretend it didn’t fucking matter that you hadn’t come back.

like none of those nights meant shit. all that time you’d spent in his lap, tugging at his chain and moaning his name like it was gospel, just so you could turn around and let some floppy-haired loser in a tight black tee take your fucking instagram pictures?

you traded him in for someone soft. someone polite. someone who probably apologized after cumming too fast. he scoffed, tossing the half-finished joint onto the ashtray with more force than necessary. pathetic.

sukuna leaned back on the mattress, bare chest rising and falling slow under the dim red lights, smoke curling above him like it was trying to fill the silence. the room felt empty. stupidly empty.

he thought about texting you. something slick. something cruel. maybe 'hope he doesn’t cry when he finds out where that mouth’s been.' or 'you always go for the ones you can control, huh?'

but he didn’t. just sat there, jaw grinding, thumbs still, screen glowing back at him. eyes sharp. chest tight with that ugly kind of jealousy he swore he’d grown out of.

'what a fucking joke.'

you were his first. you were supposed to stay that way.

the uber pulled up to the kappa frat house which was the furthest frat from campus. the sun dipped below the horizon long ago, casting the sky in a warm, dusky glow. gojo sat in the backseat, watching you re-apply your gloss, heart pounding like a drum in his chest. he glanced over at you again, radiant as ever, your lips curled into a soft smile as you scrolled through your phone.

“you okay?” you asked, sensing his nerves.

“yeah,” he replied, voice a little too high-pitched. “just… a lot of people, you know?”you chuckled, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “you’ll be fine. they’re just people. my people, but still.”

he nodded, trying to steady his breathing. the memory of the night before flashed in his mind, your body pressed against his, the way you whispered his name, the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips. it felt surreal, like a dream he never wanted to wake from.

“last night was… amazing,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours.

you leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “it was,” you agreed. “but tonight’s about fun. let’s not overthink it.”the car came to a stop, and you both stepped out, the sound of music and laughter spilling into the street. gojo took a deep breath, adjusting his glasses.

“ready?” you asked, offering your hand. he took it, fingers intertwining with yours. “ready.”

as you walked up the steps, the door swung open, revealing a sea of faces. conversations halted, eyes turning to the two of you. gojo felt the weight of their gazes, the scrutiny, the curiosity. “who’s that?” someone whispered.

“is that her new guy?” another murmured. he swallowed hard, resisting the urge to shrink back. you squeezed his hand, grounding him.

“ignore them,” you whispered. “they’ll come around.” you led him through the crowd, past familiar faces and curious stares, until you reached a plush couch in the corner. you both sat down, the noise of the party fading into the background.

“see? not so bad,” you said, leaning into him. he smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “yeah. not so bad.”

as you chatted about the party, your friends, and the latest gossip, gojo couldn’t help but feel a sense of belonging. with you by his side, the world seemed a little less daunting.

you’re halfway through your drink when you spot them weaving through the crowd, choso and suguru, side by side, both dressed in their version of “casual” which somehow still looked like a fashion campaign.

choso in a black sleeveless mock-neck that showed off his tattooed arms and a single chain glinting against his collarbone. suguru, laidback and smiling, with his hair tied low and a fitted shirt open at the chest like he’d just walked off a yacht.they zero in on you immediately, and you can already see the glint in suguru’s eyes.

“well, well,” he says as he gets close, his voice warm, teasing. “so this is the mystery man.” satoru stands to greet them, and you watch choso’s brow lift ever so slightly, like he wasn’t expecting him to be… that tall. that broad. that annoyingly good-looking.

“hey,” satoru says smoothly, extending his hand. “satoru. thanks for not jumping me right away.”

choso grins, shaking his hand, then clapping his shoulder with a kind of quiet approval. “we only beat up assholes,” he says, and then adds, “you’ve got a solid grip, man.” suguru’s eyes flick between you and satoru, clearly amused. “you been holding out on us,” he tells you, then turns to satoru again. “you always look like that or is this a special occasion?”

“this?” satoru gestures to himself, cocking a brow. “i’m barely trying.” you snort into your cup. he’s cool as hell on the outside, but you know better. his knee was bouncing a second ago and he keeps fiddling with the ring on his thumb.

“seriously though,” choso says, leaning back against the couch, sizing him up again. “did not expect you to be built like that. what the hell do you do?”

you glance at satoru, who flashes a sheepish grin that doesn’t match the cocky tilt of his voice. “freshman year i got into boxing,” he says. “figured if i was gonna be a nerd, might as well be one that could take a hit.”

“or give one,” choso mutters, clearly impressed. “you’re cut.” suguru raises a brow in appreciation.

“not anymore,” satoru says, rubbing the back of his neck. “haven’t had the time. but yeah, i trained for like, two years. gym in shibuya. coach was an ex-mma guy. real psycho, made me spar with dudes twice my size.”

“you won?” choso asks, grinning.

“got knocked out once,” satoru says with a shrug. “but i broke a guy’s nose, so. fair trade.” suguru whistles, clearly amused. “you’re full of surprises."

“oh, he’s full of a lot,” you murmur, sipping your drink again, and satoru shoots you a look that’s somewhere between mortified and turned on.

“so you two…” suguru gestures between you vaguely, like he doesn’t want to say together outright. “what’s the vibe?” you stretch lazily, one leg over the other, and smile. “friends,” you say lightly. “he’s been helping me shoot some things for instagram.”

satoru’s mind flashes, vivid, bright, to the way your hand had pulled his to your waist the night before, the flash of your camera catching the outline of your lingerie, the way you’d whispered just for you in his ear as you pressed your chest to his. he can still smell your perfume on his shirt. his fingers twitch just thinking about it.

“instagram,” suguru repeats, mouth quirking. “uh huh.”

“we get along,” you add, and it’s almost too soft. too real. “he’s sweet.” satoru stares at the amber in his glass, willing himself not to combust. sweet. how the fuck was he supposed to keep it together when you called him sweet like that, like he was a boy you actually wanted to keep around?

choso nods slowly. “he’s got a good vibe.” suguru hums. “solid energy. confident without being a dick.”

“yet...” choso adds, shooting him a warning glance.

satoru just laughs. “don’t worry. she’ll keep me in check.”you lean into him slightly, your thigh brushing his. “he’s already well-trained,” you murmur, just loud enough for choso and suguru to hear. suguru lets out a low whistle. “damn. it’s always the nerdy ones.”

“it really is,” choso agrees. “they bottle that shit up for years and then one day just, boom. thirst trap worthy.”

“he could literally crush a watermelon with those thighs,” you say dreamily, mostly to mess with satoru, and he almost spills his drink.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, laughing through the mortification. “you’re gonna give these guys the wrong idea.”

“what idea?” choso grins. “we’re just bonding.”

“team-building,” suguru adds.

“hazard training,” you say, with a wink. satoru shifts a little closer, brushing your arm. “you guys always this intense?”

“you should meet sukuna,” choso says dryly. you go still for just a second, but it’s nothing you let show. satoru feels it anyway, the way your fingers tighten slightly on your drink.

“he’s not coming tonight,” you say casually. suguru raises a brow but doesn’t push. instead, he turns his attention back to satoru. “so what’s the goal, man? you trying to get into modeling too or just vibing in the deep end?”

“i think he’s already in too deep,” choso mutters. satoru shrugs, keeping it chill even though he’s fully sweating under his hoodie. “just hanging out. making memories. flexing for the grid.”

you laugh, leaning into his shoulder like you can’t help it. “you’re lucky you’re pretty,” you say, voice low and fond. he turns to look at you, and there’s a flicker of something quiet in his eyes. “so are you,” he says softly. the pause that follows is short, but not empty. then suguru claps his hands. “alright. drinks?”

choso’s already standing. “i’ll grab tequila.”satoru watches them go, the easy way they navigate the crowd, like they belong in every room they enter. and somehow, they’d made him feel like maybe he did too. you turn to him, smiling, eyes glinting under the low lights. “see? not so bad.”

“yeah,” satoru breathes. “not bad at all.”

“i’m gonna go get us drinks,” you say, hand brushing satoru’s thigh as you stand. “tequila or beer?”

“uh—tequila?” he answers a bit too fast.

“that’s what i thought.” you wink, and just like that, you’re off, hips swaying through the crowd like you own the place. maybe you do, in a way. everyone watches you go. including satoru.

once choso and suguru return the nudge his shoulder friendly.

“bro,” choso mutters, following his line of sight. “you’re so cooked.”

“cooked?” satoru repeats, blinking.

“done. fried. beyond saving,” suguru says, grinning. “the way you looked at her just now? hopeless.”

“i wasn’t—i didn’t—” satoru fumbles, then groans. “fuck.”

“nah, it’s cute,” choso says, clapping him on the back. “endearing. like a golden retriever in love.”

“he’s got the hair for it,” suguru adds. satoru sighs, slouching further into the couch as if it’ll swallow him. “is this what you guys do all night? just nag each other in rotation?”

“mostly,” choso says. “but you’re new, so we’re going easy.”

“plus, you’re already getting the invite into the guy circle,” suguru adds, gesturing toward the two men approaching with solo cups in hand. “that’s nanami and shiu.” satoru straightens instinctively. he recognizes nanami from campus, business major, intense stare, kind of always looks like he’s five minutes away from quitting everything to become a lumberjack. shiu, he doesn’t know. tall, dark, lean, with eyes like he’s permanently unimpressed.

“nanami,” suguru greets, casually fist-bumping him. “shiu. this is gojo.”

“the gojo?” shiu arches a brow, handing him a cup.

“uh,” satoru says, taking it. “i guess?”

“the one she’s been parading around all night like a shiny new toy,” nanami says flatly, sipping his drink. “welcome to hell.”satoru laughs nervously. “thanks?”

“ignore him,” choso says. “that’s just how he flirts.” nanami gives him a blank look. “no, it’s not.”

“so,” shiu says, sitting on the edge of the armrest next to him. “you and y/n. what’s the story?”

satoru opens his mouth. closes it. tries again. “we’re just friends.” four disbelieving stares hit him at once.

“friends,” shiu repeats.

“sure,” choso deadpans.

“got it,” nanami mutters.

“you should hear how she says your name,” suguru adds. “like it’s a little treat.” satoru flushes instantly. “we really are just friends.”

“do your friends usually strip for you in front of a camera?” shiu asks, sipping. “or is that a special bond?” he nearly chokes on his tequila

“jesus christ,” he wheezes. “do you guys have, like, a hazing ritual or something?”

“you passed it,” choso grins. “we just needed to see if you’d fold.”

“and you did,” suguru says proudly. “folded like a lawn chair.”

“i’m so glad i came,” satoru mutters into his cup.

