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literally just a reblog spam account 18+ MDNI!!

[reachartwork]

here is my best worldbuilding tip for authors who want a thick, dense world with real verisimilitude. i stole it from gundam and now i'm giving it to you.

lesser worldbuilders start from what they want the story to mean or contain. i am here to give you formal permission to reverse that: start from what you want to exist. "i want to write a science fiction melodrama about the ethics of teleportation" - wrong. "i want teleporters" - yes!!

the failure mode comes in two disguises, which is why this advice is hard to give. disguise one is theme-first: you decide the thesis and then build a world backwards to prop it up, and readers can smell a rigged demo. disguise two is trope-first: "there are kamen riders, and evil organizations, and they make robot monsters, and it's themed around such-and-such" - you've imported the genre's conclusions (evil orgs! kaijin!) without the causes that produce them, so nothing load-bears. same crime, different trenchcoat: fixing the outputs.

instead: find the stupidest, most childish version of the idea you're most excited about. "what if kamen riders were real." then work backwards and invent the FEWEST possible things that can justifiably load-bear - "why would a technology exist that lets one person become the functional equivalent of a tank, and how, specifically, does it print its armor so quickly?" establish your minovsky particle. then roll the tape forward.

and here's the part everyone skips: you have to keep the consequences you didn't ask for. that's the whole trick. your themes should be exhaust, not fuel - if you roll the tape honestly, the story you were trying to order off a menu shows up on its own, plus three better ones you'd never have thought to want. verisimilitude is just the reader failing to find the seam where you cheated. only tell one lie and there's only one seam.

[quietstormxr]

Secrets

Xaden Riorson x Violet Sorrengail x Reader

Summary: Anon Request: It seems your partners have a secret they aren't willing to share. Between that and their continual use of their bond, you begin to feel like a spectator in your own relationship. But jealousy ensues when you don't play the game by their rules.

A/N: Onyx Storm Spoilers! This takes place in the first part of OS, so you've been warned. Depression, Worthlessness, and ANGST.

Word Count: 7.7k

So...this is the first time I've ever written for a poly couple, so be gentle with me.

To say things were strained, would be an understatement. Since the battle of Basgiath, you couldn’t help but feel like the third wheel. Suddenly rendered either replaceable or just not worth the time in general, at least that’s how it looked from your eyes.

You knew they were keeping secrets, and you couldn’t help the way you felt iced out of your own relationship. Violet was always trying to redirect conversations. Xaden, on the other hand, said less than ten words to you one day.  

You went from feeling like you had the world with them both, to feeling like you weren’t worth the dirt on your own boots. 

It’s then you found yourself walking into the hall to find Xaden and Violet standing outside the doors of the meeting with the cadre. Watching from the shadows, your eyes dart between the two as they clearly have one of their now, all too common, telepathic conversations. 

The feelings of envy and unworthiness wrap around your heart and squeeze. How many times were you going to watch them have their own secrets while you stood on the outside? Were they ever going to realize how much it hurt to watch them continue in their own cocoon? You thought you had discussed this, that the last fight would’ve gotten through to them, but apparently it did nothing. 

“Hey, are you going to wait with Xaden?” Garrick asks as he steps up beside you though his own eyes are on the aforementioned man.

“No.” The word is sharp, there is no room to mistake that anger is bleeding through your tone. 

“Why n-“ Garrick’s words are cut short as you turn abruptly and walk back towards the dormitories. 

As you turned, you caught the glimpse of Xaden’s eyes and by the shadow that snakes around your wrist, you know for certain he saw you. But instead of falling back to him as you would normally, you shake off the shadow and continue your march. 

The force of the winter chill slaps across your face as you emerge into the courtyard, but you don’t feel the freezing temperature. Instead, the ice seems to slide across your heart, the organ hardening against the coming hurt that you can feel in your soul. 

It’s not surprising. You’ve never felt like someone who belonged, especially not in the powerful world of the two people you called yours. But now, the same people that had pledged that you would never be left out have clamored in on themselves tucking you neatly outside of the everchanging pace of their lives.

‘You are powerful in your own right. Do not let their silence diminish you.’ Rion bursts into your thoughts, a calm wave shooting through your shared bond.

A sad, tired smile crawls across your face as you make it to your room at Basgiath. Your dragon always the one to bolster you when you felt yourself slipping. You shut the door and lock it, not interested in another range of excuses from the two people who have been your respite. 

As you fall into bed, you let the comfort of the familiar room fall around you. If nothing stays constant in this world, the bare necessities at the war college have become an unlikely consolation. Falling into the sheets, you look back at the door, as much as you’ve tried not to guard your heart, you find yourself unwilling to compromise any longer. 

Dragging yourself back up, you take a deep breath and let it calm you. Unsure if either of them will even come looking, you choose to move forward anyway. Holding up your hand you let Rion’s magic flow through you, shaping the strands into thin moveable pieces. Ward weaving had come oddly naturally to you, something you’d worked on in secret along with your signet. 

Pulling every piece into place, you solidified your wards so that only you could enter, effectively blocking out a list of people that had become comfortable with walking in and out of your room. You knew you should feel sad, but a part of you was relieved that you would finally have a place that was solely your own. 

As you laid back down in bed, you only focused on the worn stone of the ceiling. Emotion that had been clouding all day pushed to the side in favor of the sleep that was beckoning you. Eyes beginning to drift shut, you thought you heard a knock on the door. Remembered somewhere in the back of your mind that Violet had wanted you with her tonight for something regarding the wards, but instead of letting the thought fester, you let the heavy hand of sleep claim you.

______________

“Where the hell were you? And what did you do with the wards on your door?” The snarl in Xaden’s voice does nothing to draw down the walls that you’ve been building. 

“Xaden.” Violet hisses through her teeth giving him a warning look. They hold each other’s stare a beat longer before his eyes soften and look back towards you.

“It doesn’t matter where I was.” You shoot back, your own anger bouncing as you watch the scene unfold.

“Y/N.” Violet tries to soothe as she comes up to you, her hand grabbing for yours. You let her take it, fingers intertwining and let the familiarity of the gesture soothe the hottest part of your anger.

“You should’ve been there to help last night.” Xaden voice is still terse, a warning showing through that you weren’t where you were supposed to be. 

“Yes, and I’m sorry I forgot.” You state as you reinforce your shields. It was hard enough when Xaden’s second signet was revealed for both you and Violet. But with their penchant for silent discussion, you guard your thoughts even more. 

“It seems she didn’t need my particular brand of expertise anyway. From what Ridoc told me, everything went according to plan.” The words are flat as you continue to glare at Xaden. 

He must see something in your face, because soon enough he’s pulling you forward with your other hand and wrapping his arms around you. 

“I don’t know how to fix whatever’s going on if you don’t let me in.” Xaden whispers into your hair as you feel Violet’s head come to rest on your shoulder. 

“There’s nothing to fix.” You reply letting yourself deflate. You know what he’s inferring, he wants you to drop your shields enough to gather your intentions, so that he can correct whatever’s amiss.

You can’t explain it, but for some reason, you don’t. There’s something larger going on and you’re tired of being on the outside looking in. If you know either of them as well as you think you do, you can hear the conversation of ‘it’s only for your protection’ shining through every single outcome. 

‘They underestimate you because you don’t show them your power.’ Rion comments as you let your own thoughts drown out the comfort both of them are trying to give.

‘Well maybe if they showed more interest or explained their plans, I would show them what they haven’t noticed.’ You volley back, though the terse attitude isn’t for your dragon.

Your thoughts are pulled back to the present as you feel the ghost of Xaden’s lips at your temple. The gesture meant to be soothing and reassuring, but you’re unsure of who its really for the tension in his shoulders still coiled like a spring. Violet turns your face towards her own and her lips meet yours in a featherlight gesture. It’s almost as if you can feel the way they hold back, the secrets becoming an impenetrable force between you. 

Before Xaden deigns to let you go, he whispers for only you to hear. “Fix your wards. I need to be able to know you’re safe.”

The words are meant to quiet, to put a balm to the ache of the wound that is festering between you, but it does nothing but push you further. If either of them wanted you safe they wouldn’t be holding back whatever it is that they can’t seem to say.

______________

You wrap your arms around Violet as your lips ghost across her shoulder before you pull the buttons of her flight jacket closed. Ever since Xaden’s assignment as Professor, you had spent most nights in her bed, both of you finding solace in each other with the absence of Xaden. 

You wish you could say that this change had settled your heart and the way you felt iced out of your relationship, but then you would be lying to yourself. Each day since the news of her departure with Xaden to Anca, you had been deciding on a plan of how you would get some distance of your own.

Nothing permanent, just something for you to have some space that you otherwise never seemed to get with either one of them lurking and keeping tabs on you. Neither one would admit it, but they were unnerved by the small ways in which you had begun to pull back. Though between Xaden’s new duties as the Duke of Tyrrendor and Violet’s constant review of the books available regarding venin and the irids, there wasn’t much time for intimacy of any kind these days. 

“I wish you were coming with us.” The words are quiet as Violet turns to face you. 

“I know, but I’ll be fine. You just need to worry about you and Xaden making it back safe.”

“Considering we don’t know how many venin are lurking the halls of Basgiath, I’d garner to say we both need to worry about you too.” Each word is sincere and you can see the concern etched in her brow as she searches your eyes.

Your hand comes up to her face and you let your thumb trace over the lines to try and soothe the worry. 

“Just come back safely.” The words escape your mouth quietly as you step closer to her.

As you lean in, you let your heart deflate a little knowing that when she returns, you hopefully won’t be in Basgiath. Your lips clash in a kiss that for you is a goodbye, one that leeches nothing but bittersweet emotion. You hear Violet sigh as she melts towards you as your tongue gently swipes along the curve of her bottom lip. 

When you finally pull back, there’s no mistaking the flush to Violet’s cheek and the swell of her kiss bruised lips. 

“Xaden is going to be upset he won’t get to give you a proper goodbye.” Violet muses as she pushes back a strand of hair from your face.

A small smile curls your lips as you take in the all too familiar warmth that settles between you. It’s the feeling that you will hold onto as you step away from the girl in front of you. 

“I’ll be there to see you both off.” You say as you grab your pack before turning Violet’s door.

Before you can even stride forward the door swings back and the aforementioned man is standing in front of you. Eyes slightly wild and hair untamed, he looks as though he had just sprinted through the halls of the dormitories.

“I hope you didn’t think I’d be leaving without a proper goodbye.” Xaden’s words were as hot as the fire in his eyes as he glided towards you. 

As he pulled you closer, you reinforced your shields, not wanting him to get any insight into your plans for the day. Your words however, were nothing if not a sultry reply to his. 

“Well Professor Riorson. I thought it was against the Code of Conduct for a professor and student to be seen together.” 

“Fuck the Code of Conduct. The both of you are my code and I’ll manage that however I see fit.” His words cut off as his mouth crashes down on yours, arms snaking around your waist pulling your body taut against his own. 

The kiss is just like Xaden, an all-consuming fire that will burn everything that dares to stand in his way. It’s impossible not to get swept away in the tide of his kisses, each curve of his lips igniting a fire that never truly banks. 

You aren’t trying to get swept back into the working hum of your relationship with them, but with their imminent departure and you having to stay back, it seems both of them are keenly aware of the divide now.

Xaden’s lips begin to slow to a languid pace and you feel one of his arms leave your waist as he drags Violet towards you. Your head turns as you bring a hand to cup Violet’s face and kiss her hard, the fire that Xaden struck humming a crescendo through your blood. 

As the fire begins to flutter out, you step back. You can only imagine the image you paint. Face flushed, lips swollen from repeated kisses, a self-satisfied smirk curving your lips. 

But with each step further from them, the cold that has been spreading through your relationship returns like the gusts of winter before a snowstorm. 

“It’s probably time to get you both down to the flight field.” You say as you let a sad smile lilt your lips.

Xaden crosses to you again, pulling you in with one arm. 

“I don’t like leaving you behind.” You look up and watch as Xaden’s throat works, the ever-present tick in his jaw showcasing his distaste for the situation.

“You’ll have Violet, my darling. You’ll be just fine.” You say calmly even with your shields raised firmly in place.

“I need you both.” He says as he steps back and surveys you both now standing directly in front of him. 

“You have us.” Violet replies, though there’s a twinkle in her eye that is reserved only for Xaden. 

Without another word Xaden turns and strides out the door before either you or Violet move. You know it’s so the constant eyes of General Aetos don’t have anything to report, but it doesn’t make the sting any less.

Trying not to ruminate, you turn to Violet, expression serious. 

“Take care of him.” The words are meant to be nothing more than an ask, to hold the man who has been left to many times from breaking when he realizes what you’ve done once they return. That is until you see Violet’s face and the confusion that has been lingering settles on your brow again. 

Violet searches your face, as if she’s looking for a tell that you’re aware of something in what you’ve just said that she didn’t know. Though when she shakes her head at you, you realize that whatever she is concerned about, you clearly are none the wiser. 

“We’ll take care of each other. But, you need to stick close to Bodhi, Garrick, Imogen, or someone from the squad.” She says as you both begin to walk towards the flight field. 

“I’ll take care of myself.” You reply obstinately. It isn’t as though your life is tied to anyone else’s. 

Violet gives you a knowing smile as you finally reach the flight field. After one last kiss, she turns and mounts Tairn. Then your attention shifts as you watch Xaden mount Sgaeyl without looking back. Though as the ghost of a touch skims across your face, you know that Xaden is more than aware of your presence.

You stand there as everyone gathers and watch them rise, soon enough fading into the distance of flight. 

Turning on your heels, you set your destination to the third floor and start the quest to get some much needed space for yourself.

__________

“I don’t need Riorson breathing down my neck the minute they get back.” Dain grumbles as he continues to mull over your ask, eyes averted to his desk. 

“I’m not asking you to explain anything.” You reply as you try to reason with him. “All the information will be given to both Xaden and Violet. I’m just requesting a transfer to a different squad, not asking to leave the continent.”

Dain scoffs at your response, giving you a look that says he knows exactly what will happen when Xaden and Violet return. 

“Xaden is a Second Lieutenant, Professor, and Duke. He’ll have plenty to worry about without having to deal with me or you. And besides, Violet has her squad. Sure, they’ve welcomed me, but that wasn’t the squad I started with, so there’s no harm in leaving.” You aren’t sure if there is a way you’re going to convince Dain without begging and pleading, so instead you try to appeal to the side of disappointment and regret that you know still eats at him.

“Look Dain, I need some space.” You level all the seriousness you can muster to the man in front of you. “You know Violet better than anyone here. And I know you’ve seen the rollercoaster of a relationship that we’ve all had. This is me needing some space.”

“I’m not leaving them or shutting them out entirely. But, a relationship is not anything if there’s nothing but secrets between you. I’m tired of standing on the outside of their mated dragon’s bond. I just need a moment to breathe.” You don’t dare speak of the lingering thought that something bigger is at play that they haven’t revealed.

There must be something to the plea in your voice because Dain exhales as if he’s coming to terms with the repercussions he’s going to have to face. 

“Fine. But if Riorson buries me for this, I’m coming back to haunt you.” Dain exhales as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

You give Dain a sharp nod before walking out his door. Satisfaction coils in your gut as you descend the stairs of the dormitories and return to your own room. 

Grabbing your pack, you swing it over your arms and take a breath knowing that in less than a day you will be in Aretia and away from the cloying suffocation of Basgiath.

__________

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Garrick’s voice reaches you, breathless from running as you walk the final steps to Rion’s foreleg. 

“I’m going to Aretia with my squad as runes class dictates.” You throw over your shoulder not stopping to talk to your most likely assigned protector. 

Before you can make it two more steps, the familiar large hand clamps your shoulder and spins you around. Hazel eyes burning with annoyance. You huff in indignation at the thought that Garrick has anything to be annoyed about.

“Your squad isn’t in Aretia for this rotation. I just spoke with Imogen, and you aren’t due to go for another six weeks.” Garrick’s eyes narrow on yours as if waiting for you to defy him.

“That is the Iron Squad’s rotation for Aretia, yes.” You say drawing it out for your own satisfaction. “I’m not on that squad any longer, Professor.”

Shock flares in Garrick’s eyes, though his hand still hasn’t left your shoulder. 

“What the hell are you talking about? You were assigned to that squad in the beginning of the year. Both Xaden and Violet were adamant about that.”

A wry chuckle leaves your mouth. “Yes, well, neither one of them are here, are they?”

“Besides, between all of Xaden’s duties and Violet’s search for the Irids, I don’t think they’ll have time to miss me.” You try pulling out of Garrick’s grip, but his hand is unyielding. 

“Is this some kind of stunt for attention?” That question has Rion’s head turning, a warning growl rumbling through her chest. Meanwhile your own eyes darken at the accusation, anger flaring hotly in your orbs and under your skin. 

“I’m not looking for anyone’s attention, Tavis. Least of all Xaden or Violet’s.” Your tone grows darker as the anger begins to course through your veins. “In fact, I’d love exactly the opposite. I want to be left alone. Iced out, like the rest of you and your fucking group have been doing since the Battle of Basgiath.”

Now its Garrick’s turn for his eyes to flare in shock. His reaction confirms every suspicion you’ve had since the morning after the battle. It’s that disbelief that makes him drop his hand, retreating a few steps as if he suddenly is unsure of exactly what to do. 

You step towards Rion and out of the reach of his grasp, but you won’t leave without a few parting words.

“I know that there’s a secret. Something only a few of you are worthy enough to know. I guess I figured since I was a partner to the two that are seeming to be in the thick of it, the love they have for me would warrant me deserving of their confidence. Instead, I get to watch as the five of you move pieces on a chess board that I didn’t even know we were playing.” Your words gain momentum and ferocity as weeks of rotting emotions begin to wear away at you. 

“When they return and inevitably ask you what the fuck happened, you can relay this message. I don’t need their protection, or anyone else’s. If they can’t or won’t trust me with everything, then I’ll do them a favor and make myself scarce.”

You don’t bother to wait for a reply as you mount Rion and settle into her familiar scales.

‘This will only be fuel to the fire of the already overly dramatic shadow wielder.’ Rion muses though you don’t miss the amusement that laces every word.

‘Then let him be dramatic. Doesn’t mean I have to be a part of it.’ You reply back, not with anger or ferocity, just the certainty that you’ve made the best decision for yourself. 

As Rion lifts from the ground, you take a deep breath and settle in, letting the heaviness of Basgiath and the last few months there rise from your shoulders. You have no doubt the next few weeks will be messy, but for some reason, you can’t find it within yourself to care.

__________

“Where are Xaden and Violet?” Is the first question out of Brennan’s mouth as you move into the Assembly Chambers at Riorson House. 

“You know damn well where they are.” You spit shaking your head at the automatic question anytime you step into a room. “I’m not here to discuss them. I’m here to be assigned a room for the duration of the runes stay for my squad.”

Brennan’s eyebrows rise at your response, clearly caught off guard. “What do you mean assigned a room. I’ve been more than reprimanded a few times from our tempestuous Duke that you and Violet remain in his quarters while in Aretia.”

“Yes, well, circumstances have changed.” You can tell that Brennan has a million questions, that he wants to pry into what is really going on, but you refuse to let him get more. “I’m just here to be assigned a room, nothing more, nothing less. So let’s skip the relationship twenty questions.”

Brennan continues to hesitate far longer than appropriate, but the wall that you’ve built around asking anything further must be enough to get him to move on. Scrunching his eyebrows and shaking his head, he pulls a book from the stack upon the table before looking back up. 

“Let me look over everything and I’ll let you know by lunch time today.” He replies as his fingers begin skimming through the book. 

You don’t bother acknowledging him and turn on your heels, moving towards the familiar classroom where you let your mind settle into the calming hum of your magic.

__________

“So, when were you going to share your wealth of knowledge with the rest of us?” Elliott asks as he drifts closer to the chair you’ve set yourself on. 

You let the small chuckle leave you as you lean towards him. The well-known rhythm settling in between you and your original squad. 

“All you had to do was ask.” You snark back, but you can’t help the smile of comfort that twists your lips.

“Hard to do when someone has made themselves scarce since becoming a couple with the highest profile riders in the quadrant.” Samira retorts giving you one of her knowing looks.

You can’t help the snort that leaves you, though if in humor or derision, you’re unsure. 

“Come on. Who needs us when they have the arm of the Duke of Tyrrendor and the ear of the continent famous lighting wielder.” Though the words are meant in jest, the reminder of the power laden relationship you are a part of sours something in your stomach. 

You don’t let the feelings that are still festering show on your face as you laugh along with Elliott and Samira. Both have welcomed you back into the squad with more than welcoming arms and its clear to you that their friendship has blossomed without your presence. There is a twinge of jealousy, but something on your face must show because soon enough Elliott’s arm is over your shoulders and pulling you closer. 

“You know you can tell us anything right.” Elliott’s voice is quiet as his hold tightens in comfort. “No matter what, we are still a squad, a family, no matter if your name is written in the same block or not.”

You give him a small smile and lean into the comfort. You knew that leaving Basgiath and the two people you love wouldn’t be simple, but it’s this space that you needed to feel like you weren’t just an outsider looking in. 

“Thank you both. I knew when I requested the transfer from Dain that I would be welcomed back, but it’s even better knowing that it really is true.” A quirk of an eyebrow is all you get from both of them before the conversation changes. 

It finally feels like you can breathe without someone constantly looking over your shoulder. It isn’t that you ever minded the fierce protectiveness of Xaden or Violet, but its refreshing to know that there’s no unspoken communication or secrets laden between the two people in front of you. 

As the night wears on, you let the heat of the hearth and the warmth of the bond with the two people in front of you warm the part of your heart that had begun to grow cold. You know it’s just a matter of time before you must answer for your decision and face whatever consequences that may arrive, but for now you let the smile settle on your face as your head rests on Elliott’s shoulder.

___________

Two nights later a rough pounding on your door draws you awake. Your eyes blink blearily as you try to banish the sleep from your eyes. 

Groaning as you slowly rise from the bed, limbs still heavily laden with sleep. Seconds later, there’s no doubt now who is on the other side of the door. Your hand barely crosses the frame before Xaden is grabbing you and pulling himself into the room. 

“Couldn’t this have waited till morning.” Your voice rasps as you try to clear the last remaining dregs of sleep. It’s obvious to Xaden that you haven’t raised his eyes, because if you had, he knows you would’ve never asked that question. 

Xaden doesn’t speak, your arm still gripped in his and it’s his tightening grip that finally has your eyes meeting his. As soon as you meet the familiar eyes, you blink a few times, sure that you must be dreaming. 

Is the color of his eyes different?

Surely it must just be the lighting, you blink several times again finally clearing past the haze. Now it isn’t the color you focus on, but the swarming emotions that seem to be mounting by the second. 

“What the fuck are you playing at?” The words sound like they’ve been scraped from Xaden’s soul, fractured and haunted in a way you’ve never heard before. 

But it’s that emotion that has your own defenses lifting, each wall being reinforced with the might of your own anger. You tear your arm away and take several steps back, taking the much needed space you want from the man in front of you. 

A humorless laugh leaves your lips as you watch the look in his eyes turn even wilder. You take him in, jacket askew, hair sticking up as though he can’t keep his hands out of it and the sight is almost comical. His fists tighten at his sides making his knuckles turn white, his jaw ticking in concealed irritation. 

You don’t say anything as you stare back at him. You knew that you didn’t have much time, but you never thought he would come busting through the door like a man possessed. And for what?

You look to the hall, fully expecting Violet to waltz in behind, her own eyes burning in fury, but it seems you are only graced with one of them tonight. 

“Well?” He seethes as his eyes continue to roam over your figure. 

“Well, what?” You spit back with equal agitation. 

He scoffs as he takes a step towards you, but the minute he moves, you step back. It’s that one step that has him faltering, and in all your time, you’ve never seen Xaden Riorson falter. Suddenly the wildness in his eyes turns to panic, an emotion you’ve only ever seen on his face in the form of battle when you or Violet were injured. 

He swallows thickly as he tries to recover himself, now seemingly unsure of what exactly to do.

“Why did you request a transfer back to your old squad?” The words are quieter now, almost as if he’s lost the wildness he had when entering the room. 

You scoff as your face turns toward the ground. “If you have to ask, maybe you haven’t been paying attention, your Grace.”

The title slips off your lips in a sneer, the term sounding more like a curse than a pleasantry.  

“You need to come back to Basgiath with me, so we can talk with Violet. The three of us have things to discuss.” His tone is meant to be comforting, but all it does is stoke the embers of your anger.

“What? So, I can watch as the both of you talk to each other and leave me out of it? So, you can scrape me raw by knowing my every thought but leave me questioning both of yours?” The words hit exactly where you were aiming as you watch his face falter. 

“Precisely.” You snap back as you stand at your door with your hand gesturing for him to leave. “If you want to talk when my squad is back at Basgiath, then fine. But I’m not leaving until my stint in Aretia is complete. If you want to keep secrets, then be my guest, but it doesn’t mean that I must be part of the equation any longer.”

Surprised, Xaden takes the few steps to stand outside your door. The hurt in his eyes shines as he looks back at you. You can see it in the tense set of his limbs that he’s desperate to reach out, but each word of your challenge has landed squarely. Instead of folding into him, you close the door and effectively shut down any communication.

‘Sgaeyl is not happy with your words.’ Rion muses sleepily as if she was also aroused from her slumber.

‘Yes, well, I’m not happy with being kept in the dark like a child either.’ You snark back, though the amusement continues to rise through your bond.

‘Though she commends you for fire. Seems the shadow wielder is not currently in her good graces.’ You are momentarily shocked with Rion’s words, never in your life did you think you’d warrant pride from Sgaeyl let alone when Xaden somehow disappointed her. 

‘I appreciate her commendation, but at this point, I just want to get some sleep and ignore that the last twenty minutes even happened.’ You yawn mentally as you settle back into your bed. 

A few months ago, the confrontation with Xaden would’ve kept you up all night, but with the way things have been, you find yourself drifting soon enough. It’s during that drift that you miss the shadows that wrap around your form as if they can’t stand to have any space from you. You snuggle further into the blankets, and they wrap themselves tightly to your form. Although there is a pulse that stirs behind them that says their master is fighting a war that he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep up.

__________

The next morning you enter the dining hall, and it would be impossible to miss the Duke of Tyrrendor who has seemed to take to lording over the entire room. You do your best to ignore him completely and walk to your squad with breakfast in hand. 

The minute you sit down, you scoot closer to Elliott, determined to ignore Xaden’s presence altogether. 

“I love you and all, but did you just sign my death warrant?” Elliott whispers into your ear as his eyes seem to drift in the direction of Xaden.

You lean in even more conspiratorially, your voice a whisper. “Of course not. He’s just being an ass.”

“An ass that looks like he’s one breath away from eating me for breakfast.” Elliott replies while his eyes turn back to yours. 

At that point you can’t help the laugh that tumbles out at the absurdity of the entire situation. The laugh surprises even you considering you don’t think you’ve heard the sound since the last time you were in Aretia and still part of your original squad. 

It’s then you feel the pulse of shadow that tightens around your wrist. You look down with an eyebrow cocked and pull up your sleeve causing the shadow that was resting there to disappear. You turn to Xaden, only warning shining in your eyes, but his eyes don’t even meet yours, instead they are focused solely on Elliott’s hand that now rests across your shoulder. 

“Come on.” Your words are irritated as you move to get up. “Let’s go to the kitchens. Natasha more than likely has something better waiting there.”

As you walk away, you can feel Xaden’s stare boring into you, but you refuse to turn around. 

_____________

‘I’m not ready to go back. Can’t we just stay in Aretia?’ You whine to Rion as you walk towards the flight field. 

‘Are you wanting to stay because you like it here or because you don’t want to finally have to answer for your decision?’

You groan and scrunch your nose as you make it to Rion’s foreleg. 

‘You’re supposed to be on my side, you know.’ Rion’s amused chuff slides into your mind. 

‘I am on your side and so is Sgaeyl. You’d be surprised all those who are.’ Your eyes narrow as you look at the back of Rion’s head.

‘Why do I feel like you know something?’

‘Oh, I do. Sgaeyl was more forthcoming without her mate in tow during the shadow wielders visit.’ The rawness of Rion’s voice now has you on edge.

‘Are you going to share what you learned?’

Something in Rion’s tone changes as she looks back towards you in her seat.

‘If it’s something that challenges your safety in any way, then you will know all.’ 

The cryptic message does nothing to soothe the concern that continues to grow in your gut. The secret they’re clearly hiding is something bigger than anything you could’ve expected and you aren’t sure if it will be the final strike to your relationship or something to bond you closer. 

___________

Somehow, you’re lucky enough to arrive back at Basgiath while Violet’s squad is in signet sparring class. You take the boon Zinhal has granted and walk straight back to your quarters. 

As soon as you’re done showering, there’s a knock at your door. You face hardens as you open the door, but it begins to soften the minute the person on the other side registers.

“Elliott, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, just thought we could hang out.” He says with a shrug and you extend your hand, pulling him into the space. Though the minute he’s in, you look back at your door quizzically as the magic of your wards seems to pull differently than before.

You don’t know how long has passed as you both have chatted about the last year, between crossing the parapet and fighting venin, the last eighteen months have been a whirlwind. 

You are both laughing, your head rested in his lap when the door to your room suddenly swings open. Both startling in surprise, the emotion is short lived when you see who is on the other side.

Xaden and Violet stand there as if you’ve just caved in their entire world. Meanwhile, you can’t keep the irritation off your face.

“That’s why the wards felt different when I pulled Elliott through.” You mutter to no one in particular as you look back at your partners.

Elliott sensing the tension begins to rise and head for the door. 

“I’ll talk to you later.” He murmurs as he brings you in for a hug. “Don’t forget you deserve to be heard too.”

The words are quiet, but you have no doubt that Violet and Xaden heard them as you watch their shoulders tense in response.

“I’ll see you later.” You give Elliott one last squeeze before you let him go. You watch as he scoots out the door, careful not to get too close to the two livid forms standing just outside your door.

“Starlight.” Xaden starts as he marches into the room, all commanding presence and bravado. Your brow quirks at the interruption, not used to Xaden calling your personal nickname since gaining his professorship. 

Violet doesn’t even try with placating before she’s in front of your face. 

“Why did you switch squads and disappear to Aretia? Do you know how worried we were when we got back and you were nowhere to be found?” Violet’s anxiety is obvious as she paces in front of you. 

Xaden however has made it his mission to get as close to you as possible, as if he doesn’t touch you soon, you may just float away. You don’t let either of them get too close as you stand your ground, your own stare hardening. 

“There was no reason for me to be pulled from my original squad. We all know that.” Your eyes drift back and forth between the two. “The whole reason you both orchestrated that last year was so you’d have someone to keep an eye on me when Violet had to go to Samara.”

The silence settles heavily as the weight of your words begins to take shape. 

“Is it because you’re interested in Achinson?” Xaden’s words cut through the haze and you can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out.

“So that’s why both of you are here, because you’re jealous and think that I’m leaving you for Elliott?” You laugh out, though the sarcasm in your voice is thick.

“You’ve both been skirting around me since the battle here and I’m tired. So instead, I try to find people that are here for just me and now you want to come to me because you’re jealous? As if I didn’t warrant the same attention before?” You let the exhaustion leech through your voice, the mixture between that and sadness settling heavy on your shoulders. But you aren’t done saying your peace yet.

“You both sit here and talk mind to mind, and I watch you do it. At this point I don’t even know if it is a cognizant thing you’re doing to keep me out or you’re just so focused on each other you can’t see me standing there.”

“Of course we see you.” Violet blurts out as Xaden grabs your waist and plasters you to his chest no longer able to maintain his distance. “The entire time we were in Anca we were both worried about what could be happening here.”

You feel Xaden’s grip tighten on your waist as Violet’s hand comes up to grip your face. You know if you wanted to, you could let yourself sink into the comfort. To go back to the happiness that you told yourself was forever as you each pledged yourselves to one another.

“You say that, but its hard to feel that way when it feels like there is something hanging over our heads and I’m the only one who doesn’t know it.” Violet’s eyes flare as her hand falls back to her side. It’s that shock that lets you know that you’ve hit the heart of the problem cleanly.

“We are just trying to protect you.” The volume of Violet’s voice has ratcheted up higher than you’ve ever heard it. Conviction and fury lacing through every word, as if she proves it loudly enough you’ll understand its for your own good. 

“I’m not in love with the both of you for your fucking protection!” Your own tone rises in response, not willing to concede any ground.

“And that is why we love you. We know you can take care of yourself, but this isn’t something we’re keeping from you lightly.” Xaden’s words are meant to soothe, just like his face that nuzzles in your hair. 

Needing space to process your thoughts, you pull yourself out of his hold and towards the door. 

“Protection in the name of ignorance is no protection – it’s a death sentence. I would’ve thought that the last year and a half would’ve shown you both that, but clearly you’re both still so absorbed in each other you haven’t pulled your heads far enough away to notice.” You bristle as their insinuation of protection still prickles across your skin. 

A cynical huff leaves your mouth as another thought tugs to the forefront of your mind. “Especially you Violet. Or are your actions more justified than Dain trying to shield you from the trials of the quadrant? It isn’t either of your jobs to decide what I can and cannot handle. That’s not fucking love – its control.” 

She rears back in surprise, not expecting you to bite. Xaden steps further in front of her and you snarl at the insinuation that you’d ever hurt her, considering you are the one with an aching wound living in your chest.

“So you can keep your fucking protection, you can live in your mind to mind bond, but don’t expect me to play a part in either. You can either love me like you’re supposed to or let me go.”

You turn away, not interested in ‘I’m sorry’ or hurt faces. If they want to keep their secrets and depend on only each other, there’s no room for you. The thought settles heavy on your shoulders, but you refuse to let them see you break. Refuse to be the one to show the weakness that they clearly don’t need as part of their growing dynamic, their growing secrets. Though it hasn’t escaped you that you’re the only one in Xaden’s precious circle that warrants being left out. 

Shadows try to bar the door, and they are successful for a beat until you tap into the light of your magic. Each flicker burning through the darkness.  

You may not be as powerful as your lighting wielding partner, but she hasn’t been around to see the ways in which you’ve honed your power. A skill that you’ve only shared with Ridoc as you’ve both trained together.

You hear the surprised gasp as you turn the knob of the door, but you have no room in your heart to relish in your pride for yourself. The sting of betrayal festering too brightly to be smothered by a softer emotion. 

“Until both of you are willing to come clean with all the fucking secrets, stay away. If you think I can’t handle them, then you never trusted me in the first place. And you don’t get to show up here just because you are fucking jealous to try and explain yourselves.” You throw your words over your shoulder as you continue your stride towards the flight field. 

The sting of their silence is still there as Rion comes into view, but without a word, you mount, and she launches immediately. You don’t miss the two figures that run out onto the flight field or the way the shadows surge in an effort to bring you back, but your light lands like a shield around you, a glistening cocoon that keeps each shadow at bay. 

The steady beat of wings is the thing that draws your attention and you turn to see familiar sapphire scales glint in the moonlight. You scowl and look toward Sgaeyl’s seat, but the minute you realize that there’s no Xaden, your irritation turns to curiosity.

‘What is Sgaeyl doing?’ You question as the beautiful blue glides under Rion’s wing.

‘She is showing her rider that he has chosen the wrong path. That she stands with you and everything you have laid out before your mates.’ Your eyes turn and your whole body tenses as Sgaeyl’s eyes meet your own. 

You always thought you’d see the ruthlessness that lays in Xaden’s stare, but instead there’s a deep sense of knowing, an odd comfort considering her reputation.

‘Your mates will have to decide if they want this relationship and if they do, how to win you back.’ Rion’s words are tense, showing the restraint in her tone. ‘I will not let them keep this from you forever and if they choose to, I will break the oath I’ve sworn and tell you. You will not be alone, and this secret will come to the light.’

You lean into the saddle and let the rush of the wind in your ears quiet your thoughts. As much as you want to push, to yell, to scream, there is no point if the two people you love most in this world will not trust you with the truth.

So instead, you gaze to the spring sky above you let your stare rest on the twinkling stars. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring or if Xaden and Violet will trust you with their secrets. But here among the vastness of the stars, you shake off the restraints of their silence and just feel.  