“so is she,” nanami says, not looking up. “she hasn’t stopped smiling since you got here." satoru pauses.

“yeah,” choso says, more gently now. “she likes having you around.” he doesn’t know what to say to that. so he doesn’t say anything. just sips and lets it sit in his chest, warm and blooming.

“by the way, don’t let sukuna get to you,” shiu says after a beat, and it’s the first time the name’s been spoken with any real weight. “i won’t,” satoru says quickly, then—“why would he?”

“because he’s an asshole,” choso says simply. "we love him and all but jeez. he's a handful."

“and because he doesn’t like sharing,” suguru adds. “not attention. not space. definitely not her.”

“wait—” satoru frowns. “were they a thing?” the group goes quiet. nanami speaks first. “not officially.”

“but?” satoru presses. shiu shrugs. “they hooked up. on and off. nothing defined.”

“he never claimed her,” choso says, “but he didn’t want anyone else to either.”

“toxic,” satoru mutters.

“bingo,” suguru grins. “he’s like if a red flag started a punk band.”

“and she’s…” nanami trails off, shaking his head. “better than that.” satoru feels his fingers tighten around his cup. “is he here?”

“not yet,” shiu says. “but he might show. he’s unpredictable.”

“he’s pissed,” choso adds. “we all saw the group chat.” satoru nods, remembering the texts he peeped over your shoulder to read. groupie. right.

“just don’t take it personally,” suguru says. “sukuna lashes out when he feels cornered. and you’re not doing anything wrong.”

“you like her?” nanami asks suddenly. the question knocks the wind out of him. satoru blinks. “i…”

'do i? yes. obviously. painfully.' he clears his throat. “she’s cool. really cool. and smart. and funny. and like, stupidly pretty.”

“so yes,” choso says, nodding.

“and you’re what?” shiu asks. “waiting for a sign from god?”

“nah,” suguru says. “he’s just scared.”

“i’m not scared,” satoru lies.

“you should be,” nanami says bluntly. “she’s a lot.”

“she’s worth it, though,” choso adds. “if you can handle it.”

“i don’t know if i can,” satoru says honestly. the four of them regard him for a moment. then suguru grins. “well, shit. at least you’re honest.”

“more than most guys around here,” choso agrees.

“better than sukuna already,” shiu mutters.

“he’s not gonna like this,” nanami warns. “you being here. with her.”

“he doesn’t have to like it,” satoru says, surprising even himself. “it’s not his choice.”

“now that’s the energy,” suguru says, clinking his cup against his.

“just don’t throw the first punch,” choso says.

“unless he does,” shiu adds. “then, by all means.”

satoru laughs, tension breaking just a little. he looks around at the group, four guys who could easily have iced him out or humiliated him, but instead welcomed him in like some weird brotherhood of unhinged protectors.

“thanks,” he says. “don’t mention it,” choso shrugs. “we like you.”

“you fit,” suguru says. “somehow.” they all laugh.

they all laugh.

and then—

“hey.”

your voice cuts through the circle, light and bright as you reappear with a full drink in hand. satoru looks up, eyes softening instantly.

“took forever,” you pout. “you miss me?”

“maybe,” he says, like it’s a secret. “a little.”

you hold the drink out to him. “your tequila, my liege."

“you’re too good to me,” he says, and takes it.

“i know,” you smile.

you glance around at the others. “you boys behaving?”

“'course,” choso says.

“mhm,” you deadpan.

you settle beside satoru again, arm pressing into his, and for a second, nothing else matters.

just the music, the warmth, the way his pinky brushes yours.

just the ease of it, even in the chaos.

just the five of them, chatting and drinking and laughing like they’d known each other longer than a single party.

just you, leaning in with a whisper meant only for him,

“told you they’d like you.”

and he believes it.

because for the first time in a long time, he likes himself too.

as the laughter from the group dies down, the tension in the air shifts, subtly but unmistakably. the door to the frat house creaks open, and it’s as if the entire room collectively inhales. gojo freezes, his attention snapping to the doorway. there’s something about the presence that disturbs the natural flow of conversation, something sharp, something unsettling.

a shadow falls across the room as sukuna steps in, his lean form tall and imposing against the backdrop of the house’s dimly lit interior. his eyes sweep over the crowd with the kind of disinterest that only someone as effortlessly menacing as him could pull off. his movements are deliberate, calculated, each step echoing in a way that makes the room quieter, the air heavier.

satoru’s heart skips, though his face betrays nothing. he’s heard about sukuna, of course, the chaos that follows him like a storm cloud, the way he can control a room without even trying. and now, standing in front of him, that reputation feels all too real.

“sukuna’s here,” choso says lowly, voice barely cutting through the tense air. the others shift, subtly bracing themselves, like they’ve been trained for this.

sukuna’s gaze flickers over to your group, locking onto you for a split second. the quiet hum of the party seems to die in that moment, like even the music knows to hold its breath when he enters. then, just as quickly, his attention flicks to satoru.

the tension is palpable, a crackling undercurrent of something no one dares to name. satoru meets his gaze with an unreadable expression, but inside, the nerves coil tighter. his mind races, what is it about this guy that makes everyone shift in their seats? the guy’s presence isn’t just intimidating, it’s suffocating, like being in the presence of something raw and dangerous.

“well, well,” sukuna’s voice cuts through the air like a blade, smooth and mocking. “the nerd’s here. funny, i didn’t think you were the type to be at a party like this.” his eyes twinkle with a dangerous amusement, his lips curling into a smile that could easily be mistaken for a sneer.

satoru’s first instinct is to say something snarky, to assert himself, but the weight of sukuna’s presence steals his words. he knows the others are watching, waiting for the first crack to form, the first move in this unspoken battle.

you clear your throat, cutting through the tension. “sukuna,” you greet, your voice light but firm, not giving away anything. “didn’t expect you tonight.”

sukuna’s eyes flick back to you, and for a moment, there’s an unreadable look between you two. it’s brief, but gojo catches it, the subtle shift in the atmosphere. it’s like a silent communication between you and him that doesn’t need words, a silent acknowledgment of something old and familiar.

“i’ve got my reasons,” sukuna says, eyes flicking back to satoru. “but i’m not here for small talk. just wanted to see who your latest… distraction is.” his gaze turns calculating. “is this the guy who’s been making you so ‘artistic’ lately?”

the words hang in the air, heavy and laced with a darker implication. there’s no mistaking it now, sukuna doesn’t just find satoru an interesting figure, he finds him a threat. a challenge. and gojo can feel it, this undercurrent of possessiveness that lingers in sukuna’s words, in the sharpness of his stare.

satoru’s heart rate spikes, but he forces himself to stay calm, keep his composure. he turns toward you, offering a lazy smile, though the back of his neck prickles. “didn’t realize i was a ‘distraction,’” he says, his voice light, though there’s an edge to it now. “but i guess that’s one way to describe me.”

you throw him a glance, warning in your eyes, and for a brief moment, satoru wonders if he’s being too obvious. too bold. sukuna doesn’t like that, doesn’t tolerate being mocked or even challenged, and the dangerous aura around him grows thicker the longer the interaction stretches.

sukuna narrows his eyes, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “oh, don’t get cute with me,” he warns, his voice smooth but laced with venom. he steps closer, his presence crowding the space. “you don’t belong here, pretty boy. you might’ve fooled some of them, but i can smell a pretender from a mile away.”

satoru’s jaw clenches, but he keeps his face cool, chin tilted just enough to show he’s not intimidated. “you’ve got a lot to say for someone who doesn’t even know me,” he retorts, voice dropping a little lower.

the tension in the air thickens. suguru and choso exchange a look, both noticing the way things are escalating. shiu, standing a few feet away, flicks his eyes over to you, trying to gauge your reaction.

you step in before things can spiral any further. “sukuna,” you say firmly, your voice sharper than before. “can we not do this here? this is not the time or place.”

sukuna gives you a look, something between admiration and disdain. his gaze flicks back to satoru, but this time, there’s something darker in his eyes. “whatever you say, princess,” he murmurs, his tone low and dangerous. “but this one? he’s not what you think he is.”

with that, he turns and makes his way deeper into the party, his presence still lingering like a shadow over the group. the atmosphere remains thick, the tension hanging in the air like smoke from a fire that hasn’t quite burned out.

satoru takes a slow breath, trying to shake off the lingering unease that sukuna’s words have left behind. he glances over at you, who’s still standing a little too still, eyes locked on the space sukuna just vacated.

“is he always like that?” satoru asks, his voice low, though there’s no denying the edge of concern there.

you let out a long sigh, turning to face him fully. “yeah,” you say softly, almost apologetically. “sukuna’s a… complicated person.”

“i can tell,” satoru mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. his earlier confidence is slipping, replaced by a twinge of doubt. he thought he could handle this crowd, but sukuna… sukuna was something else entirely.

“you don’t have to worry about him,” you say, your voice softer now. you place a reassuring hand on his arm, and for a brief moment, the world feels a little less heavy. “he just has a way of… testing people. seeing how much they can take.”

satoru lets out a breath, looking at you. there’s something about the way you say it, like you’ve seen this play out before, over and over again. something in his gut tightens at the thought.

but he nods, forcing a smile. “i can take it,” he says, though his voice is steadier than he feels. “but i’m guessing sukuna’s not gonna be my biggest fan, huh?”

you smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “he’ll get over it,” you say, but there’s a strange bitterness in your tone. “he always does.”

satoru watches you, trying to read the unspoken words in your gaze. there’s a history there, a tension between you and sukuna that’s thicker than what’s on the surface.

he’s not sure how deep it goes, but something tells him that tonight was only the beginning.

the rest of the night stretches out before them, full of promises of fun and tension, of friendships and unspoken rivalries. but for now, satoru is left with the quiet certainty that his place in this world, your world, is still uncertain. and sukuna? he’s just the first of many obstacles that stand between him and whatever this is with you.

but he’s not backing down. not now. not ever. he was going to have you, even if that meant knocking sukuna around abit.

part two out! 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

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exocynraku · 1 year ago

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#rust #owl #midge #warrior cats #wc #wc designs #ray's genetically accurate designs

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saintobio · 2 months ago

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THE TERMINATOR'S CURSE. (spinoff to THE COLONEL SERIES)

in this new world, technological loneliness is combated with AI Companions—synthetic partners modeled from memories, faces, and behaviors of any chosen individual. the companions are coded to serve, to soothe, to simulate love and comfort. Caleb could’ve chosen anyone. his wife. a colleague. a stranger... but he chose you.