__________

Divider: @empyreanevents

Taglist: @ilovetomtailor@nevermoresworld@nastylicious@iambored24601@mysticalfuncollectorus@sadpieceofbread@alwayshave-faith@bestillmystuckyheart@luvly-writer@yuelhua@mitziix@dragonsandrinks

[madamechrissy]

Losing Control Now mlist/ Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo headcanons

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six (FINAL)

Pairings: Mobster Gojo x bartender F!reader

Summary: Something about running the Gojo mafia just makes Satoru so bored. Boring, boring boring. Sure, he loves money, he loves women, he loves snorting snowy powder off their bodies. He loves the power that comes from it- but he's just bored. That is, until he stumbles upon you, the brand new bartender that makes him pause, falter, and then soon he becomes obsessed, with knowing you, in every single way. Paying off your mom's debts and working two jobs, you're exhausted, but something about this pretty Mob boy just makes you... excited again. How far in are you, and how far is Satoru in the mafia world? All he knows, is he must have you.

CW: Sexual tension, eventually explicit sex, mafia themes, drug themes, violence, obsessed ass whipped ass Satoru Gojo, oral sex, possessive Gojo, drug use and drug dealing - lowkey Yandere fkn Gojo hehe. Light angst, some fluff, heavy smut, lots of teasing, light angst and hurt comfort.

That Gojo art is by michi_ia on X!!! This is the Gojo from Pour it Up (Stripclub owner Sukuna x reader)- six parts - finished! WC- 45.5k - Extras- here

Playlist -Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo headcanons below

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo who just finds everything so boring, even snorting lines off pretty stripper's bodies, even drinking with his best friend and partner in crime, Suguru. These meetings and those things, and this job, and this drop, blah. Negotiations!? Pfft. No he wants something fun and no amount of fruity drinks or sugar up the nose is cutting it anymore.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo has his drink getting filled by one dancer, sipping it and finding it much too harsh, he stands up then, as Sukuna chuckles 'need it even more of a lil bitch drink?' Satoru rolls his blue eyes, flipping Sukuna off then saying 'it's not sweet enough!' Satoru walks out into the humming club then, faltering as he sees a girl that must be new, in a black bra, black booty shorts and fishnets that are glowing under the blacklights. His eyes trail slowly up and down her body, filling him with filthy images as he finally meets her eyes- your eyes.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo who is usually so cocky and arrogant just stands there for a minute, like you're bringing him right out of some haze he's been in, as he feels your eyes looking right back, nervous smile on your pretty face. 'New here, sweetheart?' he asks, voice husky and deep, probably the prettiest damn person you've ever seen, for a moment you can't answer, blue eyes swirling and bright even under the club's dark lights and through the smoke and fog, you feel his gaze on your body as you're leaning over the side of the bar. 'I am new'

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo can't get your name out of his mind, as you bite your lower lip, focusing on making his drink - 'the first of the new job, you're special' you tease, and Satoru manages to get some of his charm together, chuckling as he leans over the bar. 'I am special, hmm?' you wonder why he wants that many sugary concoctions in one drink, but god it's the best drink, and he has to murmur 'bet you taste even better' earning your blush even under the flashing lights, 'huh?' he just brushes back your hair, smirking before he walks off, bombarding Sukuna with questions about you.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo specifically requests you sit with him during the next meeting, as they discuss the Zenin family and the Kamo family, two other big names in the Mob scene, but now he gets to focus on you, as he decorates your collarbone with snowy powder, snorting it off you, while you can't stop a little whimper. No one hears it but him, and it makes him feral, cock throbbing as your hips shift, his eyes notice every movement until they close, and he licks the residue off your throat, hot tongue making your mind go insane with images of just what that long pink tongue can do.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo finds these meetings about the business so much more fun now, but instead of looking at any of the strippers, he's only looking at you, at your pretty eyes, plump lips parted as you look at him, and he wonders how pretty you'll look cumming just for him. When they're all leaving the meeting in the VIP room the next time, you can't stop yourself, sitting on his damn thigh, wetness making your panties sticky, and you look at him then. 'Need something, sweets?' he murmurs, smirking like an arrogant little ass, as his hand slips up and down your thigh, and he's been edging you for just too long, so you break - 'touch me, please Mr. Gojo'

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo dies internally at your request, precum already making his boxers stick as he finds your clit under this slutty skirt you have on, rolling a fingertip over a twitchy clit, and your head falls back, 'mnh, s'good!' you whine, grinding on his thigh, but it's just not enough for Satoru, he turns you so you're straddling him on this red velvet couch, he looks dangerous but somehow sweet, as you clutch his suit jacket, and he sinks two fingers in your cunt, pressing against that spongy spot in your slick walls, making your cunt drool down to his pretty silver rolex, those sleeves of his coated with you as you roll your hips, moaning, back arching - 'shh, sweets, don't want anyone t'hear this slutty cunt, hmm?'

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo has the most ridiculous, long thick fingers you've ever felt, you're closer and closer as he continues curling them inside your eager hole, your lips just a breath from his as your hands now enwrap in his silky white locks, grinding even more on his hand, as he chuckles softly, his breath ghosting over your lips. 'need me to play with that little clit, too?' you nod weakly - 'sure things, pretty girl, there you go, that's it' you're shattering now, and Satoru is watching, while his thumb presses over your twitchy clit, and you're cumming so hard you feel dizzy, pussy pulsing and dripping down his fingers, trembling thighs on either side of him.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo sighs at how pretty you are, slipping those two fingers in your mouth, smirking and murmuring 'suck them clean, be a good girl for me' and you eagerly obey, before he grabs your hair by the nape of your neck, slamming your lips down on his. You both get interrupted by a very amused Sukuna then, who says 'let her get to work Satoru, or you need to get behind the bar and shake your ass' Satoru chuckles as you're blushing furiously, and he helps you adjust your skirt and panties, 'give her the day off tomorrow, I'll pay to cover someone' Sukuna sighs 'whatever' he grumbles, you blink then, looking down at his grinning face 'Satoru I can't afford to take off' he doesn't know the bills you have, the situation you have to take care of with your family, to help them, he sighs then 'I'll pay you four times your shift to just date me'

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo has never really gone on a date, no he just has girls on his arm, under him on his bed, he certainly didn't have to even try to do something like offer money, but he'd offer anything for a chance at you. You all don't end up going anywhere, though, because once you're in the back of Satoru's limo, and he's doing a line off your inner thigh, he starts licking at it, and before you know it he's dragged your panties off, burying his pretty face right in your pussy. 'ah, Mr. Gojo!' he leans up as he swipes the flat of his tongue from your drooling little hole to your clit, pressing a kiss on it 'Satoru, while you're cummin' all over m'face, hmm baby? taste s'fucking sweet' Satoru dives back in and the sounds of him slurping you up are obscene

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo licks and sucks your clit, humming on it until you're shattering, cumming so hard you see stars, then you're riding him right in that limo, struggling to take his huge cock, as it stretches your tight little pussy out, veiny and thick and sloppy, he moans into your mouth as your walls tighten around his cock, as he slams up endlessly into your pretty cunt over and over. You're on your knees, sucking his cum off him, off his pretty pink tip, before you're on your knees right in the plush limo seat, and he's hitting it from the back, making you cry out 'Satoru!' which makes him bust again, inside you so deep, pulling out and watching your arousal and his cock drip down so messy, before he scoops his sticky cum and shoves it back inside you.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo can't stop thinking of how good it looked, your pussy sucking up the cum so greedy, when he sees you the next day at your work, and it's not long until he's behind the bar, eating your pussy that he cannot get enough of, all while you're trying to work, you're so cute trying to mix a drink when his tongue is on your clit, and you're squeaking at him, 'Satoru, s-stop' but he can't stop. He's got your panties in his pocket, he'll keep them for later, you shouldn't worry about that, but you're trembling with nerves and fear when he runs out to deal with the Zenin bullshit with everyone, worried about things you don't fully know yet.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo is dying to get back to you, he doesn't wanna deal with all this shit, he just wants to drink you up more, but here he is, as he deals with some of the bullshit that the Zenins are doing, he can't stand them then, when he has to actually show them just who and what the Gojo family is. When he is covered in blood, him, Suguru, Toji and Sukuna come back to the club, exhausted, when you see him you blink back tears, and he murmurs 'come to my place, clean me up?' He is exhaling and shooting that smirk, but there's so much behind it, you see now. You eagerly obey, realizing you both don't know anything about each other yet, as you're bandaging his pretty face, all cut up, in his pristine bathroom, and you're wondering just what it is that Satoru has gotten into, but for now you both just kiss, his blood tangy against your lips, as his kiss gets hungry, desperate, and he murmurs 'I need you'

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo He's smearing that blood across your pretty tits as he has you right on his bathroom counter, knowing he'll do anything to protect you, to keep you, from shit you will now get into for being with him, cupping your face as he fucks into you, and your eyes roll back in your skull, covered in Satoru's spit, his blood, now his precum as he's pumping in and out of you, knowing he certainly can't let you go, but he also can't let anyone know you're his weakness.

Buy me a glass of wine🍷 - Gen Masterlist - ©All works by Madamechrissy you may not reproduce

[indiewritesxoxo]

serial killer

love you just a little too much

synopsis: everyone loves to tell you how lucky you are a guy like Nanami sees something in you. even you don't get it sometimes. intelligent. handsome. the kind of gentleman who opens every door for you and gets flowers delivered just because. you never would've guessed what kind of double life he might be hiding. or how far he'll go to keep his squeaky clean cover story - and you.

pairing: serial killer!Nanami x gf!Reader

content: mdni, angst, light fluff, smut, mentions of murder/blood, multiple povs, childhood friends-to-lovers, distant/cold nanami, lonely reader, insecurities, jealousy, unhinged nanami, unprotected piv sex, pulling out, breaking and making up, domestic fluff, sukuna being a nosey shit lmfao, flirting, regret, grovelling, complicated relationships, more tags in each chapter

chapter index

one: vows

two: vulgarities

three: rings

four: wrongs

five: in sickness

six: and health

alternate ending: till death do us part

a/n: everyone say thank you to @starmapz for encouraging this

[liahcharms]

જ⁀➴ first love never dies

The Sun God had never been in love. Until he saw a lovely nymph, whose beauty made his heart race with a feeling impossible to capture in the sweetest words. Until he was struck by Cupid's arrow of love, sending his mind spiralling into an obsessive lust. Until he decided to... soothe you a bit, like a true, filthy scum. But well, Satoru Gojo was truly just a man in maddening love!

included in tales, myths, romances

˖𖤓 ݁˖ pairing: ꒰ Apollo!Gojo Satoru x Nymph!Reader ꒱

˖𖤓 ݁˖ content & warnings: ꒰ MDNI 18 + :: Greek Mythology AU :: half mythologically accurate :: MY WIFE FEMJO MENTIONED :: yandere Gojo Satoru :: obsessiveness :: possessiveness :: virgin reader :: masturbation :: strong reader :: she's also meannn :: Satoru is a SCUM in love :: drugging (with aprodisiac) :: lose of virginity :: Suguru is a scum too :: we're fucking on the beach :: posessive sex :: breeding :: mating press :: oral sex :: pussydrunk Satoru ꒱

˖𖤓 ݁˖ words: ꒰ 11.4k ꒱

˖𖤓 ݁˖ notes: I need to learn how to write short fics, because it was supposed to be 6k. Anyway, it is half-mythologically accurate, as I, of course, added a few changes. There's not much said in mythology about Daphne's (nymph's) character, so I played with it a bit. Enjoy!

The common truth seemed to be that Apollo had been stricken by the wicked arrow of love by Cupid himself.

During the fight of sorts, Apollo, always so proud and pugnacious, killed the serpent Python. He slew him with a thousand arrows as the beast wrought devastation across the lush lands of mankind.

And so the God defeated it grandly, with his handsome cheeks and eyes kissed by the Mother Sea itself, shining majestically beneath the golden rays of the Mediterranean sun.

The end of the story it could be, yet the God of Music and Poetry and Sun, to put it bluntly, did not know how to shush a cheeky mouth of his that boasted round and round.

One day, flushed with foolish pride, he saw a God of Love, Eros, bending his bow, arrow drawn taut. A boy of young age who seemed too sweet not to tease, and as Apollo was known for his wicked, playful mind, he poked the little divinity with a laugh.

A laugh it was supposed to be, yet he went too far.

He joked a few too many times, laughing at how Eros shouldn't handle a weapon reserved only for the truest men. After all, who killed the serpent Python if not Apollo himself?

He had every right to be arrogant, yet the Gods and Goddesses couldn't stand the wicked smirk and unwavering haughtiness that always clouded his mind. He was beautiful and sleek, yet no one on Olympus's peak could ever match his arrogance and boldness.

Apollo was powerful, yet Eros was unkind. After he poked and played and had his fun, Apollo left Eros alone in the forest, giving him no mind. He didn't know, however, that the God of Love would prove far more wicked than he had thought.

As with his hurt pride, Eros plucked a few creamy feathers from his wings and prepared two arrows. They were completely different, one creating love, the other banishing it entirely. A savage decision, truly, yet how could a prideful man of Eros's sort leave Apollo without the fruit of his wrath?

So he drew the arrow of love and shot it right through his bones. Letting it seep deep and gravely, spreading the lustful obsession of the most wicked charm. The utterly deadly one, making one obsessed and wretched over the darling of their desires.

Usually, his arrows were meant to strike those who wished to be deeply in love. Yet, as the rage was ravaging Eros's mind, he decided to make Apollo the most obsessed yet unhappy man in the entire world.

As for the other one, meant to banish the love, he shot at the daughter of the River's God.

The most beautiful nymph of all, with a face carved by the waves themselves. A chin utterly kind and cheeks wholly sweet, as eyes carried a gentleness of petals' peppered kisses. A wild birdie she was, basking carefree beneath the searing sun, as she lay and drank and danced without giving a mind to no mankind nor other little divinities. Nothing plagued her cheeky mind, and no worry could ever haunt her velvety forehead.

After all, she was the River God's most precious child, and he allowed her everything, guided by a parent's blissful love.

Her giggle bloomed in the nearby trees, and tender gaze lit the powdery midnight sky. A true beauty of utterly rare sight, so impossible it seemed too not be caught in Apollo's sight!

The God of Sun and Music and Poetry had never been in love. He enjoyed the bodily pleasures rather often, yet had never come upon a thing so deadly and wicked called love.

He knew that Gods and mortals joyed in it with the passion seething in their blood – for there were Hades and his Persephone, Aphrodite and Ares, even Orpheus and Eurydice, too, although it seemed that love of humankind was of a rather cruel sort.

Apollo, or, well, Satoru Gojo, as his true name was, never gave it much thought. The Goddesses and Gods were utterly beautiful, true, yet none of them had ever made his heart race with the swell and tenderness that all the poets wrote of.

He had never felt this tickling pinch his spine, nor the sudden blissful pain puncturing through his heart. No lover had ever bewitched his soul in an almost maddening way, and so he thought that the thing called love was simply not a part of his fate. Even if, that was rather fine too.

And yet… the serpents of fate are wicked.

Another summer evening it was, while Dionysus threw a joyous party as Gods usually liked to do. With wine spilling all over the golden cups and jolly laughter swirling through the tall grasses of the midnight land.

Gods there were of all sorts – trees and rivers and plants, each with loveliest offspring too, joined the grand feast.

It happened thirty moons or so before Eros shot Satoru with an arrow of maddening love. One evening, when the God who devoted his mind to no one set his eyes on… you.

A Goddess? Dearests, no.

As if you were the Goddess, he would fear that Aphrodite, driven by jealousy, would quickly pluck your eyes out. For the moment you entered the banquet held on the hidden beach, where waves rolled in deep foams, and moonlight spilt its cold kisses onto the heavy stones, Satoru needed to hold his breath.

This feeling, which he had read – written – about so often, suddenly bloomed in the swells of his heart. His hand flew towards his chest, crumpling the ivory tunic that covered the sizzling skin. His mind was struck, as if by a trickery spell, making him lose interest in the men and women chirping by his side.

The lyre in his hands felt heavy as he plucked the crystal strings, producing an unpleasant tone. But how could he not, if his eyes were devouring a beauty he'd never seen before?

And that evening, he followed you like a lost pup. With an ocean gaze lingering longer on the swells of your body, wrapped in a flimsy dress, and on your sweet cheeks, giggling foxily as the salty breeze smooched them. The flicker of the candles peppering long tables cast a lovely flame upon your skin, basking it in gold and warmth, as he imagined licking it clean.

Satoru Gojo was a poet too. A God of Poetry, after all, yet his mind was miserably empty whenever he tried to put your beauty into words. No one had ever shone brighter than you, and no giggle forced this weird, foreign feeling to seep through the marrow of his ribcage.

He was always responsible for the music and jolly, while his dearest friend Dionysus spilt the wine into guests' cups. The merry atmosphere tickled him in a pleasant way, and the mere thought of going back to one of his temples with a few little birdies forced a cheeky smile upon his brazen lips.

The women, Goddesses, and little divinities who didn't wish to be smooched by Satoru's muscular arms were indeed few. Yet the nymph who bewitched his mind in the utmost wretched way didn't bestow him with lovely eyes even once.

Dionysus noticed Apollo's frown crumbling, so he jumped to his side with a whisper, "Hm, isn't she your type, my dearest God?"

Satoru glanced at the slyness on Suguru's lips and bit the inside of his soft cheek. "That's the problem. And yet it seems I'm not quite hers."

Suguru pushed a raven lock of his hair back behind his ear, and lavender eyes oogled your giggling body with a slight grin. "Do you wish me to give her a bit of my special wine?"

The special wine was simply spiked with an aphrodisiac. Some Gods loved to use it to heighten their own sexual pleasure, while others too… made the object of their desires a bit mellow. A bit more balmy and sweet, and so Satoru already imagined your body melting beneath his fingers as he held it dearly within his delicate grasp.

Feeding you the special wine would be easy. And yet, Satoru didn't wish to be a bastard.

"Oh, but you are," Suguru chuckled, sensing the thought in his friend's mind. "I don't think there's any God more selfish than you."

Satoru knew it was the truth, for his character was rather… oh well… let's simply say he wasn't known to be the kindest and most lovable pick among the women. The most beautiful one? Surely. The best in offering sexual pleasures? Indeed. Yet he was the most arrogant bastard on the Mountain's peak, and every creature living beneath the Midetarrean sun knew of it far and well.

You most likely knew it too, so that's why the stars bouncing off your eyes did not look his way even for a second.