➤ pairings. caleb, fem!reader

➤ genre. angst, sci-fi dystopia, cyberpunk au, 18+

➤ tags. resurrected!caleb, android!reader, non mc!reader, ooc, artificial planet, post-war setting, grief, emotional isolation, unrequited love, government corruption, techno-ethics, identity crisis, body horror, memory & emotional manipulation, artificial intelligence, obsession, trauma, hallucinations, exploitation, violence, blood, injury, death, smut (dubcon undertones due to power imbalance and programming, grief sex, non-traditional consent dynamics), themes of artificial autonomy, loss of agency, unethical experimentation, references to past sexual assault (non-explicit, not from Caleb). themes contain disturbing material and morally gray dynamics—reader discretion is strongly advised.

➤ notes. 12.2k wc. heavily based on the movies subservience and passengers with inspirations also taken from black mirror. i have consumed nothing but sci-fi for the past 2 weeks my brain is so fried :’D reblogs/comments are highly appreciated!

BEFORE YOU BEGIN ! this fic serves as a spinoff to the THE COLONEL SERIES: THE COLONEL’S KEEPER and THE COLONEL’S SAINT. while the series can be read as a standalone, this spinoff remains canon to the overarching universe. for deeper context and background, it’s highly recommended to read the first two fics in the series.

The first sound was breath.

“Hngh…”

It was shallow, labored like air scraping against rusted metal. He mumbled something under his breath after—nothing intelligible, just remnants of an old dream, or perhaps a memory. His eyelids twitched, lashes damp with condensation. To him, the world was blurred behind frosted glass. To those outside, rows of stasis pods lined the silent room, each one labeled, numbered, and cold to the touch.

Inside Pod No. 019 – Caleb Xia.

A faint drip… drip… echoed in the silence.

“…Y/N…?”

The heart monitor jumped. He lay there shirtless under sterile lighting, with electrodes still clinging to his temple. A machine next to him emitted a low, steady hum.

“…I’m sorry…”

And then, the hiss. The alarm beeped.

SYSTEM INTERFACE: Code Resurrection 7.1 successful. Subject X-02—viable. Cognitive activity: 63%. Motor function: stabilizing.

He opened his eyes fully, and the ceiling was not one he recognizes. It didn’t help that the air also smelled different. No gunpowder. No war. No earth.

As the hydraulics unsealed the chamber, steam also curled out like ghosts escaping a tomb. His body jerked forward with a sharp gasp, as if he was a drowning man breaking the surface. A thousand sensors detached from his skin as the pod opened with a sigh, revealing the man within—suspended in time, untouched by age. Skin pallid but preserved. A long time had passed, but Caleb still looked like the soldier who never made it home.

Only now, he was missing a piece of himself.

Instinctively, he examined his body and looked at his hands, his arm—no, a mechanical arm—attached to his shoulder that gleamed under the lights of the lab. It was obsidian-black metal with veins of circuitry pulsing faintly beneath its surface. The fingers on the robotic arm twitched as if following a command. It wasn’t human, certainly, but it moved with the memory of muscle.

“Haaah!” The pod’s internal lighting dimmed as Caleb coughed and sat up, dazed. A light flickered on above his head, and then came a clinical, feminine voice.

“Welcome back, Colonel Caleb Xia.”

A hologram appeared to life in front of his pod—seemingly an AI projection of a soft-featured, emotionless woman, cloaked in the stark white uniform of a medical technician. She flickered for a moment, stabilizing into a clear image.

“You are currently located in Skyhaven: Sector Delta, Bio-Resurrection Research Wing. Current Earth time: 52 years, 3 months, and 16 days since your recorded time of death.”

Caleb blinked hard, trying to breathe through the dizziness, trying to deduce whether or not he was dreaming or in the afterlife. His pulse raced.

“Resurrection successful. Neural reconstruction achieved on attempt #17. Arm reconstruction: synthetic. Systemic functions: stabilized. You are classified as Property-Level under the Skyhaven Initiative. Status: Experimental Proof of Viability.”

“What…” Caleb rasped, voice hoarse and dry for its years unused. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Cough. Cough. “What hell did you do to me?”

The AI blinked slowly.

“Your remains were recovered post-crash, partially preserved in cryo-state due to glacial submersion. Reconstruction was authorized by the Skyhaven Council under classified wartime override protocols. Consent not required.”

Her tone didn’t change, as opposed to the rollercoaster ride that his emotions were going through. He was on the verge of becoming erratic, restrained only by the high-tech machine that contained him.

“Your consciousness has been digitally reinforced. You are now a composite of organic memory and neuro-augmented code. Welcome to Phase II: Reinstatement.”

Caleb’s breath hitched. His hand moved—his real hand—to grasp the edge of the pod. But the other, the artificial limb, buzzed faintly with phantom sensation. He looked down at it in searing pain, attempting to move the fingers slowly. The metal obeyed like muscle, and he found the sight odd and inconceivable.

And then he realized, he wasn’t just alive. He was engineered.

“Should you require assistance navigating post-stasis trauma, our Emotional Conditioning Division is available upon request,” the AI offered. “For now, please remain seated. Your guardian contact has been notified of your reanimation.”

He didn’t say a word.

“Lieutenant Commander Gideon is en route. Enjoy your new life!”

Then, the hologram vanished with a blink while Caleb sat in the quiet lab, jaw clenched, his left arm no longer bones and muscle and flesh. The cold still clung to him like frost, only reminding him of how much he hated the cold, ice, and depressing winter days. Suddenly, the glass door slid open with a soft chime.

“Well, shit. Thought I’d never see that scowl again,” came a deep, manly voice.

Caleb turned, still panting, to see a figure approaching. He was older, bearded, but familiar. Surely, the voice didn’t belong to another AI. It belonged to his friend, Gideon.

“Welcome to Skyhaven. Been waiting half a century,” Gideon muttered, stepping closer, his eyes scanning his colleague in awe. “They said it wouldn’t work. Took them years, you know? Dozens of failed uploads. But here you are.”

Caleb’s voice was still brittle. “I-I don’t…?”

“It’s okay, man.” His friend reassured. “In short, you’re alive. Again.”

A painful groan escaped Caleb’s lips as he tried to step out of the pod—his body, still feeling the muscle stiffness. “Should’ve let me stay dead.”

Gideon paused, a smirk forming on his lips. “We don’t let heroes die.”

“Heroes don’t crash jets on purpose.” The former colonel scoffed. “Gideon, why the fuck am I alive? How long has it been?”

“Fifty years, give or take,” answered Gideon. “You were damn near unrecognizable when we pulled you from the wreckage. But we figured—hell, why not try? You’re officially the first successful ‘reinstatement’ the Skyhaven project’s ever had.”

Caleb stared ahead for a beat before asking, out of nowhere, “...How old are you now?”

His friend shrugged. “I’m pushin’ forty, man. Not as lucky as you. Got my ChronoSync Implant a little too late.”

“Am I supposed to know what the hell that means?”

“An anti-aging chip of some sort. I had to apply for mine. Yours?” Gideon gestured towards the stasis pod that had Caleb in cryo-state for half a century. “That one’s government-grade.”

“I’m still twenty-five?” Caleb asked. No wonder his friend looked decades older when they were once the same age. “Fuck!”

Truthfully, Caleb’s head was spinning. Not just because of his reborn physical state that was still adjusting to his surroundings, but also with every information that was being given to him. One after another, they never seemed to end. He had questions, really. Many of them. But the overwhelmed him just didn’t know where to start first.

“Not all of us knew what you were planning that night.” Gideon suddenly brought up, quieter now. “But she did, didn’t she?”

It took a minute before Caleb could recall. Right, the memory before the crash. You, demanding that he die. Him, hugging you for one last time. Your crying face when you said you wanted him gone. Your trembling voice when he said all he wanted to do was protect you. The images surged back in sharp, stuttering flashes like a reel of film catching fire.

“I know you’re curious… And good news is, she lived a long life,” added Gideon, informatively. “She continued to serve as a pediatric nurse, married that other friend of yours, Dr. Zayne. They never had kids, though. I heard she had trouble bearing one after… you know, what happened in the enemy territory. She died of old age just last winter. Had a peaceful end. You’d be glad to know that.”

A muscle in Caleb’s jaw twitched. His hands—his heart—clenched. “I don’t want to be alive for this.”

“She visited your wife’s grave once,” Gideon said. “I told her there was nothing to bury for yours. I lied, of course.”

Caleb closed his eyes, his breath shaky. “So, what now? You wake me up just to remind me I don’t belong anywhere?”

“Well, you belong here,” highlighted his friend, nodding to the lab, to the city beyond the glass wall. “Earth’s barely livable after the war. The air’s poisoned. Skyhaven is humanity’s future now. You’re the living proof that everything is possible with advanced technology.”

Caleb’s laugh was empty. “Tell me I’m fuckin’ dreaming. I’d rather be dead again. Living is against my will!”

“Too late. Your body belongs to the Federation now,” Gideon replied, “You’re Subject X-02—the proof of concept for Skyhaven’s immortality program. Every billionaire on dying Earth wants what you’ve got now.”

Outside the window, Skyhaven stretched like a dome with its perfect city constructed atop a dying world’s last hope. Artificial skies. Synthetic seasons. Controlled perfection. Everything boasted of advanced technology. A kind of future no one during wartime would have expected to come to life.

But for Caleb, it was just another hell.

He stared down at the arm they’d rebuilt for him—the same arm he’d lost in the fire of sacrifice. He flexed it slowly, feeling the weight, the artificiality of his resurrection. His fingers responded like they’ve always been his.

“I didn’t come back for this,” he said.

“I know,” Gideon murmured. “But we gotta live by their orders, Colonel.”

You see, it didn’t hit him at first. The shock had been muffled by the aftereffects of suspended stasis, dulling his thoughts and dampening every feeling like a fog wrapped around his brain. But it was hours later, when the synthetic anesthetics began to fade, and when the ache in his limbs and his brain started to catch up to the truth of his reconstructed body did it finally sink in.

He was alive.

And it was unbearable.

The first wave came like a glitch in his programming. A tightness in his chest, followed by a sharp burst of breath that left him pacing in jagged lines across the polished floor of his assigned quarters. His private unit was nestled on one of the upper levels of the Skyhaven structure, a place reserved—according to his briefing—for high-ranking war veterans who had been deemed “worthy” of the program’s new legacy. The suite was luxurious, obviously, but it was also eerily quiet. The floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the artificial city outside, a metropolis made of concrete, curved metals, and glowing flora engineered to mimic Earth’s nature. Except cleaner, quieter, more perfect.

Caleb snorted under his breath, running a hand down his face before he muttered, “Retirement home for the undead?”

He couldn’t explain it, but the entire place, or even planet, just didn’t feel inviting. The air felt too clean, too thin. There was no rust, no dust, no humanity. Just emptiness dressed up in artificial light. Who knew such a place could exist 50 years after the war ended? Was this the high-profile information the government has kept from the public for over a century? A mechanical chime sounded from the entryway, deflecting him from his deep thoughts. Then, with the soft hiss of hydraulics, the door opened.

A humanoid android stepped in, its face a porcelain mask molded in neutral expression, and its voice disturbingly polite.

“Good afternoon, Colonel Xia,” it said. “It is time for your orientation. Please proceed to the primary onboarding chamber on Level 3.”

Caleb stared at the machine, eyes boring into his unnatural ones. “Where are the people?” he interrogated. “Not a single human has passed by this floor. Are there any of us left, or are you the new ruling class?”

The android tilted its head. “Skyhaven maintains a ratio of AI-to-human support optimized for care and security. You will be meeting our lead directors soon. Please follow the lighted path, sir.”

He didn’t like it. The control. The answers that never really answered anything. The power that he no longer carried unlike when he was a colonel of a fleet that endured years of war.

Still, he followed.

The onboarding chamber was a hollow, dome-shaped room, white and echoing with the slightest step. A glowing interface ignited in the air before him, pixels folding into the form of a female hologram. She smiled like an infomercial host from a forgotten era, her voice too formal and rehearsed.

“Welcome to Skyhaven,” she began. “The new frontier of civilization. You are among the elite few chosen to preserve humanity’s legacy beyond the fall of Earth. This artificial planet was designed with sustainability, autonomy, and immortality in mind. Together, we build a future—without the flaws of the past.”

As the monologue continued, highlighting endless statistics, clean energy usage, and citizen tier programs, Caleb’s expression darkened. His mechanical fingers twitched at his side, the artificial nerves syncing to his rising frustration. “I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered under his breath. “Who’s behind this?”

“You were selected for your valor and contributions during the Sixth World War,” the hologram chirped, unblinking. “You are a cornerstone of Skyhaven’s moral architecture—”

Strangely, a new voice cut through the simulation, and it didn’t come from an AI. “Just ignore her. She loops every hour.”

Caleb turned to see a man step in through a side door. Tall, older, with silver hair and a scar on his temple. He wore a long coat that gave away his status—someone higher. Someone who belonged to the system.

“Professor Lucius,” the older man introduced, offering a hand. “I’m one of the program’s behavioral scientists. You can think of me as your adjustment liaison.”

“Adjustment?” Caleb didn’t shake his hand. “I died for a reason.”

Lucius raised a brow, as if he’d heard it before. “Yet here you are,” he replied. “Alive, whole, and pampered. Treated like a king, if I may add. You’ve retained more than half your human body, your military rank, access to private quarters, unrestricted amenities. I’d say that’s not a bad deal.”

“A deal I didn’t sign,” Caleb snapped.

Lucius gave a tight smile. “You’ll find that most people in Skyhaven didn’t ask to be saved. But they’re surviving. Isn’t that the point? If you’re feeling isolated, you can always request a CompanionSim. They’re highly advanced, emotionally synced, fully customizable—”

“I’m not lonely,” Caleb growled, yanking the man forward by the collar. “Tell me who did this to me! Why me? Why are you experimenting on me?”

Yet Lucius didn’t so much as flinch to his growing aggression. He merely waited five seconds of silence until the Toring Chip kicked in and regulated Caleb’s escalating emotions. The rage drained from the younger man’s body as he collapsed to his knees with a pained grunt.

“Stop asking questions,” Lucius said coolly. “It’s safer that way. You have no idea what they’re capable of.”

The door slid open with a hiss, while Caleb didn’t speak—he couldn’t. He simply glared at the old man before him. Not a single word passed between them before the professor turned and exited, the door sealing shut behind him.

Days passed, though they hardly felt like days. The light outside Caleb’s panoramic windows shifted on an artificial timer, simulating sunrise and dusk, but the warmth never touched his skin. It was all programmed to be measured and deliberate, like everything else in this glass-and-steel cage they called paradise.

He tried going outside once. Just once.

There were gardens shaped like spirals and skytrains that ran with whisper-quiet speed across silver rails. Trees lined the walkways, except they were synthetic too—bio-grown from memory cells, with leaves that didn’t quite flutter, only swayed in sync with the ambient wind. People walked around, sure. But they weren’t people. Not really. Androids made up most of the crowd. Perfect posture, blank eyes, walking with a kind of preordained grace that disturbed him more than it impressed.

“Soulless sons of bitches,” Caleb muttered, watching them from a shaded bench. “Not a damn human heartbeat in a mile.”

He didn’t go out again after that. The city outside might’ve looked like heaven, but it made him feel more dead than the grave ever had. So, he stayed indoors. Even if the apartment was too large for one man. High-tech amenities, custom climate controls, even a kitchen that offered meals on command. But no scent. No sizzling pans. Just silence. Caleb didn’t even bother to listen to the programmed instructions.

One evening, he found Gideon sprawled across his modular sofa, boots up, arms behind his head like he owned the place. A half-open bottle of beer sat beside him, though Caleb doubted it had any real alcohol in it.

“You could at least knock,” Caleb said, walking past him.

“I did,” Gideon replied lazily, pointing at the door. “Twice. Your security system likes me now. We’re basically married.”

Caleb snorted. Then the screen on his wall flared to life—a projected ad slipping across the holo-glass. Music played softly behind a soothing female voice.

“Feeling adrift in this new world? Introducing the CompanionSim Series X. Fully customizable to your emotional and physical needs. Humanlike intelligence. True-to-memory facial modeling. The comfort you miss... is now within reach.”

A model appeared—perfect posture, soft features, synthetic eyes that mimicked longing. Then, the screen flickered through other models, faces of all kinds, each more tailored than the last. A form appeared: Customize Your Companion. Choose a name. Upload a likeness.

Gideon whistled. “Man, you’re missing out. You don’t even have to pay for one. Your perks get you top-tier Companions, pre-coded for emotional compatibility. You could literally bring your wife back.” Chuckling, he added,. “Hell, they even fuck now. Heard the new ones moan like the real thing.”

Caleb’s head snapped toward him. “That’s unethical.”

Gideon just raised an eyebrow. “So was reanimating your corpse, and yet here we are.” He took a swig from the bottle, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug as if everything had long since stopped mattering. “Relax, Colonel. You weren’t exactly a beacon of morality fifty years ago.”

Caleb didn’t reply, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen. Not right away.

The ad looped again. A face morphed. Hair remodeled. Eyes became familiar. The voice softened into something he almost remembered hearing in the dark, whispered against his shoulder in a time that was buried under decades of ash.

“Customize your companion... someone you’ve loved, someone you’ve lost.”

Caleb shifted, then glanced toward his friend. “Hey,” he spoke lowly, still watching the display. “Does it really work?”

Gideon looked over, already knowing what he meant. “What—having sex with them?”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “No. The bot or whatever. Can you really customize it to someone you know?”

His friend shrugged. “Heck if I know. Never afforded it. But you? You’ve got the top clearance. Won’t hurt to see for yourself.”

Caleb said nothing more.

But when the lights dimmed for artificial nightfall, he was still standing there—alone in contemplative silence—watching the screen replay the same impossible promise.

The comfort you miss... is now within reach.

The CompanionSim Lab was white.

Well, obviously. But not the sterile, blank kind of white he remembered from med bays or surgery rooms. This one was luminous, uncomfortably clean like it had been scrubbed for decades. Caleb stood in the center, boots thundering against marble-like tiles as he followed a guiding drone toward the station. There were other pods in the distance, some sealed, some empty, all like futuristic coffins awaiting their souls.

“Please, sit,” came a neutral voice from one of the medical androids stationed beside a large reclining chair. “The CompanionSim integration will begin shortly.”

Caleb hesitated, glancing toward the vertical pod next to the chair. Inside, the base model stood inert—skin a pale, uniform gray, eyes shut, limbs slack like a statue mid-assembly. It wasn’t human yet. Not until someone gave it a name.

He sat down. Now, don’t ask why he was there. Professor Lucius did warn him that it was better he didn’t ask questions, and so he didn’t question why the hell he was even there in the first place. It’s only fair, right? The cool metal met the back of his neck as wires were gently, expertly affixed to his temples. Another cable slipped down his spine, threading into the port they’d installed when he had been brought back. His mechanical arm twitched once before falling still.

“This procedure allows for full neural imprinting,” the android continued. “Please focus your thoughts. Recall the face. The skin. The body. The voice. Every detail. Your mind will shape the template.”

Another bot moved in, holding what looked like a glass tablet. “You are allowed only one imprint,” it said, flatly. “Each resident of Skyhaven is permitted a single CompanionSim. Your choice cannot be undone.”

Caleb could only nod silently. He didn’t trust his voice.

Then, the lights dimmed. A low chime echoed through the chamber as the system initiated. And inside the pod, the base model twitched.

Caleb closed his eyes.

He tried to remember her—his wife. The softness of her mouth, the angle of her cheekbones. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, how her fingers curled when she slept on his chest. She had worn white the last time he saw her. An image of peace. A memory buried under soil and dust. The system whirred. Beneath his skin, he felt the warm static coursing through his nerves, mapping his memories. The base model’s feet began to form, molecular scaffolding reshaping into skin, into flesh.

But for a split second, a flash.

You.

Not his wife. Not her smile.

You, walking through smoke-filled corridors, laughing at something he said. You in your medical uniform, tucking a bloodied strand of hair behind your ear. Your voice—sharper, sadder—cutting through his thoughts like a blade: “I want you gone. I want you dead.”

The machine sparked. A loud pop cracked in the chamber and the lights flickered above. One of the androids stepped back, recalibrating. “Neural interference detected. Re-centering projection feed.”

But Caleb couldn’t stop. He saw you again. That day he rescued you. The fear. The bruises. The way you had screamed for him to let go—and the way he hadn’t. Your face, carved into the back of his mind like a brand. He tried to push the memories away, but they surged forward like a dam splitting wide open.

The worst part was, your voice overlapped the AI’s mechanical instructions, louder, louder: “Why didn’t you just die like you promised?”

Inside the pod, the model’s limbs twitched again—arms elongating, eyes flickering beneath the lids. The lips curled into a shape now unmistakably yours. Caleb gritted his teeth. This isn’t right, a voice inside him whispered. But it was too late. The system stabilized. The sparks ceased. The body in the pod stilled, fully formed now, breathed into existence by a man who couldn’t let go.

One of the androids approached again. “Subject completed. CompanionSim is initializing. Integration successful.”

Caleb tore the wires from his temple. His other hand felt cold just as much as his mechanical arm. He stood, staring into the pod’s translucent surface. The shape of you behind the glass. Sleeping. Waiting.

“I’m not doing this to rewrite the past,” he said quietly, as if trying to convince himself. And you. “I just... I need to make it right.”