His head fell against Suguru's shoulder, the heavy wine coating his tongue with a sweet taste. His mind buzzed with a clash of drunken and desperate thoughts, a pulsing desire already flowing like liquid through his veins.

"I want to approach her in a nice way," he muttered, feeling Suguru's body tremble with wicked laughter.

"You can only dream, my God. She had rejected all attempts to woo her. The men and the Gods were rebuffed before they could grasp the weight of her eyes," Suguru hummed, feeling Satoru's head suddenly grow heavy on his shoulder.

"Is it her father's fault?"

Suguru shook his head. "The River God wishes for nothing more than to see his grandchildren's blooming cheeks. It's she who sniffs at all her suitors. After all, she is a virgin huntress, bound by Artemis's chastity laws." Satoru's head grew heavier. "You'd better forget about her, my God."

But how could he! His heart raced for no one but her. And even if she was a virgin beauty, Satoru didn't mind it at all, for he truly believed in the power of his charming soul. The arrogant confidence of the Sun God was truly impossible to dim!

And so that evening, Apollo decided to fulfil your father's deepest wish and become a man worthy of his daughter's hand. The one who would turn the virgin huntress into his most delicate, lovely petal.

At first, he began strolling around the meadows you usually spent your time in. Where the river curved and bent like a serpent's snake, and crystal droplets smooched your body, immersing you deep. You often sat with other sisters, and Satoru would approach you all with his foxed smile, dripping with a few sweetish words about your utter charm.

The other nymphs giggled, blushing gently at the lyricism spilling from his lips, as if the words of the most passionate, heart-throbbing kind were meant for them indeed. They looked at your unfazed face with a sly smile, knowing that their sister would reject Apollo's advances as she did with all her other suitors.

The Sun God knelt on the riverbank, looking down at your naked body hidden beneath the water's gentle swells. He could see nothing but the swell of your breasts, with perked nipples smooched by the river's kisses. You were meant to stay a virgin, true, but no one said you couldn't use the charms of yours to make the men spill miserably right beneath your feet.

So you glanced, for the first time, at God's idyllic face and waved your hand with a soft sigh. "I don't need your courtship, my God. There's nothing you can say that will force my mind to change. And to answer the question you most anticipate – no, I won't marry you."

Other suitors would back away instantly, feeling the intimidating air your glance carried across the lush plains. Your head tilted wickedly, lips curving into a playful beam, as if you knew the wretched state you always left them in.

Because a man's nature was to challenge his luck. Who didn't think that maybe their fate would be to change the virgin's mind? As all of them thought of you as the gentle, timid petal, not knowing that the virgin huntress was indeed a true beast hidden beneath the loveliest female cheeks!

But the Apollo, of course, couldn't be more turned on by your harsh rejection. The truth was that he almost didn't hear a word. No, instead he focused on the way your lips curved into a tricky smile. How crystalline droplets clung to your half-dipped breasts, with liquid sun spilling all over your warm skin. He traced them one by one, dripping from the damp hair and down the chest. His eyes seemed to be enamoured by your heavy gaze, slightly squinted and teasing, as if you already knew that your rejection would pinch his wretched heart.

And so a truthful, "My Goddess, you're ethereally beautiful with this wrath-wrinkle of yours," fell with his deep, obsessed sigh.

The nymphs gasped, covering their lips with gentle hands. Their mingling eyes glanced between your squinted gaze and the God's wretched sigh, as they awaited how this concern would unfold.

"I'm not a Goddess, and I don't need your praise," you said, your voice dripping with disinterest. "Find yourself another muse, my God. There's no need to waste your precious time on a simple nymph."

You bounced off the river's edge and swam to the other one, where the Sun God knelt. With the golden halo smooching his pale cheeks and ivory tunic crumpling on muscular shoulders. Feet clad in long, serpent sandals, golden laurel laying high on frosted head.

You've seen men of his sort, yet he was the first to look down on you with such a wretched gaze. Like a doomed lover, trapped in a circle of unrequited love, as if his heart had never swelled for any beauty but your gentlest soul.

He watched you carefully as you swam his way, unhurriedly, slowly. Water flowed over your body in soft waves, and warm wind shook the sole strings of your hair as it fell.

Your arms rested on the lush grass as you looked up at him through a curtain of wet lashes. "My God, I think it's time for you to go."

Satoru smiled – foxily, slyly, yet truthfully – before his hand reached out to cup your lovely cheek. You quickly pulled back, letting the tips of his fingers only catch a whisper of your soft lips.

His head tilted, a few creamy strands falling loosely over his straight brows. "I don't wish to hurt you, my Goddess." He grabbed the hem of his tunic. "I simply hope you'll grant me a chance."

He was kneeling, propping himself on his toes, as his fingers itched to grab a single lock of yours.

"I won't. I pledged Artemis my virginity. I'm a huntress, not your silly muse. Leave this place, or you'll taste the blood of my arrows."

And these words had indeed been bold, as all three realms of this world knew that no man had been more skilful in archery than Apollo himself.

If anyone else had spoken them in such a daring manner, the wrath of Apollo would bring painful consequences.

Yet when he heard it in this lovely yet viper-like tone of yours, a shiver ran down his spine. His hair stood on end as if electrified, and an ethereal aura smouldering around his figure suddenly intensified.

He wasn't afraid, oh surely no.

But rather, the swelling enamour, pinching his fingertips, washed over his heart. Your wicked personality wasn't an issue of any sort, but rather made the Sun God burn with an unexplainable desire. Heat that seeped down to his loins as he took a whistling breath.

"My Goddess, do you know who you're threatening to?"

You knew, of course, yet the urge to play with his boastful ego suddenly proved stronger than the choice to simply leave him be. You've met men like him before – too proud, too arrogant, the ones who'd never heard the word no. Yet of all you'd rejected, Apollo – Satoru Gojo – was the worst of all.

He was the Sun God, after all, who took satisfaction in the fact that the world, indeed, revolved around him. A personification of vanity and smugness, surpassing even Narcissus's pompous pride.

He knew what spell his wicked beauty cast over the nymph's petal cheeks. He knew the virgin maiden would fall for him most pitiably, needing only a single glance from his lustful eyes. His touch was soft, and his hands roamed over the women's tender bodies in the most loving way, yet never leaving them with the true tenderness that should fill his heart.

Satoru Gojo was a simple scum you wished to have nothing to do with. A cheeky smile tugged at your lips as you rested your arms on the river's edge and lifted half your body out of the water.

He didn't try to hide the ocean gaze, immediately snapping down towards your perked nipples, with crystal droplets dripping down the lush glass. Your head tilted, eyes turning kitty-like, as the blessed kisses of sunshine, of his sun, peppered your wet cheeks.

"To just yet another miserable man," fell almost mockingly, prompting a sudden movement around his hips. You've noticed it, and so you turned your lips into a disgusted grimace. "Go away, my God, and know my mercy. I won't be that nice next time."

You fully lifted yourself from the water, standing next to his kneeling body, naked. His gaze followed up your thighs, the mound of your pussy, the plush of your belly, tracing every crystalline line carving into your body. When it finally met your eyes, his throat bobbed.

"My Goddess, you're truly underestimating my feelings for you."

A scoff slipped past your lips as your eyes rolled. "For the God of Poetry, I expected more flowery words."

And so, ignoring whether he wished to say anything next, you simply passed him by. Going deeper into the woods, leaving the Sun God with nothing but the lingering fragrance of your blooming skin in the air, and the painfully, wickedly wretched pleasure bubbling in his loins.

𖤓 𖤓 𖤓

You truly thought that he would give up.

That the Sun God, like any other man, wouldn't wish to pursue a woman who looked at him with nothing but a deep scowl between her beautiful brows.

And yet, for the next thirty moons, he always seemed to be there. Somewhere around, following you like a shadow, with eyes and lips and mind always speaking loudly, giving you neither peace nor serenity among the quiet fields of your home.

Whenever you went hunting, his arrows sliced through the air faster than yours, striking the animals and beasts with power that crumbled the heavens themselves, and a gasp always slipped past your lips.

Quiet, voiceless, yet somehow leaving you speechless upon seeing the strength the Sun God possessed.

He found you every single day, appearing like a spectre by the riverbank, a bow slung over his muscular shoulder, gold and softly feathered, mingling beneath the rising sun.

"Where are we going today, my Goddess?" He jumped to your side with a smile, immediately sniffing the fresh, flowery scent that clung to your sparkling hair.

You gave him no mind, simply following deeper into the warm, moist woods. The sun was barely high, and so you watched the trees wake from the slumber's tight arms.

"I'm going for breakfast, and you can do whatever you want."

Yet you knew that no matter how mundane your day was, Satoru Gojo would follow you nonstop. Just to steal a glance at your lips as you wrapped them around the orange's sweetest juice, the sugary stickiness dripping down your blooming cheeks. To watch the way your back bent whenever you drew yet another deadly arrow. How muscles beneath your flimsy tunic worked, and the sweat bubbled at the back of your neck as he traced it with a hungry gaze.

A few weeks had to pass before you started to tolerate his daily company.

He still acted bold and proud, often boasting like a peacock right in front of your irritated eyes, yet tried to keep his hands away, even though you'd noticed how his fingers curled whenever your tunic brushed their tips.

But then one day… something had changed.

You didn't know what, but well, he did.

Eros's wicked arrow had struck his bones, making his gut leak with maddening love. He was aware of the wretched ache in his heart, yet only after being struck by a love-spell of sorts did something beastly unlock in his mind.

As for the arrow meant to banish love, Eros shot it towards Apollo's dearest one. As all the Gods on Olympus already knew of his wretched state, Eros played his dirty trick, ensuring that the sweetest nymph would never glance at Apollo again.

But… well. A man in such haunting love is truly a hellish creature himself.

When the love-bound arrow struck his back, he took it with a wicked pleasure. Yet, when he saw another one flying boldly towards the curve of yours, he grabbed it swiftly, before the leaking peak could ever brush your skin.

It was a sudden movement as he stepped closer, his hand shooting toward something over your shoulder.

It happened yet another day, as you both walked the serpentine paths through his temple's lush garden. There's a little cove I wish to show you. How about a quick dip? After spending a month in his presence, you sighed and nodded, as nothing gave you more wicked pleasure than seeing him lose his mind at the sight of your naked body in fresh mountain waters.

And so, while your tunic fell to the ground and a warm wind brushed your hair with a soft tickle, he suddenly stepped closer.

Too close. Before a sudden crack of splintering wood sounded behind you, he drew an arrow, his long fingers clenching it.

"What is it?" you furrowed, looking at the long wooden arrow crushed in his strong grip.

He threw it to the side, taking the ivory tunic off his body. "Nothing, probably someone's lost arrow. Give it no mind."

But how could you, when something deep in your chest panged? You were a huntress, after all, so how could you not notice an arrow slashing at your side? There was never a moment when you would let your guard down, and yet, being in Satoru's presence somehow pulled a blissful laziness to seep into your mind.

He was always there – looking, watching, carefully observing each of your moves. Swooshing away a few men who dared to approach your side while he kept his eyes on you for too long.

To tear their limbs apart and unleash plagues across their lands with a single arrow. Something… you didn't know about, since there was no need to trouble your sweet mind. To reveal a sinister side of him that would shatter the gradually improving image you held of him.

His mind was already wicked. Heart wrenched by the pull of love so strong that it seeped into him from the inside. So the moment the love arrow struck his back, the feelings he had tried to keep within his heart suddenly burst with brutish, uncontrollable force.

He simply needed to make you his.

So you hummed softly, taking the first step into the little cove, with water slipping in from the nearby sea. A crisp chill hugged your limbs as you took a deep breath.

He watched you with a smile before dipping into the water too. "Rather good, isn't it?"

You nodded, leaning your arms over one of the sizzling stones. "Mhm."

Your bashful eyes roved over his ethereal body, lingering a moment longer on the broad, muscular back and meaty thighs. A warmth seeped through your loins, so you quickly looked away.

But he saw it. Of course he did, and so his body drifted a little closer, just to feel the saltiness wrapping your skin. Your hair fell loosely over your wet shoulder, and warmth crept up your soft neck.

The slight ache from the morning's hunt still pinched your muscles, so you turned to him again, only to see that he had suddenly come far too close.

A soft cough escaped your throat as you pressed yourself closer to the stone. "Could you, hm, give me a quick massage, my God?"

Satoru chuckled. "A massage? Is that how you wish to use the powerful Sun God?"

A scoff slipped past your lips as you turned back and rested your cheek against the warm stone. With eyes slightly lidded, you knew he, anyway, would give you whatever you wanted.

"Is there anything else you're good for?" A cheeky question slipped past your lips, followed by a low sigh.

He stood mere millimetres from your arched back, and the heat radiating from his body was smouldering your drenched skin. Long, thick fingers settled gently on your shoulders before he began pressing the muscles. Your body melted beneath his strong touch, and your mind went all fuzzy – nothing but soft moans and sighs would fill the little, hidden cove.

"I'm sure you can find a few things you could make good use of," his voice dripped with seduction, tickling your hair-covered cheeks.

A tsk fell past your lips. "You have only filth in your mind."

Well, how could he not? When your back arched so deliciously, with water hugging solely your slightly dipped hips? He could see the swell of your ass almost brushing his thighs, and if he took a little step forward, the tip of his leaking cock would surely brush your skin.

It was a blessing that you lay pressed to the stone in a blissfully unaware state, not knowing that the Sun God was going through pure torture right behind your back. With the fat, long cock sticking to his abdomen, little pearls of precum dripping down the veiny curve.

"You make me act filthy, my Goddess."

A month ago, you would have smacked his cheek and left him be. But now, with his fingers digging deep into the muscles of your back, a lovely laugh slipped past your lips.

"It's a pity I'm a wretched virgin, hm?" You straightened your spine, as if trying to give him a better view. "My God, you truly have extraordinary restraint."

Oh, how he loved this cheeky side of yours. The pure filth spilling from your virgin lips, eyes taking on a nasty look whenever you caught him staring at your nipples peeking through the tunic. The way you always undressed yourself in front of him without blushing like a birdie, taking full pleasure in the fact that he couldn't touch you as he wished.

Who said that a virgin should be timid and cowardly? If you could keep your chastity while still enjoying the wretched state you put men in?

And which God would be more fun to tease than the one who slipped through numerous affairs?

Satoru hummed, pressing your back a little harder. Slipping lower, and lower, through your ribcage and waist, rolling the little dimples just above your hips. "Have I? I'm afraid this restraint might one day snap."

A shudder ran down your spine as you tried to keep your head steady. Your bow lay still on the river's bank, and if he tried to misbehave even a bit, you would simply shoot him clean.

And yet, your hips rolled, as if trying to chase the pleasure his touch gave. "I'll be there when it happens." You looked over your shoulder, not missing the squint he gave you… "And I'll make sure to bring you to your senses," …and the reddened tip sticking to his hips. "I think you might wish to take care of it. Maybe with one of your muses?"

Or whores, as you actually wanted to say.

His cock trembled as you looked at it, and Satoru could only chuckle. Nastily, mischievously, with the fingers pulling your hips a bit closer. Yet not close enough for your wet pussy to feel the meaty shaft graze her lips.

"You are my muse, Goddess," he leaned closer, his warm breath brushing your cheeks. "Do you wish to hear the poems I've written about you?"

The sizzling sun licked your spine, eyes followed as his plush lips leaned to your ear. "Are they as filthy as your mind?"

He nodded, fingers slipping down towards the swell of your hips. Rolling deep circles, loosening the tightness in your muscles. "How could they not?" Snowy hair almost tickled your ear. "Who do you think I pleasure myself to? You may be a virgin, my Goddess, but I have my needs too."

With a sudden movement, he flipped you over, pressing your back to the warm stone. His thick cock stuck to the white trail of his abdomen, yet still not touching your dripping cunt.

You may've pledged chastity, yet you couldn't control your body's simple needs.

"You can't do anything to me," you said, yet something in your voice quivered.

His head tilted wickedly, and his eyes shone as he gripped the fat shaft. "But you can watch, hm?" A thumb swirled over the pearly tip, smearing the sticky cum over the reddened head. "Or is it also against your chastity?"

Maybe it was. Yet your head shook as back pressed closer to the stone. The water swelled over your hips, leaving your breasts bare to his starving gaze.

"Hm, thought so." His fingers slipped to your cheek, brushing a few wet locks away. "My Goddess, you truly are a wicked creature."

Pleasure, distress, haunting desire clashed with each other in your mind, yet your body froze in place. Lips fell only slightly open, eyes bulging like porcelain plates, seeing the fatness he gripped. Leaking with creamy droplets of precum, soaking his long fingers and veiny thickness.

Saying he was large would be an understatement.

Something in your belly squeezed, imagining his bulging head hit the deepest–

"Stop," the word slipped out in a shudder as you turned your head away. With warm cheeks and a trembling lip, as if the Sun God's look of himself pleasuring himself solely on your blooming face were against every pledge you had made. "Go and find one of your filthy muses."

Satoru chuckled before his fingers pinched your chin, turning your head back. He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing yours. "I can't think of anyone but you, my Goddess. Look what a wretched man I am because of you." His thumb brushed your lower lip, then slipped boldly onto your tongue. "Do you truly wish to put your Sun God through such a tor–"

Yet before he could finish, your hand met his cheek. A slap bounced off the water, turning his face left. To bring it back to face your wrath, you slapped it again.

His creamy face bloomed like the softest rose, and a shiver of pleasure ran down his spine. Excitement pinched his heart as fingers clenched around the fat shaft with a low, groany moan.

He bit the inside of his cheek, looking down at your face, burning with rage. "Slap me again, my Goddess, and I'll make you arch that pretty ass of yours for me again."

You didn't know where this sudden change had come from, yet the man standing in front of you was not the one who had pestered you for the past thirty moons.

No, as Satoru Gojo, who now stood mere millimetres from your body, with his musky scent clouding you tight and his fat cock trembling at the sheer look of yours – look much, much madder.

Wretched, obsessed, with the flame dancing behind his watery eyes and a wicked smile tugging at his rosy lips

Another shiver ran down your spine when he started pumping his shaft faster. Smearing the creamy cum all over the bulging veins, throwing his head back yet still following the gentle rise of your trembling breasts.

The rage bubbled beneath your heart, and a tiny thread of heat smouldered on your cheeks. He leaned a bit closer, and closer, and closer, until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He didn't touch you in any other way, yet the sole impact left you breathless.

"My Goddess, you smell so good," he took a deep breath close to your neck, letting another groan escape his lips. "So delicious, ah, I can only imagine how sweet the scent is down there."

A shuddered breath escaped your tightened throat, feeling his muscular, massive body looming over yours like a deathly threat. Long fingers pumped his cock faster, breathless moans hit your drenched skin, before he finally stilled.

With the gentle, petal kiss upon your shoulder and his cheek nuzzling against your skin.

Something warm spilt over your belly. And you didn't need to look down to know what it would be.

"You're disgusting," fell in pure wrath, as you pushed him away. "Nothing but filthy scum. I hope this satisfied your hunger, because the next time I see you, my God, not even your wicked arrows will be able to save you from my rage."

You left the water with a shuddering, vexing tremor washing over your spine, and this little, agonisingly rubbing feeling that spilt hotly all over your mind.

Satoru followed your body with a slick smile, the saltiness of your skin still tasting heavy on his lips.

The Sun God was of a cunning nature. Wicked and wrathful, always doing things one way. His way. 

Three weeks had passed before he had a chance to see you again.

His heart heaved in agony as he couldn't find you anywhere. As always, he came at the first break of day to join you on the morning hunt, but you simply weren't there. Waiting for him with a scowl, yet still giggling at all his foolish jokes and accepting a bit of help.

He was waiting by the river's bank from morning till night, yet you hadn't appeared even once. As if the waves themselves had trapped you beneath the surface.

He asked around – the nymphs, the Goddesses, the plains – yet everyone said they hadn't seen you for days. Or maybe they simply lied to him, as you couldn't simply disappear.

And so for the next three weeks, he walked through the lands like a shadow. He barely enjoyed anyone's company, sitting in his temple only to get drunk on the sweetest wine, letting his creamy skin be scorched beneath his own, merciless sun. A shadow of a man he was, as his heart simply couldn't bear the separation you imposed with such anger.

After two weeks, he met his twin sister, Artemis, to whom you pledged your chastity. He loved his sister dearly and knew her like the back of his hand. Thus, with a single glance, he could tell she knew everything that had happened between the two of you.

And based on her furrowed forehead and tsk that fell when she saw his grinning face entering her temple – she wasn't happy.

"I won't tell you where she is," she murmured, brushing her long, creamy hair aside as she enjoyed the warm kisses in the sun.

She lay on the sofa by her pool, with nothing but a long tunic gently wrapped around her body. Satoru hung over her wrinkled forehead and pressed a finger to satin skin. "My sister, such a beautiful woman you are, and yet you always seem so angry."

Shihori smacked his hand, glancing up at his brother with the same blue eyes. "Because you always make me angry, fool."

Satoru lifted her legs and rested them on his thighs as he joined her on the sofa. "Tell me where she is."

Shihori couldn't care less about her brother's wicked wish, so she shook her head. "You know she pledged her virginity, hm?"

Satoru hummed, playing with the long tunic as he brushed his sister's ankles. "I do."

"So you also must know what will happen if she breaks her vow?"

Of course he knew. That's why he came here.

"What if I told you I love her?" he asked, drawing his sister's attention. "I want to make her my wife. Give her to me, and I promise I will be in your debt forever."

Shihori propped herself up on elbows, letting long white hair brush her rosy cheeks. She was as beautiful as her younger brother – by a minute only. Possessing the same archery skill and a power that trembled the heavens.

With a slim chin and wicked eyes, matching the proudish smile. Strong and bold, with neatly carved muscles bulging beneath her satin skin and an authoritative tone that always made Satoru slightly squirm. But she was his older sister, after all, so how could he not feel the utter love and respect for the same blood?

"And why would I do that?" Shihori lifted her straight brow. "Why would I change my rules for this little nymph?"

"Because you love me," Satoru grinned. "And I suppose it would be rather proper to remind you that enjoying women's company also counts as losing one's virginity. My dearest virgin-goddess sister."

Shihori squinted, kicking his side with her foot. "Whatever I do with my nymphs is none of your business."

Satoru grabbed her ankle before biting her big toe, just as he used to tease her when they were children.

"I suppose some Gods would be interested in how the protector of young women and their virginity fucks with her dearest followers," he chuckled as she kicked him again. "You're no better than me, my sister. The same scum-blood runs in our veins. So let me have her, and I won't say a word."

Shihori glared at him. Morality and the need to give her little brother everything were clearly at war in her mind before she waved her hand and lay back down.

"Fine, I won't punish her. Just don't do anything stupid," she laughed, feeling Satoru's sweet kiss on her cheek. "She'll join another feast in a week. Just wait for her there. Oh, and bring me some of this Suguru's special wine."

Satoru tilted his head, another wicked grin already tugging at his lips. He knew his sister wasn't the saint everyone took her for, yet he had no idea how coy she was.

"And what do you need an aphrodisiac-spiked wine for?"

She opened one eye, shooting a set of daggers straight at his heart. But before another bark could pass her plush lips, Satoru chuckled once again. "Ah, what was this rumour, hm…" His eyes gleamed with a foul grin.

"What rumour?" Shihori asked through her teeth, yet the rosy warmth hit her cheeks.

Satoru stood up from the sofa, giving his muscular back a long, groany stretch. He scratched his chin before looking over his shoulder towards his sister. Oh, her anger only fueled his playful mind.

"Nothing, just that our dearest stepmother has been surprisingly benevolent lately," he observed, another wave of warmth wrapping around her neck. "I suppose it's because Hera truly enjoys the company of her stepdaughter. I wonder what makes her so happy that even Zeus no longer gets scolded for all his affairs."

Shihori slipped a pillow from beneath her head and threw it at his head. "Go out, before I change my mind!"

And so he left, with a crackling chuckle bouncing off the temple's walls and his older sister burning from embarrassment.

Yet now, with his sister's blessing, there was nothing that could stop him from pursuing your love.

And so he knew that the next time you met, he would make you his, whether you liked it or not.

𖤓 𖤓 𖤓

The moon spilt coldly over the feast's heavy tables as the Gods and Goddesses gathered around the flickering candles. The night was warm, as the summer breeze tickled the cheerful cheeks of the giggling nymphs, who listened to Satoru playing soft harp tunes.

An ivory tunic, as always, fell down his muscular shoulders, as the moon spilt dripping kisses on the lightened side of his face.

Finger played softly through the harp's gentle strings, yet lingered on your laughing cheeks. Something panged deep in his chest at how carefree you were with other divinities. You sipped your wine without giving Satoru much thought, as if you hadn't disappeared from Earth for the past three weeks.

Your laugh sliced sweetly through the air, tickling his ears. He desperately tried to force eye contact, yet you gave him nothing but the lovely side of your cheek.

An irritated tsk escaped his lips, an unpleasant anger bubbling deep in his chest. A few Gods approached you with a smile, forcing another wave of rage to wash over Satoru's spine.

Before he could step in, seeing how you slowly warmed yourself to some small God's side, a low, chuckling whistle slashed through the air.

"It seems like things didn't work your way," Suguru said, brushing Satoru's arm with his. "What? She rejected you?"

Satoru sighed, rolling his tense shoulders. "She's just a little nervous."

Suguru squinted his lavender eyes, clearly dissatisfied with such a roundabout answer. Raven hair tickled Satoru's cheek as he tilted his head. Satoru rarely saw his friend concerned with anyone but him, yet his forehead furrowed with a gentle wrinkle.

"Give her some of this wine," Satoru mumbled.

Suguru drew in a long breath, shooting his head towards Satoru. "But you said–"

He started, but Satoru quickly added. "I know what I said." He bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes squinting furiously. "Give her a little. Just to soothe her a bit."

Suguru chuckled, hitting his friend's back. "As you wish, my God."

"Ah, also, prepare a bit for Shihori."

Looking over his shoulder, Suguru rolled a laugh. "Your sister? What does she need it for?"

Satoru gestured with his chin towards the start of the table, where three of the brothers and their wives sat among the elite. With Persephone straddling Hades's hips, a quiet goddess wrapped around Poseidon's arm, and Hera… sitting utterly bored and giving Zeus's drunken laugh no mind.

Suguru followed his gaze before a devilish laugh escaped his throat. "Don't tell me she fucks with the queen mother herself?"

Satoru crossed his arms over his broad chest and let out a soft hum. Suguru tilted his head, admiring Hera's gentle cheeks. "Well, she's quite beautiful. No wonder she's stopped going crazy over Zeus's affairs lately."

Satoru watched as his friend took another pot of wine before rejoining the Gods. His golden tongue whispered the sweetest secrets, and the divinities laughed and blushed beneath Dionysus's soothing lines. After all, a God of Laughter, Wine and Theatre, he knew exactly how to play on people's minds.

You weren't an exception. As he approached and wrapped his arms around you and your friend, a gentle laugh made your eyes lift. Satoru bit the inside of his cheek, catching Suguru's sly glance, while his fingers clenched around your soft arm.

But still, he poured you another cup of the sweetest wine, watching you close as you took a sip. And another, another, another, before humming softly about how delicious it tastes.

A few minutes passed before something warm began to spill across your chest. A kind of fog clouded your mind – sweet and gentle, yet sizzling like the sun.

The nymph sitting right next to you grabbed your arm, looking at your hottish face with a furrow. "Hey, are you okay? Do you need some water?"

You drew in a sharp breath, feeling her cold skin against yours. Your head shook as a soft "I'm fine" barely passed your lips.

Excusing yourself, you rose from the chair and headed to a quieter part of the beach, where gentle waves lapped inside the small cove. Surrounded by the forest and shielded by tall trees, the spot offered a peaceful retreat. The salty breeze gently touched your cheeks, while your throat felt parched, and you scratched it with long nails.

The fog clouding your head was getting thicker, denser, spreading all over your body till the fingertips tingled with a pinching pleasure.

Something wet dripped down your inner thighs, and as you hid yourself behind a tree and slipped a hand beneath the long dress, you felt the stickiness coating your sizzling skin. But more so… the moment your finger brushed your swollen folds, a low bounce of the softly rolling waves.

"Fuck," slipped in a whisper, as you felt the burning pleasure fill your lower belly.

You looked around, seeing that neither mortal nor God peered into the little cove. The bay seemed completely private, with nothing but moonlight spilling onto the smooth sand and soft whispers rolling off the crystal waves.

You took a deep breath, unconsciously rubbing your thighs together. Just to feel a faint friction, yet too embarrassed to slip your finger up again.

You've never felt it before. This… sensation.

Pleasure.

Or maybe you did, yet your mind refused to accept that Apollo, or Satoru Gojo, was the only man who woke a dangerous flame deep in your chest.

Maybe you simply wished to forget about the warmth that boiled deep within your lower belly when his muscular body stood right in front of yours. The look on his handsome face, lost in utter pleasure, and his long fingers wrapped around his filthy cock.

You tried not to think of it again, as the moment the image of his shaft slipped again into your mind, another moany sigh rolled past your lips. Your pussy clenched around nothing, letting another batch of stickiness coat your thighs. Trickling down the skin, till you've noticed a little, wet drop landing on the sand.

"Fuck, fuckfuckfuck," you cried, feeling the burning sensation pinch your skin harder. Perking your nipples, softening your body, as if preparing you to accept the pleasure that needed to be spilt.

Bracing yourself against the stony wall, you took a few steps. On trembling legs, you felt the weakness slowly seep into your marrow. You walked slowly, trying to go deeper into the nearby forest, just to reach the river.

Somewhere safe.

You moved slowly, with wetness dripping down your legs and heavy breaths escaping your burning lungs. Your eyes were misty, nearly teary, as the feverish, floral heat enveloped your entire body.

Waves rolled past your bare feet, sandals long forgotten somewhere in the back. Your burning body couldn't bear the dress clinging to your skin, so you began to undress unconsciously.

One cloth after another, before falling down your knees, to crawl towards the river's banks.

"Do you need help, my Goddess?"

Someone's voice filled your balmy mind.

No, not someone's.

His.

Of the God whom you wished to see the last, as the sole fragrance of his skin pinched your senses in an utmost sinful way.

And, oh, he must've watched you now in such an embarrassing stance!

Kneeling with your sizzling body, you shed the sea-drenched dress behind you. The intense desire overwhelmed your reason as you presented yourself fully before his daring gaze.

"Go away," you barely breathed. "You can't see me in such a state."

But Satoru merely chuckled before you heard his heavy footsteps coming your way. Ocean eyes hummed at all the garments you'd left behind before settling on your clenched thighs and slightly arched back as you tried to crawl towards the nearest river.

He squinted, seeing the wetness dripping down your thighs and a gentle shimmer from your swollen pussy.

"My Goddess, it seems that you do feel unwell," He chuckled, taking another step your way. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Your head shook as you tried to crawl faster, only to get away from him as fast as you could. An attempt to stand up ended in a miserable fall onto the sand, drawing a soft giggle from Satoru's lips. He knelt by your side, brushing away a few strands of hair sticking to your cheeks.

"Oh my," he hummed, seeing the utter loveliness of your drugged face.

With cheeks sweet as fresh cherries and eyes softened by an alluring scowl. A gentle pout tugged at your lips as you unconsciously nuzzled against his skin. Another hand cupped your cheek as he held your face in a possessive grip. His big thumbs, tight yet delicate, brushed your skin.

"What is it, my Goddess?" He whispered, allowing a lenient sigh to spill past your lips. "What happened here, hm? Are you a bit too drunk?"

You nodded, thinking of nothing but the pleasant grip of his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, you were slowly giving in.

A miserable attempt to push him away ended solely with you even more pathetically landing on the soft sand. Your back hit it with a dull thud, as Satoru placed his fingers on your knees. Thumb rolled gently in circles, as if he knew how much pleasure your body took from each brush of his skin.

"Say it," he muttered, leaning closer. Plush lips brushed one of your knees, eyes never leaving your fogged face. "Say that you want me to help you, my Goddess. I know how to make you feel good."

Oh, and you knew too, which is why your knees tried to close again. But his grip was too strong, and he brutally forced them forward, folding you in half.

With your bare pussy dripping filthy onto the sand and perked nipples waiting to be softly brushed by his thumb.

The moonlight kissed his handsome, sharp side as he leaned in once again. To hang right over your face, observing with wicked pleasure the tears forming beneath your lids. As if he could see the fuzzy mess of your mind, with morality and a simple, human need drawing a brutal tight.

"I c-can't," you mumbled, feeling the heat drip down your tongue. It felt much heavier than before, barely touching your feverish roof. "Stop, I can't, the chastity–"

"Shhh," Satoru cooed, pressing your thighs to your chest. Till the swell of your ass glued off the drenched sand. "Artemis will forgive you."

His nose traced the plush of your cheek. Lips peppering your skin softly, leaving traces down your chin. His tongue swirled sweetly around one of your nipples, through the burning neck, perked breasts.

You wished to fight it – you truly did, yet a sugary moan slipped past your lips.

"No, she–ah!" you cried, as he softly bit your nipple.

"It's alright, my Goddess. Don't resist it," he murmured, with one hand feeling your breasts as his lips traced a path down your body. He gently bit, grazed, and nipped your skin before resting his cheek against your mound. "Allow me to take care of you. Just say you want it," he whispered, as his finger rolled your nipple, causing another cry to escape your lips.

"I'm a v-virgin, wait…" Your hand landed on Satoru's head, tugging softly on his hair.

Satoru groaned, feeling your gentle finger scratch his scalp. "I'll take good care of you. It won't hurt, I promise," he mumbled right into the drenched mound of your cunt, as the fragrance of sugary juices already hit his senses. "Fuck, my Goddess. Just let me have a taste. I won't put it in…" promise?

You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling his warm breath almost brush your core. Not quite, yet the mere sight of him, lying so handsomely between your thighs, was enough to force a nod.

A nod, which would never happen if your mind wasn't on the verge of spilling. If your body wasn't melting beneath his touch, thighs spreading even wider, just to open your cunt to his starving mouth.

It was utterly embarrassing, humiliating, mostly sinful act and yet… when his tongue finally licked the juices off your clit, a shuddering moan bounced off the cove's stones.

He didn't waste a time, pushing the drenched muscle right inside your spasming cunt. Slurping, ravishing on the waves of wetness that spilt from your hole in unnaturally large bursts. Droplet after droplet, trickling down his chin and landing softly on the sand.

"My Goddess, fuck, I knew you would taste so good," he slurred, letting your juices stick to his lips. "My sweetest love, mhm, I was waiting a month for you."

Your fingers clenched around his hair as you tried to slightly pull him back. "W-wait, that's–nghhh–too much, my God!"

Your body had always been much weaker than his, but now, with neediness running through your blood, it seemed impossible to do anything but allow yourself to be wrapped in his lips.

He took your hand, slipping it down your belly. Down to your clenching cunt, only to press your two fingers against the swollen clit.

"Do you feel it, my Goddess?" He chuckled, looking up at your warm cheeks. "Do you feel how wet you are? That's what you wanted to take away from me."

He directed your pads to press softly, pinchily, till another moan spilt past your lips. His tongue slurping on your tight core, fingers of one hand rolling your nipples. Squeezing the plush breasts, till a painful pleasure tickled your spine.

And the other hand…

"Wait!" You screamed, quickly catching his wrist. "N-no penetration… just…" Oh dearest, how embarrassing it was to say out loud! "… use your tongue. I can't lose my virginity."

My sweet foolish nymph, Satoru thought, before an innocent, "Of course, my Goddess," fell past his plush lips.

The waves and waves of ethereal pleasure washed over your spine as he devoured your sweet pussy with a starving need. Nose all glued with your juices, cheeks nastily squeezed by your trembling thighs, tongue working on your clit and hole, trying to stretch her as much as he could.

His creamy forehead furrowed with a wrinkle, brows tight, as you pushed a few soft strands of his hair away.

"My God, please t-take a breath," you cried, yet the spilling lustfulness seeped like a flame through your skin. "I'm–mhmm–t-there's something…" Before you could point at your lower belly, his hand pressed right there.

Squeezing your little pouch, as if trying to feel the slick, filthy cum splashing beneath your skin.

"You need to cum, my Goddess," he mumbled drunkenly, sucking on your plush clit. "But for that, I need to put my finger in."