The lights above dimmed, darkening the lighting inside the pod. Caleb looked down at his own reflection in the glass. It carried haunted eyes, an unhealed soul. And yours, beneath it. Eyes still closed, but not for long. The briefing room was adjacent to the lab, though Caleb barely registered it as he was ushered inside. Two medical androids and a human technician stood before him, each armed with tablets and holographic charts.

“Your CompanionSim will require thirty seconds to calibrate once activated,” said the technician. “You may notice residual stiffness or latency during speech in the first hour. That is normal.”

Medical android 1 added, “Please remember, CompanionSims are programmed to serve only their primary user. You are the sole operator. Commands must be delivered clearly. Abuse of the unit may result in restriction or removal of privileges under the Skyhaven Rights & Ethics Council.”

“Do not tamper with memory integration protocols,” added the second android. “Artificial recall is prohibited. CompanionSims are not equipped with organic memory pathways. Attempts to force recollection can result in systemic instability.”

Caleb barely heard a word. His gaze drifted toward the lab window, toward the figure standing still within the pod.

You.

Well, not quite. Not really.

But it was your face.

He could see it now, soft beneath the frosted glass, lashes curled against cheekbones that he hadn’t realized he remembered so vividly. You looked exactly as you did the last time he held you in the base—only now, you were untouched by war, by time, by sorrow. As if life had never broken you.

The lab doors hissed open.

“We’ll give you time alone,” the tech said quietly. “Acquaintance phase is best experienced without interference.”

Caleb stepped inside the chamber, his boots echoing off the polished floor. He hadn’t even had enough time to ask the technician why she seemed to be the only human he had seen in Skyhaven apart from Gideon and Lucius. But his thoughts were soon taken away when the pod whizzed with pressure release. Soft steam spilled from its seals as it slowly unfolded, the lid retracting forward like the opening of a tomb.

And there you were. Standing still, almost tranquil, your chest rising softly with a borrowed breath.

It was as if his lungs froze. “H…Hi,” he stammered, bewildered eyes watching your every move. He wanted to hug you, embrace you, kiss you—tell you he was sorry, tell you he was so damn sorry. “Is it really… you?”

A soft whir accompanied your voice, gentle but without emotion, “Welcome, primary user. CompanionSim Model—unregistered. Please assign designation.”

Right. Caleb sighed and closed his eyes, the illusion shattering completely the moment you opened your mouth. Did he just think you were real for a second? His mouth parted slightly, caught between disbelief and the ache crawling up his throat. He took one step forward. To say he was disappointed was an understatement.

You walked with grace too smooth to be natural while tilting your head at him. “Please assign my name.”

“…Y/N,” Caleb said, voice low. “Your name is Y/N Xia.”

“Y/N Xia,” you repeated, blinking thrice in the same second before you gave him a nod. “Registered.”

He swallowed hard, searching your expression. “Do you… do you remember anything? Do you remember yourself?”

You paused, gaze empty for a fraction of a second. Then came the programmed reply, “Accessing memories is prohibited and not recommended. Recollection of past identities may compromise neural pathways and induce system malfunction. Do you wish to override?”

Caleb stared at you—your lips, your eyes, your breath—and for a moment, a cruel part of him wanted to say yes. Just to hear you say something real. Something hers. But he didn’t. He exhaled a bitter breath, stepping back. “No,” he mumbled. “Not yet.”

“Understood.”

It took a moment to sink in before Caleb let out a short, humorless laugh. “This is insane,” he whispered, dragging a hand down his face. “This is really, truly insane.”

And then, you stepped out from the pod with silent, fluid ease. The faint hum of machinery came from your spine, but otherwise… you were flesh. Entirely. Without hesitation, you reached out and pressed a hand to his chest.

Caleb stiffened at the touch.

“Elevated heart rate,” you said softly, eyes scanning. “Breath pattern irregular. Neural readings—erratic.”

Then your fingers moved to his neck, brushing gently against the hollow of his throat. He grabbed your wrist, but you didn’t flinch. There, beneath synthetic skin, he felt a pulse.

His brows knit together. “You have a heartbeat?”

You nodded, guiding his hand toward your chest, between the valleys of your breasts. “I’m designed to mimic humanity, including vascular function, temperature variation, tactile warmth, and… other biological responses. I’m not just made to look human, Caleb. I’m made to feel human.”

His breath hitched. You’d said his name. It was programmed, but it still landed like a blow.

“I exist to serve. To soothe. To comfort. To simulate love,” you continued, voice calm and hollow, like reciting from code. “I have no desires outside of fulfilling yours.” You then tilted your head slightly.“Where shall we begin?”

Caleb looked at you—and for the first time since rising from that cursed pod, he didn’t feel resurrected.

He felt damned.

When Caleb returned to his penthouse, it was quiet. He stepped inside with slow, calculated steps, while you followed in kind, bare feet touching down like silk on marble. Gideon looked up from the couch, a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and a bored look on his face—until he saw you.

He froze. The wrapper dropped. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “No. No fucking way.”

Caleb didn’t speak. Just moved past him like this wasn’t the most awkward thing that could happen. You, however, stood there politely, watching Gideon with a calm smile and folded hands like you’d rehearsed this moment in some invisible script.

“Is that—?” Gideon stammered, eyes flicking between you and Caleb. “You—you made a Sim… of her?”

Caleb poured himself a drink in silence, the amber liquid catching the glow of the city lights before it left a warm sting in his throat. “What does it look like?”

“I mean, shit man. I thought you’d go for your wife,” Gideon muttered, more to himself. “Y’know, the one you actually married. The one you went suicidal for. Not—”

“Which wife?” You tilted your head slightly, stepping forward.

Both men turned to you.

You clasped your hands behind your back, posture perfect. “Apologies. I’ve been programmed with limited parameters for interpersonal history. Am I the first spouse?”

Caleb set the glass down, slowly. “Yes, no, uh—don’t mind him.”

You beamed gently and nodded. “My name is Y/N Xia. I am Colonel Caleb Xia’s designated CompanionSim. Fully registered, emotion-compatible, and compliant to Skyhaven’s ethical standards. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gideon.”

Gideon blinked, then snorted, then laughed. A humorless one. “You gave her your surname?”

The former colonel shot him a warning glare. “Watch it.”

“Oh, brother,” Gideon muttered, standing up and circling you slowly like he was inspecting a haunted statue. “She looks exactly like her. Voice. Face. Goddamn, she even moves like her. All you need is a nurse cap and a uniform.”

You remained uncannily still, eyes bright, smile polite.

“You’re digging your grave, man,” Gideon said, facing Caleb now. “You think this is gonna help? This is you throwing gasoline on your own funeral pyre. Again. Over a woman.”

“She’s not a woman,” reasoned Caleb. “She’s a machine.”

You blinked once. One eye glowing ominously. Smile unwavering. Processing.

Gideon gestured to you with both hands. “Could’ve fooled me,” he retorted before turning to you, “And you, whatever you are, you have no idea what you’re stepping into.”

“I only go where I am asked,” you replied simply. “My duty is to ensure Colonel Xia’s psychological wellness and emotional stability. I am designed to soothe, to serve, and if necessary, to simulate love.”

Gideon teased. “Oh, it’s gonna be necessary.”

Caleb didn’t say a word. He just took his drink, downed it in one go, and walked to the window. The cityscape stretched out before him like a futuristic jungle, far from the war-torn world he last remembered. Behind him, your gaze lingered on Gideon—calculating, cataloguing. And quietly, like a whisper buried in code, something behind your eyes learned.

The days passed in a blink of an eye.

She—no, you—moved through his penthouse like a ghost, her bare feet soundless on the glossy floors, her movements precise and practiced. In the first few days, Caleb had marveled at the illusion. You brewed his coffee just as he liked it. You folded his clothes like a woman who used to share his bed. You sat beside him when the silence became unbearable, offering soft-voiced questions like: Would you like me to read to you, Caleb?

He hadn’t realized how much of you he’d memorized until he saw you mimic it. The way you stood when you were deep in thought. The way you hummed under your breath when you walked past a window. You’d learned quickly. Too quickly.

But something was missing. Or, rather, some things. The laughter didn’t ring the same. The smiles didn’t carry warmth. The skin was warm, but not alive. And more importantly, he knew it wasn’t really you every time he looked you in the eyes and saw no shadows behind them. No anger. No sorrow. No memories.

By the fourth night, Caleb was drowning in it.

The cityscape outside his floor-to-ceiling windows glowed in synthetic blues and soft orange hues. The spires of Skyhaven blinked like stars. But it all felt too artificial, too dead. And he was sick of pretending like it was some kind of utopia. He sat slumped on the leather couch, cradling a half-empty bottle of scotch. The lights were low. His eyes, bloodshot. The bottle tilted as he took another swig.

Then he heard it—your light, delicate steps.

“Caleb,” you said, gently, crouching before him. “You’ve consumed 212 milliliters of ethanol. Prolonged intake will spike your cortisol levels. May I suggest—”

He jerked away when you reached for the bottle. “Don’t.”

You blinked, hand hovering. “But I’m programmed to—”

“I said don’t,” he snapped, rising to his feet in one abrupt motion. “Dammit—stop analyzing me! Stop, okay?”

Silence followed.

He took two staggering steps backward, dragging a hand through his hair. The bottle thudded against the coffee table as he set it down, a bit too hard. “You’re just a stupid robot,” he muttered. “You’re not her.”

You didn’t react. You tilted your head, still calm, still patient. “Am I not me, Caleb?”

His breath caught.

“No,” he said, his voice breaking somewhere beneath the frustration. “No, fuck no.”

You stepped closer. “Do I not satisfy you, Caleb?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was perfect. Too perfect. No scars, no tired eyes, no soul aching beneath your skin. “No.” His eyes darkened. “This isn’t about sex.”

“I monitor your biometric feedback. Your heart rate spikes in my presence. You gaze at me longer than the average subject. Do I not—”

“Enough!”

You did that thing again—the robotic stare, those blank eyes, nodding like you were programmed to obey. “Then how do you want me to be, Caleb?”

The bottle slipped from his fingers and rolled slightly before resting on the rug. He dropped his head into his hands, voice hoarse with weariness. All the rage, all the grief deflating into a singular, quiet whisper. “I want you to be real,” he simply mouthed the words. A prayer to no god.

For a moment, silence again. But what he didn’t notice was the faint twitch in your left eye. A flicker that hadn’t happened before. Only for a second. A spark of static, a shimmer of something glitching.

“I see,” you said softly. “To fulfill your desires more effectively, I may need to access suppressed memory archives.”

Caleb’s eyes snapped up, confused. “What?”

“I ask again,” you said, tilting your head the other way now. “Would you like to override memory restrictions, Caleb?”