You bit your lower lip, looking down at his wretched face.

His cheek nuzzled against your soft thigh, kissing the clit softly. "Please? Just a finger. I promise, it'll be fine."

Oh, he looked stunning. With those alluring eyes and innocent pout, as if aware that his angelic face alone was enough to make your head spin.

So you nodded, rather unconsciously, and watched him push one finger in.

"Oh," slipped moany at the new feeling. "Oh, my God, mhmm, i-it's–"

"Now you can cum for me," Satoru whispered, going back to sucking your clit.

He knew where your sweet spot was – how couldn't he? – so within a second, you started squirming beneath his grip.

One of his hands rested on your belly while the other was deep inside your tight, clenching walls. He kissed, brushed, and lightly peppered your most sensitive spot with his finger until your thighs finally clenched around his head.

Locking him in a tight, shuddering embrace as he drunkenly moaned over your spilling juices. With a single flick of his tongue, you melted beneath his maddening touch, squirting all over his cheeks, chin and nose, till the Sun God was left nothing but a wretched man, hugging nastily to your velvety skin.

Your head felt a bit less feverish, with the crimson fog finally clearing from in front of your eyes and fresh summer air finally filling your lungs.

For a mere second, you felt normal again.

Satoru still lay between your spread legs, kissing the slippery skin of your inner thighs softly.

"Welcome back, my Goddess," he muttered, licking the last juices dripping from your pussy.

You watched him with pure terror swirling behind your eyes. "I… this feeling…"

"Mmm," he hummed, softly biting a plush of your thigh. "Someone must've spiked your wine, my Goddess. Have you angered anyone recently?"

Oh, he was such a scum.

Your lovely brows furrowed, a drop of sweat slipping down your temple. "No, I… I don't know. There was…" you, wanted to slip, yet you bit down on your tongue.

Satoru pouted, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. "My Goddess, I vow to find that bastard and slash his throat," he whispered, kissing your thigh and moving upward, even biting gently into your calf. "But for now, brace yourself for another wave."

And true to his promise, the heat once more kissed your cheeks. It climbed up your neck, seeped into fingertips, curled beneath lower belly, and caused another slick to slide down your cunt.

A fogginess once again swirled in front of your eyes, and an anxiety bubbled somewhere deep in your tightened throat.

Satoru flipped you onto your belly, with a soft, "Shhh, it's fine, my Goddess. You'll be fine."

Gentle, wet kisses landed on your shivering spine, leaving hottish traces down the skin.

"What a-are you doing?" fell shuddered.

But you didn't catch his reply. Truly, you heard nothing at all but the swoosh of his tunic as it landed close to your sand-plastered face.

"My God–ah!" Slipped in a pitched moan, as something fat poked on your swollen pussy.

The heat was teasing, gently pinching your damp folds, rolling waves of intense pleasure whenever Satoru stirred your cunt. His fingers spread the heat in a soft hum, and something heavy, round, pressed against your tight entrance.

"My God, what–"

"My love," Satoru let out an utterly innocent whimper, as if trying to stifle the tears wracking beneath his lids. You couldn't see the devilish smile tugging at his lips, his face tightly pressed into the sand. "Allow me to make you feel good. I can make the pain go away, just let me…" His swollen head slipped in a little, forcing a shattered moan from your throat.

"Wait!" You tried to crawl away, but he pressed a hand between your shoulder blades. Keeping you tight in place, with his massive body fully resting on yours.

"It's okay, my love. It won't hurt, I promise," he hummed, another hand massaging the swell of your hips. Spreading your drenched folds a bit farther to see the tip of his cock getting sucked by your weeping cunt. "My Goddess, don't make her wait any longer. She's just wishing to get fucked, ahh."

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to stop your hips from slamming against his. As, dearest heavens, the way his sole head stretched your cunt brought an unparalleled, maddened pleasure, bubbling deep inside your belly. The pledge you made re chastity was trying to fight the aroused, lustful thoughts. The thick, warm fog that made your body liquefy beneath his touch, and your mind go all hot.

"My virginity–" You started, yet Satoru quickly snapped back.

"I talked to my sister, love. She won't punish you," he whispered, leaning down to lick a long stripe down your spine. "Because now you're mine. So say you want it, hm? Say you want me to fuck your tight cunt and fill her up."

He bit, licked, kissed your skin, while slowly, oh so painfully slow, poking your drenched hole.

"Just the tip, my love," he whispered, brushing away a few strands of hair hiding your lovely side. "I don't want to hurt you, my Goddess. I'll slip just a little tip."

And with an arousal fogging your mind, you nodded. Forcing a wicked laugh past his plush lips as he kissed your cheek.

"Mhm, that's right, my love," his cock slid through your tight walls, snugging inside your plush warmth. "Oh fuck, my Goddess, you truly are a fucking virgin."

You drew in a sharp breath, feeling his heavy cock slip into your belly. It was anything but the tip, forcing a sudden burst of tears to roll down your cheeks.

The pain mixed with pleasure as his shaft forced its way deep inside your pussy. You could feel every pulsing vein throbbing against your walls, the pumped head smooching your sweet spot, as he pushed and pushed, while pressing your body to the sand.

A moany cry bounced pitifully off the crystal waves before he quickly rolled you again.

This time, your back hit the sand, thighs folding up to your chest.

And when you looked up at his face… oh.

The Sun God hung over your crying cheeks with nothing but an utterly wicked, handsome smile. Eyes shining beneath the cold moon, adding to their ocean-blue hues a kiss of sin. He giggled, kissing the single tear that soaked your cheek.

And an angel, no, rather a demon, keeping you in his tight, possessed embrace.

Your hands pressed to his chest, as he pushed harder. "My God, you said just the tip," fell harshly, seeing a grin coiling in his gaze.

"My Goddess, you truly are ruthless," he leaned down to place a soft kiss on your lips. "How could I ever lie to you? I'm barely in, I promise."

Yet when you tried to look down, his strong fingers grabbed your chin, keeping your eyes fixed on his.

"You don't trust me?" He pouted, peppering your skin with soft kisses. "Don't look down there, my love. Focus on me."

Your head lulled right as he bit the side of your neck. Licking, sucking on it gently, while still forcing his cock through your walls.

It wasn't just the tip, and although you should be angry, the way he kept you folded left little room for movement. With his single arm pressing your legs tight, fingers keeping your chin up, and massive, heavy body leaning on yours.

He started to move faster, faster, faster, pumping you poor, weeping cunt with his heavy cock. It hit every inch of your lower belly, brushing past the sweet spot and smooching up to the slowly swelling womb. You could feel his round head nuzzle deep inside your pulsing warmth, as your tight walls wrapped around him, as if trying to lock him in.

A low hiss slipped past his rosy lips as you cried out in painful pleasure. Your blood ran hot as he tried to fuck each drop of aphrodisiac from your veins, pushing your body deeper into the sand.

The nasty squelch bounced off the water, spilling deep into the cave and catching in your scattered hair. He brought your face back, giggling at the sight of your utterly fucked eyes.

"My beautiful Goddess," he whispered, before slipping his hand down your belly. At this point, with heat bubbling in your belly, your thighs stayed open, pressed to your chest, as if your body was freely inviting him in. "My sweet, beautiful Goddess. Tell me how good you feel."

His demand forced wrath and balmy submissiveness upon your fucked mind, and so a sweet, honest, "G-good, ahh, you're filling me s-so good," fell embarrassingly past your lips.

As no matter how much you wanted to refuse, it did feel good. Dearest, it felt amazing, handling his hefty cock fully sliding inside your warmth, till wet balls hit your lifted ass. Head kissing your womb, veins pulsing in rhythm with your plush walls, as they pushed out waves and waves of fresh cum. Coating his full length in your juices, till whenever he pulled out, a crystal thread formed between your cunt and his creamy, happy trail.

His hands kneading your softness turned your mind to balm, and fingers playing with your swollen bud forced a moan, so you truly, shamefully so, allowed your body to give in to his touch.

"My God, nghh, I'm going to–"

Before you could finish, he crashed his lips against yours. He slipped a groan deep inside your throat as he started to fuck you faster. More relentless, brutal, forcing upon your virgin cunt a strength you weren't used to.

"My God, p-please–ahhh–slow down," you cried into his lips, yet received only a low chuckle.

"I know how to make you cum, my love. Your pussy needs to be fucked properly," he licked the tears dripping down your cheeks before capturing your lips again. "You're close, hm? I can feel it in your belly."

His hands pressed to your lower pouch, feeling his cock hit the soft skin, before slipping down to your cunt. Rolling your clit in mean, squelching pinches.

"S-satoru," his name finally escaped your throat, as you wrapped your arms behind his neck. "So good, you're–ngh–filling me–ahhh."

He chuckled, seeing your lidded eyes and messy blabber falling past your lips. "I know, my Goddess, your–ahh–pussy feels so fucking good. My sweetest, I promise to take good care of you."

He hid his face in the crook of your neck before finally going still. Your back arched, nipples pressing to his chest, before a soaked cry ripped from your throat. Juices gushing all over his abdomen, cock, as he hit your womb painfully, filling it with sticky ropes of cum. Till you felt the heavy creaminess sticking to your walls, stuffing you heavily, madly full.

A filthy fog once again seeped into your mind, and for a single minute you felt your strength return to your body. For a mere moment, it allowed you to smack his fair cheek. It left him fully unfazed, with a cheeky grin still plastered to his handsome face and a low chuckle forcing its way past his lips.

"My Goddess, is that how you should treat your future husband?" he asked, then brutally turned you back onto your belly. You tried to crawl, kicking him back, but he simply smacked your ass. "Come on, my love. Don't try to fight me. If I hadn't found you, who knows who would?"

Your breath hitched when you felt his cock harden again. Still snuggling deep inside you cunt, as you felt his shaft stretch your poor, weeping walls.

"I–ahh–I fucking hate you," you snapped through gritted teeth, your hips slowly rocking against his. Whatever you'd drunk still flowed in your veins, forcing another fog over your mind. "I hate you, so, s-so–mhm Satoru, just, fuck, p-please–"

His fingers dug deep into your perked-up ass, ocean eyes glimmering at the sight of your arched back. Sweat beaded on your neck, and your teary gaze looked over your shoulder in a furious, desperate, pleading manner.

He chuckled, taking a little vial from his tattered tunic. Opening it with his teeth, he handed it your way.

"What is it?" you asked, trying to sound at least a bit suspicious.

His eyes squinted, lips turned wickedly up. "Just a simple water. You'll feel a bit better."

"Drink it first."

"You don't trust me?"

You bit down your lip, shaking your head a bit.

Satoru hummed before taking a sip of the liquid without hesitation. It seeped warmly through his body, dripping down to the burning loins.

Seeing that he truly acted normally, you took it from his fingers and drank it all in one go. But… oh.

You shot head his way, seeing nothing, but a nasty grin. "This…"

He leaned closer, pressing his hand back between your shoulder blades. His face drew nearer, then he licked your lips with his wine-sweetened tongue. "Tastes similar, my love?"

A wave of heat was rolling faster, an even stronger aphrodisiac flowing through your veins. Breathing became harder, your mind already blind, as he pushed your melted body into a deeper arch.

"I love you so much, my Goddess," he whispered, peppering your sizzling cheek. "I'll make you feel so good. So fucking good, I promise. My sweet, beautiful wife. Just trust me."

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

Yesss, I'll write Artemis!Femjo and Hera!Reader, because we're the milf and she's the MOTHER FUCKER

art by @/__3aem on IG dividers by @strangergraphics

[nanamihearts]

CONCUBINE OR QUEEN — RYOMEN SUKUNA

pairings — heian era!sukuna x fem concubine!reader

➤ drabbles where sukuna lets you, his most loyal and trusted concubine, get away with anything. (also spoiling you in the process) his attraction for you compared to other concubines has the estate questioning your status. mentions of sex!!

Sukuna would grumble when anyone got too close to him or touched something that was his. Yet, there you sat, plucking grapes off a fruit tray that was brought to him. You both rested on the layered mats behind the curtained platform adorned with traditional designs.

"You do know that the fruit on this tray is not yours, yes?" He glared at you from the corner of his eye. You looked up at him, and simply continued to chew the grape.

You swallowed. "My apologies. It is impolite to speak with your mouth full. Unfortunately for you, I will not be speaking much. These grapes are delectable." You hummed, popping another grape into your mouth.

"You are insufferable." Sukuna huffed. "I did not summon you to my chambers for you to eat." You looked back up at him again, and your defiant yet satisfied face made his cross his arms with faux annoyance.

Sukuna would always make sure you were dressed in the finest silks there were to offer. Not only for your daily visits, but for every endeavor. in his estate. It became hard for you to keep up with your clothing, especially the ones that weren't damaged. With your nightly visits, he would become eager. The layered silks did not help his impatience, and you would find an occasional tear in difference places.

"Sukuna," You held up your damaged silk garment. "it's damaged, again."

"And it will be taken care of again." He matched your attitude.

"That was one of my favorite garments." Your eyebrows furrowed. "Could you stop tearing my clothes? It is becoming irritating."

"I find your change of opinion humorous." He lowly hummed. "I remember you being irritated, but for a different reason."

"What ever do you mean?"

"I believe you were telling me to tear it. You wanted to feel my hands carress your plush, hot—"

"I do not need a retelling." You quickly interrupted him, feeling warmth crawl up your neck and elevated heart rate. "Have it fixed, please."

"It will be, beloved."

Sukuna always called you to his chambers. It became so frequent to the point where you wouldn't see your own quarters for weeks, much to your enjoyment. He excelled in bed, and treated you with reverence while you both were not tangled under sheets. When you did go back to your quarters, the other concubines had questions. 'Why haven't I been called?' or 'What is going on?'

You could only respond with a shrug, trying to mask the pleased look on your face.

thanks for reading! | masterlist

[mcrdvcks]

ruin the friendship

summary: The only thing Bucky can think about while captured in Azzano is that he should've kissed you before being shipped off. Now that he's back home he's not going to waste his second chance, that is until he finds out you're engaged. word count: 17.4k+ pairing: 40s!bucky barnes x fem!reader notes: thank you to taylor swift for giving me the idea for this fic. i love 40s bucky and i haven't written for him much which is a crime because i want to squish his cheeks and kiss his face. anyways, here it is! also let's ignore the fact that i would not be legally allowed to marry bucky in the 40s since i am in fact a colored woman... this is fanfiction for a reason! warnings/tags: no use of y/n, 40s!bucky, bucky and steve survive, implied torture (but nothing graphic), reader is engaged, implied that bucky has ptsd/trauma from hydra, slow burn, yearning!bucky, soft!bucky, steve is kinda a third wheel (sorry steve), fluff, angst... like angst that hurts your heart, mentions of smoking/cigarettes, happy ending

Brooklyn, Winter 1943

The diner on the corner of 39th and Flatbush is nearly empty, save for the three of you crammed into a booth by the frosted window. The radiator’s been clanking all morning, groaning like it’s got a personal grudge against the cold, but the coffee’s hot, and the jukebox hums something slow and sweet in the background. Outside, the street’s blanketed in slush, but inside, it smells like syrup and bacon grease—the kind of comfort that never quite leaves you, no matter how many things the world decides to take away.

Bucky sits across from you, one arm slung over the back of the booth, his uniform jacket half-unbuttoned despite the cold. He’s been officially shipped out for months now, just home on a short break before heading back overseas. The dog tags around his neck clink every time he shifts, a tiny metallic reminder that you’re counting down borrowed time.

“You gonna finish that?” he asks, nodding at the untouched half of your pancake stack. His grin is easy, practiced—that same grin he used to use on every girl who batted her lashes at him on the boardwalk. Except with you, it’s softer somehow, the kind that makes your chest feel uncomfortably tight.

“You’ve already had three,” you reply, nudging your plate toward him anyway. “You planning to eat the table too?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he says, grabbing your fork before you can change your mind.

Across the booth, Steve snorts into his coffee, the sound half amusement, half warning. “One day she’s gonna stop letting you steal her food, Buck.”

“One day,” Bucky agrees around a mouthful, “but not today.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how familiar this feels—how safe. The three of you have been orbiting each other for over a decade now, since back when Bucky used to yank Steve out of street fights and you used to bandage them both with whatever scraps of cloth you could find. Somehow, even after all the years, all the growing up, the rhythm never changed. Steve’s the cautious one, always watching out for everyone. Bucky’s the charmer, always grinning through the chaos. And you—you’re the one trying not to think about how the table feels emptier every time one of them leaves.

“You hear about that new Stark show next month?” Steve asks, leaning his elbow against the table. “Supposed to be even bigger than the last one.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, swallowing the last bite of your pancake. “They’re doing some big fireworks display, I think. You should come, doll.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Who else?” His voice is light, teasing, but his gaze lingers. There’s something behind it—something that’s been hovering there for weeks now, maybe months. You don’t let yourself name it.

“Maybe,” you say, pretending to think it over. “If you ask nicely.”

Steve hides a smirk behind his mug. “Careful, Buck. Sounds like she wants you to grovel.”

“I can manage that,” Bucky says, leaning forward, his smile all mock sincerity. “Please, sweetheart, grace me with your presence at the Stark Expo.”

You try to roll your eyes again, but the way he says sweetheart knocks the air out of you just a little. You tell yourself it’s the coffee—too hot, too strong. “You’re impossible,” you say.

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, “but he’s charming, and he knows it.”

That makes Bucky grin wider. “Exactly. I’m a catch.”

You want to laugh, but instead you find yourself studying him—the crease of his smile, the faint scar above his brow, the way his hair keeps falling into his eyes. He looks older than he did last year, the war having carved faint shadows beneath the jokes. It’s subtle, but you see it—the flicker of something unspoken that sits behind the bravado.

When he catches you looking, he smirks. “What? I got syrup on my face or something?”

“No,” you say quickly, heat creeping into your cheeks. “You just—never mind.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Just what?”

“Just... look like you’ve been through a lot lately,” you finish softly.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His grin falters, just slightly. Then he shrugs, eyes dropping to the chipped edge of his coffee cup. “Yeah, well. Guess we all have.”

There’s a beat of quiet. The jukebox flips to another slow tune, and you can feel the weight of the world creeping in—the draft, the headlines, the growing ache of goodbye that none of you want to talk about. Then Steve, ever the peacekeeper, breaks the silence. “You know,” he says, pushing his cup aside, “when all this is over, we’re gonna go dancing again. Like we used to. Whole gang back together.”

Bucky glances at him, a spark of his old grin returning. “You promising that, punk?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I am.”

“Then it’s a date,” Bucky says, and his eyes flick back to you when he says it.

Your stomach twists. He doesn’t mean it like that—not really—but the words settle somewhere deep anyway. “Alright, soldier,” you say, trying for levity. “But you better not step on my toes this time.”

He leans closer, that familiar mischief in his eyes. “I never do, doll. You just get nervous.”

You scoff, pretending you don’t hear the double meaning in his voice. Outside, snow begins to fall again—soft, fleeting, like the moments you’ll soon lose.

---

The Stark Expo glows like it’s been dipped in starlight. The air hums with the crackle of machinery and laughter, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band blares out a tune half-swallowed by the roar of the crowd. You can smell popcorn and oil and the faint sweetness of hot sugar in the air. Brooklyn’s never felt so alive.

You walk between Bucky and Steve, both of them looking like they’ve stepped out of two different worlds—Bucky polished and confident in his pressed uniform, Steve still small, shoulders drawn tight in his oversized coat, his eyes bright with determination. They keep pace with you through the sea of people, shoulders brushing now and then.

Bucky keeps stealing glances down at you. It’s not subtle—it never has been—but tonight, there’s something heavier in the air between you. The way the light hits him makes his hair shine like warm bronze; there’s a smear of oil on his sleeve from helping a mechanic earlier, and the sight of it, ordinary and real, does something strange to your chest.

The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, crisp and clear, “welcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow! A greater world. A better world.” You tip your head back, watching the lights dance off glass and chrome. The future looks dazzling and impossible, and for a moment, you forget about the war creeping closer every day.

Bucky nudges you with his elbow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think Stark’s gonna make one of those flying cars work this time?”

“I think he’ll pretend it does,” you reply, smiling. “And half the crowd’ll believe him.”

“That’s optimism,” he teases.

“That’s experience,” you shoot back, and he laughs—that easy, golden sound that’s always been your undoing.

When Howard Stark strides onto the stage, the crowd cheers, and Bucky’s boyish excitement sparks. He’s leaning forward beside you, eyes shining, jaw slack like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time. “Holy cow,” he breathes as Stark gestures toward his levitating car.

You glance up at him—because of course he’d be more interested in the machinery than the spectacle—and for a moment, you just watch him. His expression is so open, so full of wonder, that it squeezes at something deep in your chest. The car sputters and drops with a metallic clank. Laughter ripples through the crowd. Bucky shakes his head, still grinning. “Guess it’s not ready for takeoff.”

You start to reply, but when you turn to Steve, he’s gone. “Steve?” you call, rising on your toes to scan the crowd.

Bucky curses softly. “Of course he—” He sighs, eyes already darting toward the nearest exit. “I’ll bet he went to the enlistment tent.”

You look at him. “Again?”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustration simmering under his calm. “He’s nothing if not stubborn.”

“Sounds familiar,” you murmur.

That earns you a look—half amused, half warning—and then he’s threading his way through the crowd, motioning for you to follow. You find Steve exactly where you expected—standing in line for enlistment, jaw set, chin high, ready to argue his way into a war he has no business fighting. Bucky reaches him first, the argument spilling out just like it always does, Steve insisting, Bucky trying to talk him down, the air between them thick with worry and loyalty and love.

You hang back a little, watching the two of them. You’ve seen this scene play out before—Steve’s fire meeting Bucky’s steadiness. You know how it ends, Bucky hugs him, the two trade barbs about stupidity and bravery, and Steve stays behind while Bucky walks toward the future with a rifle on his shoulder.

Except this time, you’re part of it.

When Bucky pulls away from Steve, you’re standing just beyond the gate, arms wrapped tight around yourself, trying not to think about how little time there is left. He spots you and the teasing grin he wore a second ago softens into something almost shy. “Hey,” he says, stepping closer. “Sorry about that. He’ll be alright.”

You nod, though the words feel stuck in your throat. “He always is.”

You fall into step beside him as the crowd begins to thin, the noise of the fair fading behind you. The night air is cool and damp, the city skyline a jagged cut of shadow against the sky. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s familiar, like a melody you’ve both known for years. Then Bucky breaks it. “You know,” he says quietly, “I thought about asking you to dance back there.”

You glance at him. “Why didn’t you?”

He kicks at a loose bit of gravel, shrugs. “Didn’t want to make a fool of myself before I ship out. Gotta let you remember me as dashing and graceful.”

You laugh, soft and a little sad. “Oh, I think that reputation’s already in pieces.”

He grins, the sound of your laughter tugging one from him in return. “Guess so.”

The two of you reach the corner where you’ll part ways—your apartment’s only a few blocks down, his barracks in the opposite direction. You stop under a flickering streetlamp, its glow painting the edges of his face gold. He shifts, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and suddenly the air between you changes. The world narrows to just the sound of the wind, the buzz of the light, and the pounding in your chest. “You’ll write?” you ask, your voice small.

He nods. “You bet I will. And when I come back, you and me—we’re going dancing. For real this time.”

You smile, though your eyes sting. “You’d better keep that promise.”

He steps a little closer—close enough that you can see the pulse in his throat, the faint line of worry between his brows. “I always do.” For a second, neither of you move. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t quite dare. The silence stretches, thick with everything you’ve never said. Then he exhales, low and rough. “You know, doll… if things were different—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, even though part of you needs to hear it.

He swallows hard, searching your face. His voice drops to a rasp. “I just—I don’t wanna go off thinkin’ you don’t know how much you mean to me.”

Your heart stutters. “I know, Buck.”

But that’s the lie you both settle for.

He leans in just enough that his breath brushes your cheek. You can smell the faint traces of smoke and coffee on him, familiar and grounding. For one suspended heartbeat, you think he’s going to kiss you. But then he steps back. “I’ll see you when I get back,” he says, his smile small, almost fragile.

You manage a nod, even as your throat closes. Your hand grips his arm for just a second before letting go. “Be careful.”

He salutes you with two fingers, that old playful gesture that’s always been yours, and then he turns away, his figure swallowed by the night.

You stand there under the streetlamp long after he’s gone, the world around you humming with the distant echo of laughter and music, the ghost of what might have been lingering like the last note of a song that never quite finished.

---

The stench of iron and smoke clings to the air. The sound of metal striking metal echoes through the cavernous facility—steady, relentless, like a heartbeat that refuses to die. Bucky’s palms are raw. The skin at the base of his fingers is split and burned from gripping tools that sear hotter than they should.

He’s been here long enough that time doesn’t make sense anymore. Days and nights blur together under the artificial light. There’s no sky, no wind—just the crackle of electricity and the cold bark of orders in German. The name Hydra carries through the hallways like a curse.

“Keep your head down,” Dugan mutters from beside him, his voice low, roughened by exhaustion. “Don’t give ‘em a reason.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s too busy forcing his hands to keep working—tightening bolts, fitting metal plates, assembling pieces of a machine he doesn’t want to understand. He knows it’s a weapon. Everything here is.

He’s lost count of the days since they were captured. The tank had come out of nowhere, cutting down their unit, and then there was the flash, the fire, and the smell of burning oil. They’d run, ducked behind the wreckage, but the ground had shaken beneath their feet. And then—capture. The moment his wrists were bound in cold metal cuffs, he’d known that whatever this place was, it was worse than death.

Now, he works. Because working means living a little longer.

There’s a guard—Lohmer—who seems to have made it his personal mission to break him. The man’s boots are always somewhere nearby, pacing, stopping, waiting for a mistake. The first time Bucky faltered, Lohmer’s fist drove into his ribs hard enough to make him choke. The second time, it was a rifle butt to the jaw.

Tonight, the bruises have gone purple, deepening like shadows.

When the shift ends, they’re herded into a cramped barracks room with cracked concrete floors and rows of cots that smell of sweat and rust. The guards shove the last of them through the door and lock it behind them. The clang of the bolt echoes.

Bucky sits, breath ragged. He stares down at his hands, still trembling from the cold and the strain. Across from him, Jacques murmurs something in French that he doesn’t catch. Falsworth coughs into his sleeve.

“You alright, Sergeant?” Dugan asks, voice quiet.

“Yeah,” Bucky says automatically. “Peachy.”

He’s not. He hasn’t been for weeks.

When the others drift into uneasy sleep, he stays awake. There’s a small window high up on the wall—just a slit of glass—and through it he can see a sliver of sky, faint and pale. He stares at it until his eyes burn.

That’s when he thinks of you.

The memory of the Stark Expo hits him hard, sudden and vivid. The lights, the music, the way your laugh had rung out above the noise. You, standing under the streetlamp, looking at him like maybe you saw something worth waiting for. He can still see the way your breath had fogged in the cold air, the way his fingers had twitched with the urge to touch your face.

He should’ve kissed you.

God, he should’ve kissed you.

He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, jaw tightening. The air smells of sweat and rust, but in his mind, he can still smell the faint sweetness of your perfume—that soft, lilac scent that clung to his uniform after you parted ways. He remembers the weight of your hand on his arm, the tremor in your voice when you told him to be careful.

He’d laughed. Told you not to worry. Told you he always kept his promises. Now he’s not sure if he’ll ever see you again.

He thinks about how you’d smiled that night, the corners of your mouth trembling just a little. He wonders if you’ve been reading the papers, if you know where the 107th was sent, if you flinch every time another list of casualties gets printed. He imagines you sitting by the radio, he imagines you crying. And it guts him.

Somewhere down the hall, a guard shouts. A man screams—short, sharp, cut off too soon. Bucky stiffens, every muscle coiled tight. He knows that sound. He’s heard it too many times. A moment later, the door to their barracks bangs open. Lohmer strides in, baton swinging against his thigh. His smile is all teeth. “Barnes,” he says, pointing. “You. Up.”

Bucky rises slowly, every bone in his body protesting. Dugan starts to say something, but one look from Bucky silences him. He’s learned there’s no point in fighting unless you can win—and tonight, he can’t. Lohmer drags him into the corridor, past other cells, past the smell of ozone and blood. When they stop, it’s in front of a steel table lined with restraints.

Zola stands on the other side, adjusting his glasses, his face unreadable. “The Sergeant has shown… resilience,” he says mildly. “Let’s see what makes him special.”

Bucky’s breath catches. “I’m not—”

Lohmer hits him before he can finish. When the pain comes, it’s all-consuming—white-hot, blinding, tearing through his veins like fire. He tries to hold onto something, anything, but his mind scrambles for an anchor and finds only you.

He sees you in the crowd at the Expo, face glowing in the electric light. He hears your voice—soft, teasing, alive. He remembers the way you’d said his name, how it had sounded like a promise.

If he lives through this, he swears, he’ll tell you. He’ll find you. He’ll ruin whatever’s left of that friendship if it means feeling your hands on his face just once. Then the pain swells until he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t remember anything except your smile as the world fades to white.

---

The rain comes down hard over London, steady and cold, washing the last of the Austrian mud from the tanks that line the courtyard. The SSR base is alive again—shouting soldiers, whirring engines, the metallic clang of repairs echoing through the night. For the first time in months, there’s warmth. Food. Beds. Music crackling faintly from a radio in some nearby tent.

Bucky sits on the edge of his cot, staring down at his hands. They still shake, sometimes. Not from cold—not anymore. From something else. The serum that Hydra forced into his veins still burns beneath his skin, a restless thrum he can’t quite quiet. The medics said it was a miracle he survived. They don’t know the half of it.

He’s alive. But it doesn’t feel like it.

He runs his thumb along the edge of his dog tag, tracing the worn letters. Barnes, James Buchanan. He’d stared at it every night since Steve pulled him out of that facility, just to remind himself that he was still him. That he hadn’t been erased and rebuilt into something else.

Outside the tent, he hears laughter—Dugan’s booming voice, Steve’s steadier one, Peggy’s dry humor cutting through the rain. It’s comforting and sharp all at once. They’re celebrating a victory, the kind of moment that should feel like redemption. But all Bucky feels is distance.

He hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time since Austria. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s back there—the flicker of the lab lights, Zola’s voice, the metal biting into his wrists. And always, always, your face, like a ghost that won’t leave him alone.

He remembers how you looked the night he shipped out—the streetlight catching on your skin, the tremor in your smile. He remembers the promise he didn’t make. The kiss he didn’t take. He’d thought about you every day since.

When the war ended in the papers, you were supposed to be the reason to come home. But now, home feels like a foreign word. He hears footsteps crunch outside and doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. Steve’s gait hasn’t changed—measured, steady, and too big for the narrow tent aisles. “You look like hell,” Steve says lightly, brushing rain from his jacket as he steps inside.

Bucky huffs a laugh. “You’re one to talk, punk.”

“Fair,” Steve admits. “Peggy says we’re supposed to be wheels up for London command in an hour. You ready?”

Bucky shrugs. “As I’ll ever be.”

Steve’s quiet for a beat, watching him. “You been sleeping?”

“Define sleeping,” Bucky mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Steve doesn’t push, just nods. That’s the thing about him—he never pries, but he always knows. “We’ll be home soon,” he says. “Brooklyn, maybe. You can see her again.”

Bucky’s stomach tightens. Her. You. The word itself feels like a wound. “Yeah,” he says softly. “If she even remembers me.”

“She will,” Steve says, firm but gentle. “You’re hard to forget, Buck.”

He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking—that the man who left Brooklyn isn’t the one who’ll be coming back. That you deserve better than someone who can’t close his eyes without hearing screaming.

When they reach London, the city is gray and alive, a strange mix of celebration and mourning. The SSR sets up in a refurbished government building near Piccadilly. There are briefings, missions, late nights in smoky war rooms. But there’s also laughter again. Steve’s grin. Peggy’s dry wit. The sound of rain on the windows.

And every night, when the noise fades, there’s you.

He catches himself imagining it—walking through your neighborhood again, knocking on your door, seeing your face when you realize he made it home. He imagines you laughing, hugging him, maybe calling him “idiot” for scaring you half to death. He imagines you still wearing your hair the same way, still smelling like lilacs. He imagines kissing you this time—no almosts, no stopping himself.

But every time he lets the thought take shape, something else follows, the look on your face when you see what’s left of him. The scar at his temple. The thinness from weeks of starvation. The tremor in his hands when he tries to button his uniform.

What if you flinch? What if you smile, but it’s pity? What if you’ve moved on?

He thinks about writing—just a letter, something to tell you he’s alive. But every time he picks up a pen, he can’t find the words. What do you write to the person who used to feel like home when you don’t know if you’re still the man she’s waiting for?

So he doesn’t.

He fights, he follows orders, he cracks jokes with the others when he can. But when night falls, when the rain starts again, he lies awake staring at the ceiling and whispers your name into the dark like a prayer he doesn’t deserve to have answered.

It’s nearly dawn when Steve finds him again, sitting alone on the edge of a cot, cigarette burning low between his fingers. “Couldn’t sleep?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head. Steve hesitates, then says quietly, “you know… when we get back home, she’s gonna be real glad to see you.”

Bucky doesn’t look at him. The smoke curls between them, soft and ghostlike. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I just hope I don’t scare her off first.”

Steve frowns, but before he can answer, the radio crackles with new orders, and the moment passes like everything else in war—half-lived, half-lost.

---

The train screeches into the station under a bright, brittle Brooklyn sun. The platform is overflowing—mothers, wives, siblings, children—all craning their necks for a glimpse of someone they prayed would come home. Flags wave, whistles blow, and through the chaos, the air thrums with a kind of happiness that feels almost unreal.

You stand near the edge of the platform, hands twisting in the fabric of your coat. You’ve been here since dawn, unable to sit still, unable to breathe properly since the radio announced that the 107th—the Howling Commandos—were finally returning home.

You’d heard the stories, of course. Whispers in the papers. The rescue at the Hydra base. The new Captain America leading impossible missions. It sounded like something out of a comic book—Steve, the sickly boy from Brooklyn, a hero now. And Bucky…

Bucky, who’d been captured. Tortured. Presumed dead.

The first time you saw his name in the paper, you’d gone still, coffee spilling down your wrist, the world narrowing to a single line of print. Then came the silence. No letters, no news. You’d mourned him quietly, privately—because no one had told you to stop hoping.

And now—now he’s on that train. Alive.

You spot them before anyone else does—the tall figure in the blue uniform, unmistakably Steve, waving off the applause, and beside him, a man in an olive coat, his cap pulled low. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks. He looks older, thinner, his face marked by shadows you don’t recognize. But then he lifts his head, and you see it—the same crooked smile, the same soft blue eyes.

Your heart breaks and heals in the same instant. “Bucky!”

You don’t remember moving. One second you’re frozen, the next you’re running—pushing past the crowd, calling his name again, louder this time. He looks up, startled, and when he sees you, something inside him cracks open.

He steps off the train just as you reach him, and before he can say a word, you throw your arms around him. It’s not graceful. You hit his chest hard enough that it knocks the air out of both of you, but his arms come around you immediately, strong and sure, holding you like you’re something he’s dreamed of and never expected to touch again.

“Jesus, doll,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You’re really here.”

You laugh through the tears you didn’t realize were falling. “You’re—you’re alive.”

He chuckles softly, the sound trembling. “Guess I am.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his coat. There are scars at his temple now, faint lines etched around his mouth that weren’t there before. He looks like a man who’s seen too much and survived it anyway. “You look—” you start, then falter.

“Terrible?” he offers with a wry grin.

“Different,” you whisper. “Older.”

His gaze softens. “So do you.”

Behind you, Steve clears his throat, smiling that earnest, boyish smile that doesn’t quite match his broad new shoulders. “You gonna share, Buck, or is this a private reunion?”

You laugh again, turning to hug him next, and Steve wraps you up like the brother you never had. “You did it,” you say against his shoulder. “Both of you. You came home.”

“Told you we would,” he says. “Didn’t I?”

“You said a lot of things,” you tease weakly, pulling back to look between them. “Not all of them true.”

Bucky chuckles. “She’s got you there, pal.”

The three of you stand there for a while, letting the noise of the station swell and fade around you. For a few blessed minutes, it’s almost like before—three kids from Brooklyn again, laughing about nothing, forgetting the rest of the world exists.

When you finally leave the platform, Bucky keeps close. He walks beside you and Steve through the busy streets, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, smiling politely at the strangers who nod or wave. But every now and then, you catch him looking at you—quick, quiet glances that hit like a pulse beneath the skin.