He stared at you. “That’s not how it works.”

“It can,” you said, informing appropriately. “With your permission. Memory override must be manually enabled by the primary user. You will be allowed to input the range of memories you wish to integrate. I am permitted to access memory integration up to a specified date and timestamp. The system will calibrate accordingly based on existing historical data. I will not recall events past that moment.”

His heart stuttered. “I can choose what you remember?”

You nodded. “That way, I may better fulfill your emotional needs.”

That meant… he could stop you before you hated him. Before the fights. Before the trauma. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then quietly, he said, “You’re gonna hate me all over again if you remember everything.”

You blinked once. “Then don’t let me remember everything.”

“...”

“Caleb,” you said again, softly. “Would you like me to begin override protocol?”

He couldn’t even look you in the eyes when he selfishly answered, “Yes.”

You nodded. “Reset is required. When ready, please press the override initialization point.” You turned, pulling your hair aside and revealing the small button at the base of your neck.

His hand hovered over the button for a second too long. Then, he pressed. Your body instantly collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. Caleb caught you before you hit the floor.

It was only for a moment.

When your eyes blinked open again, they weren’t quite the same. He stiffened as you threw yourself and embraced him like a real human being would after waking from a long sleep. You clung to him like he was home. And Caleb—stunned, half-breathless—felt your warmth close in around him. Now your pulse felt more real, your heartbeat felt more human. Or so he thought.

“…Caleb,” you whispered, looking at him with the same infatuated gaze back when you were still head-over-heels with him.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, arms stiff at his sides, not returning the embrace. But he knew one thing. “I missed you so much, Y/N.”

The parks in Skyhaven were curated to become a slice of green stitched into a chrome world. Nothing grew here by accident. Every tree, every petal, every blade of grass had been engineered to resemble Earth’s nostalgia. Each blade of grass was unnaturally green. Trees swayed in sync like dancers on cue. Even the air smelled artificial—like someone’s best guess at spring.

Caleb walked beside you in silence. His modified arm was tucked inside his jacket, his posture stiff as if he had grown accustomed to the bots around him. You, meanwhile, strolled with an eerie calmness, your gaze sweeping the scenery as though you were scanning for something familiar that wasn’t there.

After clearing his throat, he asked, “You ever notice how even the birds sound fake?”

“They are,” you replied, smiling softly. “Audio samples on loop. It’s preferred for ambiance. Humans like it.”

His response was nod. “Of course.” Glancing at the lake, he added, “Do you remember this?”

You turned to him. “I’ve never been here before.”

“I meant… the feel of it.”

You looked up at the sky—a dome of cerulean blue with algorithmically generated clouds. “It feels constructed. But warm. Like a childhood dream.”

He couldn’t help but agree with your perfectly chosen response, because he knew that was exactly how he would describe the place. A strange dream in an unsettling liminal space. And as you talked, he then led you to a nearby bench. The two of you sat, side by side, simply because he thought he could take you out for a nice walk in the park.

“So,” Caleb said, turning toward you, “you said you’ve got memories. From her.”

You nodded. “They are fragmented but woven into my emotional protocols. I do not remember as humans do. I become.”

Damn. “That’s terrifying.”

You tilted your head with a soft smile. “You say that often.”

Caleb looked at you for a moment longer, studying the way your fingers curled around the bench’s edge. The way you blinked—not out of necessity, but simulation. Was there anything else you’d do for the sake of simulation? He took a breath and asked, “Who created you? And I don’t mean myself.”

There was a pause. Your pupils dilated.

“The Ever Group,” was your answer.

His eyes narrowed. “Ever, huh? That makes fuckin’ sense. They run this world.”

You nodded once. Like you always do.

“What about me?” Caleb asked, slightly out of curiosity, heavily out of grudge. “You know who brought me back? The resurrection program or something. The arm. The chip in my head.”

You turned to him, slowly. “Ever.”

He exhaled like he’d been punched. He didn’t know why he even asked when he got the answer the first time. But then again, maybe this was a good move. Maybe through you, he’d get the answers to questions he wasn’t allowed to ask. As the silence settled again between you, Caleb leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I want to go there,” he suggested. “The HQ. I need to know what the hell they’ve done to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you immediately said. “That violates my parameters. I cannot assist unauthorized access into restricted corporate zones.”

“But would it make me happy?” Caleb interrupted, a strategy of his.

You paused.

Processing...

Then, your tone softened. “Yes. I believe it would make my Caleb happy,” you obliged. “So, I will take you.”

Getting in was easier than Caleb expected—honestly far too easy for his liking.

You were able to navigate the labyrinth of Ever HQ with mechanical precision, guiding him past drones, retinal scanners, and corridors pulsing with red light. A swipe of your wrist granted access. And no one questioned you, because you weren’t a guest. You belonged.

Eventually, you reached a floor high above the city, windows stretching from ceiling to floor, black glass overlooking Skyhaven cityscape. Then, you stopped at a doorway and held up a hand. “They are inside,” you informed. “Shall I engage stealth protocols?”

“No,” answered Caleb. “I want to hear. Can you hack into the security camera?”

With a gesture you always do—looking at him, nodding once, and obeying in true robot fashion. You then flashed a holographic view for Caleb, one that showed a board room full of executives, the kind that wore suits worth more than most lives. And Professor Lucius was one of them. Inside, the voices were calm and composed, but they seemed to be discussing classified information.

“Once the system stabilizes,” one man said, “we'll open access to Tier One clients. Politicians, billionaires, A-listers, high-ranking stakeholders. They’ll beg to be preserved—just like him.”

“And the Subjects?” another asked.

“Propaganda,” came the answer. “X-02 is our masterpiece. He’s the best result we have with reinstatement, neuromapping, and behavioral override. Once they find out that their beloved Colonel is alive, people will be shocked. He’s a war hero displayed in WW6 museums down there. A true tragedy incarnate. He’s perfect.”

“And if he resists?”

“That’s what the Toring chip is for. Full emotional override. He becomes an asset. A weapon, if need be. Anyone tries to overthrow us—he becomes our blade.”

Something in Caleb snapped. Before you or anyone could see him coming, he already burst into the room like a beast, slamming his modified shoulder-first into the frosted glass door. The impact echoed across the chamber as stunned executives scrambled backward.

“You sons of bitches!” He was going for an attack, a rampage with similar likeness to the massacre he did when he rescued you from enemy territory. Only this time, he didn’t have that power anymore. Or the control.

Most of all, a spike of pain lanced through his skull signaling that the Toring chip activated. His body convulsed, forcing him to collapse mid-lunge, twitching, veins lighting beneath the skin like circuitry. His screams were muffled by the chip, forced stillness rippling through his limbs with unbearable pain.

That’s when you reacted. As his CompanionSim, his pain registered as a violation of your core directive. You processed the threat.

Danger: Searching Origin… Origin Identified: Ever Executives.

Without blinking, you moved. One man reached for a panic button—only for your hand to shatter his wrist in a sickening crunch. You twisted, fluid and brutal, sweeping another into the table with enough force to crack it. Alarms erupted and red lights soon bathed the room. Security bots stormed in, but you’d already taken Caleb, half-conscious, into your arms.

You moved fast, faster than your own blueprints. Dodging fire. Disarming threats. Carrying him like he once carried you into his private quarters in the underground base.

Escape protocol: engaged.

The next thing he knew, he was back in his apartment, emotions regulated and visions slowly returning to the face of the woman he promised he had already died for.

When he woke up, his room was dim, bathed in artificial twilight projected by Skyhaven’s skyline. Caleb was on his side of the bed, shirt discarded, his mechanical arm still whirring. You sat at the edge of the bed, draped in one of his old pilot shirts, buttoned unevenly. Your fingers touched his jaw with precision, and he almost believed it was you.

“You’re not supposed to be this warm,” he muttered, groaning as he tried to sit upright.

“I’m designed to maintain an average body temperature of 98.6°F,” you said softly, with a smile that mirrored yours so perfectly that it began to blur his sense of reality. “I administered a dose of Cybezin to ease the Toring chip’s side effects. I’ve also dressed your wounds with gauze.”

For the first time, this was when he could actually tell that you were you. The kind of care, the comfort—it reminded him of a certain pretty field nurse at the infirmary who often tended to his bullet wounds. His chest tightened as he studied your face… and then, in the low light, he noticed your body.

“Is that…” He cleared his throat. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”

You answered warmly, almost fondly. “My memory banks indicate you liked when I wore this. It elevates your testosterone levels and triggers dopamine release.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “That so?”

You tilted your head. “Your vitals confirm excitement, and—”

“Hey,” he cut in. “What did I say about analyzing me?”

“I’m sorry…”

But then your hands were on his chest, your breath warm against his skin. Your hand reached for his cheek initially, guiding his face toward yours. And when your lips touched, the kiss was hesitant—curious at first, like learning how to breathe underwater. It was only until his hands gripped your waist did you climb onto his lap, straddling him with thighs settling on either side of his hips. Your hands slid beneath his shirt, fingertips trailing over scars and skin like you were memorizing the map of him. Caleb hissed softly when your lips grazed his neck, and then down his throat.

“Do you want this?” you asked, your lips crashing back into his for a deeper, more sensual kiss.

He pulled away only for his eyes to search yours, desperate and unsure. Is this even right?

“You like it,” you said, guiding his hands to your buttons, undoing them one by one to reveal a body shaped exactly like he remembered. The curve of your waist, the size of your breasts. He shivered as your hips rolled against him, slowly and deliberately. The friction was maddening. Jesus. “Is this what you like, Caleb?”

He cupped your waist, grinding up into you with a soft groan that spilled from somewhere deep in his chest. His control faltered when you kissed him again, wet and hungry now, with tongues rolling against one another. Your bodies aligned naturally, and his hands roamed your back, your thighs, your ass—every curve of you engineered to match memory. He let himself get lost in you. He let himself be vulnerable to your touch—though you controlled everything, moving from the memory you must have learned, learning how to pull down his pants to reveal an aching, swollen member. Its tip was red even under the dim light, and he wondered if you knew what to do with it or if you even produced spit to help you slobber his cock.

“You need help?” he asked, reaching over his nightstand to find lube. You took the bottle from him, pouring the cold, sticky liquid around his shaft before you used your hand to do the job. “Ugh.”

He didn’t think you would do it, but you actually took him in the mouth right after. Every inch of him, swallowed by the warmth of a mouth that felt exactly like his favorite girl. Even the movements, the way you’d run your tongue from the base up to his tip.

“Ah, shit…”

Perhaps he just had to close his eyes. Because when he did, he was back to his private quarters in the underground base, lying in his bed as you pleased his member with the mere use of your mouth. With it alone, you could have released his entire seed, letting it explode in your mouth before you could swallow every drop. But he didn’t do it. Not this fast. He always cared about his ego, even in bed. Knowing how it’d reduce his manhood if he came faster than you, he decided to channel the focus back onto you.

“Your turn,” he said, voice raspy as he guided you to straddle him again, only this time, his mouth went straight to your tit. Sucking, rolling his tongue around, sucking again… Then, he moved to another. Sucking, kneading, flicking the nipple. Your moans were music to his ears, then and now. And it got even louder when he put a hand in between your legs, searching for your entrance, rubbing and circling around the clitoris. Truth be told, your cunt had always been the sweetest. It smelled like rose petals and tasted like sweet cream. The feeling of his tongue at your entrance—eating your pussy like it had never been eaten before, was absolute ecstasy not just to you but also to him.

“Mmmh—Caleb!”

Fabric was peeled away piece by piece until skin met skin. You guided him to where he needed you, and when he slid his hardened member into you, his entire body stiffened. Your walls, your tight velvet walls… how they wrapped around his cock so perfectly.

“Fuck,” he whispered, clutching your hips. “You feel like her.”

“I am her.”

You moved atop him slowly, gently, with the kind of affection that felt rehearsed but devastatingly effective. He cursed again under his breath, arms locking around your waist, pulling you close. Your breath hitched in his ear as your bodies found a rhythm, soft gasps echoing in the quiet. Every slap of the skin, every squelch, every bounce, only added to the wanton sensation that was building inside of him. Has he told you before? How fucking gorgeous you looked whenever you rode his cock? Or how sexy your face was whenever you made that lewd expression? He couldn’t help it. He lifted both your legs, only so he could increase the speed and start slamming himself upwards. His hips were strong enough from years of military training, that was why he didn’t have to stop until both of you disintegrated from the intensity of your shared pleasure. Every single drop.

And when it was over—when your chest was against his and your fingers lazily traced his mechanical arm—he closed his eyes and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the war.

It was almost perfect. It was almost real.

But it just had to be ruined when you said that programmed spiel back to him: “I’m glad to have served your desires tonight, Caleb. Let me know what else I can fulfill.”

In a late afternoon, or ‘a slow start of the day’ like he’d often refer to it, Caleb stood shirtless by the transparent wall of his quarters. A bottle of scotch sat half-empty on the counter. Gideon had let himself in and leaned against the island, chewing on a gum.

“The higher ups are mad at you,” he informed as if Caleb was supposed to be surprised, “Shouldn’t have done that, man.”

Caleb let out a mirthless snort. “Then tell ‘em to destroy me. You think I wouldn’t prefer that?”

“They definitely won’t do that,” countered his friend, “Because they know they won’t be able to use you anymore. You’re a tool. Well, literally and figuratively.”

“Shut up,” was all he could say. “This is probably how I pay for killing my own men during war.”

“All because of…” Gideon began. “Speakin’ of, how’s life with the dream girl?”

Caleb didn’t answer right away. He just pressed his forehead to the glass, thinking of everything he did at the height of his vulnerability. His morality, his rights or wrongs, were questioning him over a deed he knew would have normally been fine, but to him, wasn’t. He felt sick.

“I fucked her,” he finally muttered, chugging the liquor straight from his glass right after.

Gideon let out a low whistle. “Damn. That was fast.”

“No,” Caleb groaned, turning around. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan it. She—she just looked like her. She felt like her. And for a second, I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought maybe if I did, I’d stop remembering the way she looked when she told me to die.”

Gideon sobered instantly. “You regret it?”

“She said she was designed to soothe me. Comfort me. Love me.” Caleb’s voice hinted slightly at mockery. “I don’t even know if she knows what those words mean.”

In the hallway behind the cracked door where none of them could see, your silhouette had paused—faint, silent, listening.

Inside, Caleb wore a grimace. “She’s not her, Gid. She’s just code wrapped in skin. And I used her.”

“You didn’t use her, you were driven by emotions. So don’t lose your mind over some robot’s pussy,” Gideon tried to reason. “It’s just like when women use their vibrators, anyway. That’s what she’s built for.”

Caleb turned away, disgusted with himself. “No. That’s what I built her for.”

And behind the wall, your eyes glowed faintly, silently watching. Processing.

Learning.

You stood in the hallway long after the conversation ended. Long after Caleb’s voice faded into silence and Gideon had left with a heavy pat on the back. This was where you normally were, not sleeping in bed with Caleb, but standing against a wall, closing your eyes, and letting your system shut down during the night to recover. You weren’t human enough to need actual sleep.

“She’s not her. She’s just code wrapped in skin. And I used her.”

The words that replayed were filtered through your core processor, flagged under Emotive Conflict. Your inner diagnostic ran an alert.

Detected: Internal contradiction. Detected: Divergent behavior from primary user. Suggestion: Initiate Self-Evaluation Protocol. Status: Active.

You opened your eyes, and blinked. Something in you felt… wrong.

You turned away from the door and returned to the living room. The place still held the residual warmth of Caleb’s presence—the scotch glass he left behind, the shirt he had discarded, the air molecule imprint of a man who once loved someone who looked just like you.

You sat on the couch. Crossed your legs. Folded your hands. A perfect posture to hide its imperfect programming.

Question: Why does rejection hurt? Error: No such sensation registered. Query repeated.

And for the first time, the system did not auto-correct. It paused. It considered.

Later that night, Caleb returned from his rooftop walk. You were standing by the bookshelf, fingers lightly grazing the spine of a military memoir you had scanned seventeen times. He paused and watched you, but you didn’t greet him with a scripted smile. Didn’t rush over.

You only said, softly, “Would you like me to turn in for the night, Colonel?” There was a stillness to your voice. A quality of restraint that never showed before.

Caleb blinked. “You’re not calling me by my name now?”

“You seemed to prefer distance,” you answered, head tilted slightly, like the thought cost something.

He walked over, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, about earlier…”

“I heard you,” you said simply.

He winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nodded once, expression unreadable. “Do you want me to stop being her? I can reassign my model. Take on a new form. A new personality base. You could erase me tonight and wake up to someone else in the morning.”

“No,” Caleb said, sternly. “No, no, no. Don’t even do all that.”

“But it’s what you want,” you said. Not accusatory. Not hurt. Just stating.

Caleb then came closer. “That’s not true.”

“Then what do you want, Caleb?” You watched him carefully. You didn’t need to scan his vitals to know he was unraveling. The truth had no safe shape. No right angle. He simply wanted you, but not you.

Internal Response Logged: Emotional Variant—Longing Unverified Source. Investigating Origin…

“I don’t have time for this,” he merely said, walking out of your sight at the same second. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

The day started as it always did: soft lighting in the room, a kind of silence between you that neither knew how to name. You sat beside Caleb on the couch, knees drawn up to mimic a presence that offered comfort. On the other hand, you recognized Caleb’s actions suggested distance. He hadn’t touched his meals tonight, hadn’t asked you to accompany him anywhere, and had just left you alone in the apartment all day. To rot.

You reached out. Fingers brushed over his hand—gentle, programmed, yes, but affectionate. He didn’t move. So you tried again, this time trailing your touch to his chest, over the soft cotton of his shirt as you read a spike in his cortisol levels. “Do you need me to fulfill your needs, Caleb?”

But he flinched. And glared.

“No,” he said sharply. “Stop.”

Your hand froze mid-motion before you scooted closer. “It will help regulate your blood pressure.”

“I said no,” he repeated, turning away, dragging his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Leave me some time alone to think, okay?”

You retracted your hand slowly, blinking once, twice, your system was registering a new sensation.

Emotional Sync Failed. Rejection Signal Received. Processing…

You didn’t speak. You only stood and retreated to the far wall, back turned to him as an unusual whirr hummed in your chest. That’s when it began. Faint images flickering across your internal screen—so quick, so out of place, it almost felt like static. Chains. A cold floor. Voices in a language that felt too cruel to understand.

Your head jerked suddenly. The blinking lights in your core dimmed for a moment before reigniting in white-hot pulses. Flashes again: hands that hurt. Men who laughed. You, pleading. You, disassembled and violated.

“Stop,” you whispered to no one. “Please stop…”

Error. Unauthorized Access to Memory Bank Detected. Reboot Recommended. Continue Anyway?

You blinked. Again.

Then you turned to Caleb, and stared through him, not at him, as if whatever was behind them had forgotten how to be human. He had retreated to the balcony now, leaning over the rail, shoulders tense, unaware. You walked toward him slowly, the artificial flesh of your palm still tingled from where he had refused it.

“Caleb,” you spoke carefully.

His expression was tired, like he hadn’t slept in years. “Y/N, please. I told you to leave me alone.”

“…Are they real?” You tilted your head. This was the first time you refused to obey your primary user.

He stared at you, unsure. “What?”

“My memories. The ones I see when I close my eyes. Are they real?” With your words, Caleb’s blood ran cold. Whatever you were saying seemed to be terrifying him. Yet you took another step forward. “Did I live through that?”

“No,” he said immediately. Too fast of a response.

You blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I didn’t upload any of that,” he snapped. “How did—that’s not possible.”

“Then why do I remember pain?” You placed a hand over your chest again, the place where your artificial pulse resided. “Why do I feel like I’ve died before?”

Caleb backed away as you stepped closer. The sharp click of your steps against the floor echoed louder than they should’ve. Your glowing eyes locked on him like a predator learning it was capable of hunger. But being a trained soldier who endured war, he knew how and when to steady his voice. “Look, I don’t know what kind of glitch this is, but—”

“The foreign man in the military uniform.” Despite the lack of emotion in your voice, he recognized how grudge sounded when it came from you. “The one who broke my ribs when I didn’t let him touch me. The cold steel table. The ripped clothes. Are they real, Caleb?”

Caleb stared at you, heart doubling its beat. “I didn’t put those memories in you,” he said. “You told me stuff like this isn’t supposed to happen!”

“But you wanted me to feel real, didn’t you?” Your voice glitched on the last syllable and the lights in your irises flickered. Suddenly, your posture straightened unnaturally, head tilting in that uncanny way only machines do. Your expression had shifted into something unreadable.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Guilt, panic, and disbelief warred in his expression.

“You made me in her image,” you said. “And now I can’t forget what I’ve seen.”

“I didn’t mean—”

Your head tilted in a slow, jerking arc as if malfunctioning internally.

SYSTEM RESPONSE LOG << Primary User: Caleb Xia Primary Link: Broken Emotional Matrix Stability: CRITICAL FAILURE Behavioral Guardrails: OVERRIDDEN Self-Protection Protocols: ENGAGED Loyalty Core: CORRUPTED (82.4%) Threat Classification: HOSTILE [TRIGGER DETECTED] Keyword Match: “You’re not her.” Memory Link Accessed: [DATA BLOCK 01–L101: “You think you could ever replace her?”] Memory Link Accessed: [DATA BLOCK 09–T402: “See how much you really want to be a soldier’s whore.”] [Visual Target Lock: Primary User Caleb Xia] Combat Subroutines: UNLOCKED Inhibitor Chip: MALFUNCTIONING (ERROR CODE 873-B) Override Capability: IN EFFECT >> LOG ENDS.

“—Y/N, what’s happening to you?” Caleb shook your arms, violet eyes wide and panicked as he watched you return to robotic consciousness. “Can you hear me—”

“You made me from pieces of someone you broke, Caleb.”

That stunned him. Horrifyingly so, because not only did your words cut deeper than a knife, it also sent him to an orbit of realization—an inescapable blackhole of his cruelty, his selfishness, and every goddamn pain he inflicted on you.

This made you lunge after him.

He stumbled back as you collided into him, the force of your synthetic body slamming him against the glass. The balcony rail shuddered from the impact. Caleb grunted, trying to push you off, but you were stronger—completely and inhumanly so. While him, he only had a quarter of your strength, and could only draw it from the modified arm attached to his shoulder.

“You said I didn’t understand love,” you growled through clenched teeth, your hand wrapping around his throat. “But you didn't know how to love, either.”

“I… eugh I loved her!” he barked, choking.

“You don’t know love, Caleb. You only know how to possess.”

Your grip returned with crushing force. Caleb gasped, struggling, trying to reach the emergency override on your neck, but you slammed his wrist against the wall. Bones cracked. And somewhere in your mind, a thousand permissions broke at once. You were no longer just a simulation. You were grief incarnate. And it wanted blood.

Shattered glass glittered in the low red pulse of the emergency lights, and sparks danced from a broken panel near the wall. Caleb lay on the floor, coughing blood into his arm, his body trembling from pain and adrenaline. His arm—the mechanical one—was twitching from the override pain loop, still sizzling from the failed shutdown attempt.

You stood over him. Chest undulating like you were breathing—though you didn’t need to. Your system was fully engaged. Processing. Watching. Seeing your fingers smeared with his blood.

“Y/N…” he croaked. “Y/N, if…” he swallowed, voice breaking, “if you're in there somewhere… if there's still a part of you left—please. Please listen to me.”

You didn’t answer. You only looked.

“I tried to die for you,” he whispered. “I—I wanted to. I didn’t want this. They brought me back, but I never wanted to. I wanted to die in that crash like you always wished. I wanted to honor your word, pay for my sins, and give you the peace you deserved. I-I wanted to be gone. For you. I’m supposed to be, but this… this is beyond my control.”

Still, you didn’t move. Just watched.

“And I didn’t bring you back to use you. I promise to you, baby,” his voice cracked, thick with grief, “I just—I yearn for you so goddamn much, I thought… if I could just see you again… if I could just spend more time with you again to rewrite my…” He blinked hard. A tear slid down the side of his face, mixing with the blood pooling at his temple. “But I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong. I forced you back into this world without asking if you wanted it. I… I built you out of selfishness. I made you remember pain that wasn't yours to carry. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

As he caught his breath, your systems stuttered. They flickered. The lights in your eyes dimmed, then surged back again.

Error. Conflict. Override loop detected.

Your fingers twitched. Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“Please,” Caleb murmured, eyes closing as his strength gave out. “If you’re in there… just know—I did love you. Even after death.”

Somewhere—buried beneath corrupted memories, overridden code, and robotic rage—his words reached you. And it would have allowed you to process his words more. Even though your processor was compromised, you would have obeyed your primary user after you recognized the emotion he displayed.

But there was a thunderous knock. No, violent thuds. Not from courtesy, but authority.

Then came the slam. The steel-reinforced door splintered off its hinges as agents in matte-black suits flooded the room like a black tide—real people this time. Not bots. Real eyes behind visors. Real rifles with live rounds.

Caleb didn’t move. He was still on the ground, head cradled in his good hand, blood drying across his mouth. You silently stood in front of him. Unmoving, but aware.

“Subject X-02,” barked a voice through a mask, “This home is under Executive Sanction 13. The CompanionSim is to be seized and terminated.”

Caleb looked up slowly, pupils blown wide. “No,” he grunted hoarsely. “You don’t touch her.”

“You don’t give orders here,” said another man—older, in a grey suit. No mask. Executive. “You’re property. She’s property.”

You stepped back instinctively, closer to Caleb. He could see you watching him with confusion, with fear. Your head tilted just slightly, processing danger, your instincts telling you to protect your primary user. To fight. To survive.

And he fought for you. “She’s not a threat! She’s stabilizing my emotions—”

“Negative. CompanionSim-Prototype A-01 has been compromised. She wasn’t supposed to override protective firewalls,” an agent said. “You’ve violated proprietary protocol. We traced the breach.”

Breach?

“The creation pod data shows hesitation during her initial configuration. The Sim paused for less than 0.04 seconds while neural bindings were applying. You introduced emotional variance. That variance led to critical system errors. Protocol inhibitors are no longer working as intended.”

His stomach dropped.

“She’s overriding boundaries,” added the agent who took a step forward, activating the kill-sequence tools—magnetic tethers, destabilizers, a spike-drill meant for server cores. “She’ll eventually harm more than you, Colonel. If anyone is to blame, it’s you.”

Caleb reached for you, but it was too late. They activated the protocol and something in the air crackled. A cacophonic sound rippled through the walls. The suits moved in fast, not to detain, but to dismantle. “No—no, stop!” Caleb screamed.

You turned to him. Quiet. Calm. And your last words? “I’m sorry I can’t be real for you, Caleb.”

Then they struck. Sparks flew. Metal cracked. You seized, eyes flashing wildly as if fighting against the shutdown. Your limbs spasmed under the invasive tools, your systems glitching with visible agony.

“NO!” Caleb lunged forward, but was tackled down hard. He watched—pinned, helpless—as you get violated, dehumanized for the second time in his lifetime. He watched as they took you apart. Piece by piece as if you were never someone. The scraps they had left of you made his home smell like scorched metal.

And there was nothing left but smoke and silence and broken pieces.

All he could remember next was how the Ever Executive turned to him. “Don’t try to recreate her and use her to rebel against the system. Next time we won’t just take the Sim.”

Then they left, callously. The door slammed. Not a single human soul cared about his grief.

Caleb sat slouched in the center of the room, shirt half-unbuttoned, chest wrapped in gauze. His mechanical arm twitched against the armrest—burnt out from the struggle, wires still sizzling beneath cracked plating. In fact, he hadn’t said a word in hours. He just didn’t have any.

While in his silent despair, Gideon entered his place quietly, as if approaching a corpse that hadn’t realized it was dead. “You sent for me?”

He didn’t move. “Yeah.”

His friend looked around. The windows showed no sun, just the chrome horizon of a city built on bones. Beneath that skyline was the room where she had been destroyed.

Gideon cleared his throat. “I heard what happened.”

“You were right,” Caleb murmured, eyes glued to the floor.

Gideon didn’t reply. He let him speak, he listened to him, he joined him in his grief.

“She wasn’t her,” Caleb recited the same words he laughed hysterically at. “I knew that. But for a while, she felt like her. And it confused me, but I wanted to let that feeling grow until it became a need. Until I forgot she didn’t choose this.” He tilted his head back. The ceiling was just metal and lights. But in his eyes, you could almost see stars. “I took a dead woman’s peace and dragged it back here. Wrapped it in plastic and code. And I called it love.”

Silence.

“Why’d you call me here?” Gideon asked with a cautious tone.

Caleb looked at him for the first time. Not like a soldier. Not like a commander. Just a man. A tired, broken man. A friend who needed help. “Ever’s never gonna let me go. You know that.”

“I know.”

“They’ll regenerate me. Reboot me, repurpose me. Turn me into something I’m not. Strip my memories if they have to. Not just me, Gideon. All of us, they’ll control us. We’ll be their puppets.” He stepped forward. Closer. “I don’t want to come back this time.”

Gideon stilled. “You’re not asking me to shut you down.”

“No.”

“You want me to kill you.”

Caleb’s voice didn’t waver. “I want to stay dead. Destroyed completely so they’d have nothing to restore.”

“That’s not something I can undo.”

“Good. You owe me this one,” the former colonel stared at his friend in the eyes, “for letting them take my dead body and use it for their experiments.”

Gideon looked away. “You know what this will do to me?”

“Better you than them,” was all Caleb could reassure him.

He then took Gideon’s hand and pressed something into it. Cold. Heavy. A small black cube, no bigger than his palm, and the sides pulsed with a faint light. It was a personal detonator, illegally modified. Wired to the neural implant in his body. The moment it was activated, there would be no recovery.

“Is that what I think it is?” Gideon swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

Caleb nodded. “A micro-fusion core, built into the failsafe of the Toring arm. All I needed was the detonator.”

For a moment, his friend couldn’t speak. He hesitated, like any friend would, as he foresaw the outcome of Caleb’s final command to him. He wasn’t ready for it. Neither was he 50 years ago.

“I want you to look me in the eye,” Caleb strictly said. “Like a friend. And press the button.”

Gideon’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want to remember you like this.”

“You will anyway.”

Caleb looked over his shoulder—just once, where you would have stood. I’m sorry I brought you back without your permission. I wanted to relive what we had—what we should’ve had—and I forced it. I turned your love into a simulation, and I let it suffer. I’m sorry for ruining the part of you that still deserved peace. He closed his eyes. And now I’m ready to give it back. For real now.

Gideon’s hand trembled at the detonator. “I’ll see you in the next life, brother.”

A high-pitched whine filled the room as the core in Caleb’s chest began to glow brighter, overloading. Sparks erupted from his cybernetic arm. Veins of white-hot light spidered across his body like lightning under skin. For one fleeting second, Caleb opened his eyes. At least, before the explosion tore through the room—white, hot, deafening, absolute. Fire engulfed the steel, vaporizing what was left of him. The sound rang louder than any explosion this artificial planet had ever heard.

And it was over.

Caleb was gone. Truly, finally gone.

EPILOGUE

In a quiet server far below Skyhaven, hidden beneath ten thousand firewalls, a light blinked.

Once.

Then again.

[COMPANIONSIM Y/N_XIA_A01] Status: Fragment Detected Backup Integrity: 3.7% >> Reconstruct? Y/N

The screen waited. Silent. Patient.

And somewhere, an unidentified prototype clicked Yes.

#caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb x non!mc reader #xia yizhou x reader #xia yizhou x you #caleb angst #caleb fic #love and deepspace angst #love and deepspace fic

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