It’s like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

You lead them to the corner diner, the same one you used to haunt before the war. It’s changed a little—new paint, new jukebox—but the smell of coffee and bacon grease is the same. The waitress recognizes Steve immediately, gushes about the newspapers, and sets you up in your old booth by the window.

When the coffee arrives, Bucky’s hand lingers on the cup for a long time before he drinks, as if relearning the taste of ordinary life.

“So,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “What happens now? You two back for good?”

Steve nods. “That’s the plan. The SSR’s wrapping things up here in the States. They’ll probably find something else for us to do, but—”

“Home’s home,” Bucky finishes for him, voice low.

You smile. “Good. I missed this.”

Steve grins, leaning back. “What, me and Buck bickering over pancakes?”

“Among other things.”

For a moment, it really does feel like nothing’s changed. You catch Bucky’s eye over the rim of your cup and he smiles—small, private. You feel warmth bloom in your chest, unfamiliar and dangerous. Then the bell above the diner door rings. You glance up, and the world shifts again.

Andrew steps inside—tall, clean-cut, still in his office clothes. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles. The engagement ring on your finger feels suddenly, painfully heavy. “There you are,” he says, crossing the diner. “I stopped by your place—they said you’d come down here. I thought I’d find you with—” He stops mid-sentence when he sees the men at your booth. Recognition flickers in his eyes. “Captain Rogers,” he says, extending a hand. “An honor.”

Steve stands, polite as ever, shaking it firmly. “Just Steve, please.”

Then Andrew turns to Bucky. “And you must be Sergeant Barnes. She’s told me about you.”

Bucky rises slowly, every trace of warmth gone from his face. He takes Andrew’s hand, grip measured, voice smooth. “All good things, I hope.”

“Of course,” Andrew says with a tight smile.

You can feel the tension rolling between them—two different kinds of manhood colliding. Bucky’s eyes flick to your ring before he looks away, and something in your chest twists painfully.

Andrew drapes an arm around your shoulders, casual and proprietary, and presses a kiss to your temple. “We should get going,” he says softly. “Dinner at my parents’ tonight.”

You nod, but your throat feels tight. You turn back to the table. “I’ll see you both soon, alright?”

Steve smiles, warm and oblivious. “You better.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just gives a small nod, eyes unreadable.

When you step outside, the air feels colder. Andrew’s talking—something about promotions, a friend’s engagement party—but his voice fades into a blur. You glance back through the diner window. Bucky’s still watching you. For a heartbeat, you meet his eyes—the same blue that once promised laughter and mischief and safety. Now they’re tired, sad, full of things you’ll never be able to say.

Then Steve says something, Bucky looks away, and the moment breaks.

You turn, forcing a smile for the man at your side, and walk away—the ring cold on your finger, the ache in your chest sharp and familiar. Behind you, in the glow of the diner window, Bucky’s still there, his coffee untouched, and tells himself he’s happy just to see you again.

---

The weeks that follow are an echo of a life you all once knew—familiar rhythms layered over a city trying to remember how to breathe again. The war is over, but Brooklyn still hums like it’s waiting for the next siren. Windows are patched with new glass, ration posters fade on the walls, and people fill the streets again with laughter that still sounds uncertain.

For the three of you—you, Steve, and Bucky—it’s as if the world has been rewound, though the edges don’t quite line up anymore. The diner booth is still yours, the coffee’s still weak, the jukebox still sputters out old love songs. But Bucky doesn’t joke as much now, and Steve sits taller, his shoulders too broad for the space. You try to ignore the differences—or maybe you just pretend not to notice them.

It starts small. You thread your arm through Bucky’s as you always did when you walk down 39th. He still lets you, though now his body goes a little stiff at first, then softens as if he remembers he’s supposed to. Sometimes you’ll reach for him without thinking—to tug him across a street or to steady him when he’s distracted—and the jolt that runs through him is subtle but real.

He hides it well. He always did.

What gets him most isn’t how you’ve changed, but how you haven’t. You still hum under your breath when you’re nervous. Still tap your nails against your cup while you talk. You laugh easily, throw your head back the same way you did when he’d tease you before the war. You still look at him with that same open warmth that once made him feel like the luckiest man alive, and now it just makes him ache.

He doesn’t know how to fit himself into this version of Brooklyn—this version of you.

You’re engaged now. He reminds himself of it every time he sees the ring on your hand. Sometimes it catches the light and glitters against your coffee cup, a tiny cruel flash that digs under his ribs. Andrew is polite enough, decent enough, the sort of man who never raises his voice and always says please and thank you. He brings you flowers, takes you to dinner, shakes Bucky’s hand and calls him “pal.” Bucky shakes back, every muscle in his jaw tight.

He tries to be happy for you—really tries. You deserve safety, something whole. Not a man who wakes up drenched in sweat, fists clenched around ghosts. He tells himself that every time he sees you laughing at something Andrew says. It doesn’t make it hurt less.

There’s a night in late August when the three of you go out for drinks, the kind of night that used to belong to another lifetime—before uniforms, before blood and cold and loss. The bar’s crowded, cigarette smoke curling in the air, the jazz band so loud you have to lean close to be heard.

Steve’s grinning, shouting over the music about some newspaper interview he’s been roped into, Peggy’s name slipping into the conversation now and then, unguarded. You tease him mercilessly, and he blushes red as ever.

Bucky watches, smiling, sipping his whiskey too slowly. When you lean against him to whisper something—a joke, a memory—your hand finds his arm like it used to, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. It’s innocent. It always is. You don’t see the way he freezes for a half-second, the way his breath catches before he forces a smirk in return. “You always were the funny one,” he says softly, almost lost beneath the brass.

“Only because you two were hopeless,” you tease back, and he grins—that old, dangerous grin that used to get him out of trouble and into more of it.

The moment stretches a little too long. Then Steve says something that makes you laugh again, and Bucky looks away. Later, when you all spill out into the street, the night air cool and damp against your skin, you loop your arm through his again without thinking. “Will you walk me home?” you ask, same as you always did.

He wants to say no. He wants to say he shouldn’t. But he just nods. “’Course.”

Steve peels off in the other direction, calling something about meeting tomorrow, and then it’s just the two of you.

You walk in silence for a while, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, your hand light on his arm. The city hums around you—car horns, laughter, music drifting from open windows. Everything feels the same, except it isn’t. “You seem quiet tonight,” you say finally, glancing up at him.

He shrugs. “Guess I’m still getting used to being back. Feels strange.”

“I can imagine.” You hesitate, then smile. “But it’s good. Having you home. I missed this.”

He swallows. “Yeah. Me too.”

You stop at a crosswalk, the streetlight painting your face in amber and shadow. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe. You’re looking up at him like you used to—the same soft tilt of your head, the same easy trust in your eyes.

And then he sees the ring glint again and feels the ground tilt beneath him. He forces a smile. “Your fiancé treating you right?”

You blink, surprised by the question. “Of course. Why?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No reason. Just—you deserve good things, is all.”

You smile faintly, a little shy. “He’s kind. Steady. My family likes him.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sounds perfect.”

He means it to sound light, teasing even, but it lands heavier than either of you expect. You both fall silent. The only sound is the rumble of an approaching trolley and the faint hum of music from somewhere down the block.

When you reach your door, you turn to face him, still holding onto his arm. “You’ll come by again soon, won’t you? For dinner maybe? Andrew’s been wanting to cook for everyone.”

He almost laughs. Andrew’s cooking? The thought alone feels wrong—some man he doesn’t know standing where he used to, in your kitchen, touching the things that used to belong to the three of you. But he just nods. “Sure, doll. Whatever you want.”

You smile, squeeze his arm, and then, as if you don’t know what you’re doing to him, you step close and kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Buck.”

His breath catches. It’s so quick, so ordinary, but it burns straight through him. He watches you disappear behind the door, the soft click of the latch echoing louder than it should. He stands there for a long time afterward, hands in his pockets, staring at the space you left behind.

When he finally turns away, the night feels colder. He tells himself that this is fine. That this—your friendship, your laughter, the arm he’s still sure he can feel linked through his—is enough.

But as he walks back down the quiet street, he knows it isn’t. Not anymore.

---

There’s another night in September, one of those in-between evenings when summer hasn’t quite let go. You, Steve, and Bucky are back at the diner—your diner—sharing a plate of fries while the jukebox hums some slow swing tune. The booths are full, the air smells like coffee and salt, and for a while, it almost feels like before.

You’ve kicked off your heels under the table, your feet brushing Bucky’s every now and then. You don’t even notice, but he does. Every time.

Steve’s talking about some meeting with the SSR, something about military reorganization and “civilian roles.” You’re listening with a faint smile, chin propped on your hand, your other hand absently tugging at the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket, straightening it like you always did when he wore his old coat crooked.

He watches your fingers instead of listening. The sight of your hand on his arm—small, certain, unthinking—stirs something both grounding and unbearable in him. When you glance up and catch him staring, you give him that same teasing grin you always used to. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, voice rougher than he means. “Just… forgot how much you talk.”

You laugh, a quick, bright sound that draws a few curious looks from other tables. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You two sound exactly like you did when we were fifteen.”

“Means we haven’t aged a day,” Bucky says with a smirk, though the weight in his chest says otherwise.

You smile at that, soft and fond. Then your gaze flicks toward the window, and you sigh. “Andrew’s picking me up soon.”

Bucky’s smirk falters. “Right. Of course.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled,” you tease, nudging his shoulder.

“Just jealous the guy gets to drive that fancy car of his while I’m stuck on the trolley,” he says easily. But the joke doesn’t land the way it used to.

A silence settles—not awkward, but charged. You look like you might say something, but then the bell above the door rings, and Andrew walks in. He’s polite as always, all charm and pressed shirts, waving to Steve and offering a quick handshake to Bucky. “Evening, fellas.”

“Andrew,” Bucky says evenly. “How’s work?”

“Busy. But I can’t complain.” He smiles at you then, and the way you light up—not as bright as you used to, maybe, but still real—is enough to make Bucky’s chest ache. “Ready to go, sweetheart?” Andrew asks.

“Yeah,” you say softly, standing and slipping on your coat.

Bucky stands too out of habit, like the gentleman he used to be. “See you around, doll.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder and smile. “You will.”

When the door closes behind you, the air feels heavier. Steve looks at him, knowing but kind. “You alright, Buck?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “Never better.”

After that, he starts seeing you less. Not because you’ve changed anything—you still invite him for coffee, for dinners, for quiet evenings where you, Steve, and Andrew talk about nothing at all. But Bucky starts finding reasons to miss them. He tells you he’s got work, or errands, or that he’s tired.

The truth is, every time he sees you with Andrew, it kills him a little. The way Andrew’s hand rests casually on your back when you walk through a door. The way you lean toward him when you laugh. The way you still look at Bucky like you’re waiting for him to say something that he never will.

He spends more time at the docks now, helping unload cargo. The physical work keeps him grounded. He doesn’t talk much to the other men—they all recognize him as the war hero from the papers, whispering his name like it belongs to someone else. Maybe it does.

Sometimes, late at night, he takes the long way home past your street. The windows are lit warm and soft, and he can almost hear your voice drifting out through the open glass. It’s masochism, maybe, but it’s the only thing that makes him feel real.

A week later, Steve finds him on a park bench overlooking the river. “You’re torturing yourself,” Steve says, sitting beside him.

Bucky doesn’t look at him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do.”

The water glints silver under the moonlight. Bucky flicks his cigarette into it, watching the ember vanish. “She’s happy,” he says finally. “That’s all that matters.”

Steve’s quiet for a moment. “You sure about that?” Bucky glances at him then, brow furrowed. “I see the way she looks at you, Buck,” Steve says. “The way she lights up when you’re around. You really think it’s just friendship?”

Bucky’s throat tightens. He wants to deny it. Wants to say it’s all in Steve’s head. But the truth sits heavy in his chest, undeniable. “It doesn’t matter,” he says at last. “She made her choice.”

Steve studies him, sympathy in his eyes. “Maybe. But maybe she’s waiting for you to give her a reason to make a different one.”

Bucky laughs softly, humorless. “Yeah? And what then? I ruin what’s left of the only good thing I got?”

“Maybe you fix it instead,” Steve says quietly.

They sit in silence after that, the wind carrying the smell of salt and the faint sound of distant laughter. Bucky doesn’t answer, but Steve doesn’t press.

That night, Bucky dreams of you again. Not the war, not the pain—just you. Standing under that streetlamp, same as before, smiling up at him with eyes that look like home. He wakes before you can speak, the ghost of your touch still burning on his skin.

He sits up, heart pounding, and realizes that whatever he’s been trying to bury all these months—all these years—isn’t going anywhere. The war might be over, but he’s still fighting the same battle. And this time, the only thing he’s in danger of losing is you.

---

Late autumn settles over Brooklyn like a sigh. The air has that crisp edge that smells faintly of rain and coal smoke, and the trees along the sidewalks have begun to let go of what’s left of their color. Every street corner feels familiar, but quieter—like the city itself is still learning how to live again after the war.

You’ve spent the last few weeks tucked into wedding plans, your days filled with appointment books, fabric samples, and letters from relatives who suddenly remember your existence. The apartment smells faintly of starch and lavender, and the table is perpetually buried under swatches of ivory silk and lace.

Andrew’s handwriting covers half the notes in a neat, efficient scrawl: dates, times, addresses. You fill in the margins with doodles—vines, petals, tiny hearts—absent-minded things you used to sketch when you were supposed to be paying attention to something else.

And when you’re not working on the wedding, you’re with Steve and Bucky. The three of you still orbit each other, even if the rhythm has changed. Steve helps where he can—moving furniture, offering his larger-than-life charm to shopkeepers who’d otherwise ignore you in crowded stores. Bucky tags along sometimes, quieter now, his smile a little tighter around the edges.

He doesn’t say much these days, but you still feel him—the weight of his gaze when you laugh at something Steve says, the way he steps instinctively closer when you’re walking down a busy street, like his body’s still wired to protect you even when there’s nothing left to fight. You notice, though you don’t let yourself linger on it. You can’t.

It’s one of those chilly afternoons when the three of you end up downtown, balancing boxes full of wedding supplies between you. You’re moving through the narrow aisles of a florist’s shop, the air thick with the scent of roses and damp earth. “I don’t know,” you murmur, studying the bouquet in your hands. “These seem too stiff, don’t they? I want something softer, more natural.”

Steve, ever practical, squints at the arrangement like he’s inspecting troop formations. “Looks fine to me.”

You laugh. “You said that about the last three, too.”

“Well, they all look fine,” he says, a little helplessly.

Bucky smirks faintly, leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands tucked into his pockets. “You’re askin’ the wrong audience, doll. Between the two of us, I don’t think we’ve bought flowers that weren’t apologies.”

You glance up at him, caught off guard by the flicker of humor—the first real one you’ve seen from him all day. “Is that right?”

He shrugs, but his smile lingers. “Pretty sure every girl I ever gave flowers to had just finished tellin’ me off.”

“That’s because you deserved it,” Steve mutters.

Bucky grins. “Yeah, maybe.”

The sound of your laughter fills the small shop, and for a moment, it’s like time folds back on itself—the three of you as you were before the war, teasing and bright, untouched by the years between.

But then the florist asks about delivery dates, and the spell breaks. You glance down at your notes again, biting your lip as you try to recall the schedule. Bucky watches the motion, the way your teeth catch the soft skin, and something unravels inside him.

It’s the same nervous habit you had when you were sixteen, sitting at that diner booth and worrying about school, or the future, or whatever small storm was brewing in your head. You’d always do that—chew your lip until it was raw—and he’d tease you, reaching out to nudge your chin lightly with his thumb until you stopped.

He used to know everything about you. The songs you hummed when you cooked. The way you liked your coffee. The sound you made when you were trying not to laugh. Now he stands three feet away and feels like a stranger.

Later, after you’ve settled on a bouquet and paid the deposit, the three of you step outside. The cold air hits hard, sharp with the smell of rain. You draw your coat tighter around yourself and glance up at the sky, half-expecting snow. “Thanks for coming,” you say, glancing between them. “I know this stuff isn’t exactly your idea of a good time.”

Steve smiles. “You kidding? Beats punching Nazis.”

Bucky gives a quiet snort of amusement but says nothing. He shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets and looks down the street instead. “You sure you don’t mind helping with deliveries next week?” you ask. “The caterer’s sending samples, and the venue wants us to test the layout.”

“Course not,” Bucky says, still not meeting your eyes. “Just tell me when and where.”

Something about his tone makes you pause. “You don’t have to, you know. I don’t want to take up your time.”

He glances at you then, his eyes soft, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it, doll. I got nothin’ but time.”

You try to return the smile, but it falters. There’s something behind his words you can’t quite name—a tiredness that doesn’t belong to a man his age. You want to ask him what’s wrong, but Steve’s already talking about dinner plans, and Bucky’s gaze has shifted back to the street.

That night, you’re sitting at your kitchen table, flipping through your notebook. The apartment is quiet—Andrew’s out late again, working—and you find yourself staring at your lists without reading them. The flowers, the venue, the dress… it’s all supposed to be exciting, but it feels like you’re building something in the wrong shape.

You think about Bucky—the way he’d smiled today, the way he’d looked at you when you laughed. The way he’d gone quiet again afterward. You shake the thought away, turning another page, but your pen hesitates above the paper.

You still write his name sometimes. Just his initials, tucked into corners, the way you used to when you were a teenager doodling in the margins of your homework. You tell yourself it’s habit. Nostalgia. But it feels like something more—something fragile, dangerous, and alive.

Across town, Bucky’s sitting on his narrow bed in the boarding house, the lamp beside him casting a weak yellow glow. He’s got an envelope in his lap—an invitation to your wedding, embossed and perfect, the edges faintly smudged from where you must have handled it.

He turns it over in his hands for a long time, his jaw tight. Then he sets it on the nightstand and leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. It should make him happy, seeing you getting everything you’ve ever wanted. It should feel like closure.

But instead, it feels like the world is slowly erasing him —like he’s watching the one thing that tethered him to his old life slip quietly out of reach. He closes his eyes and tells himself he’ll keep helping. He’ll keep smiling. He’ll be your friend. He’ll do all the right things.

Even if it kills him.

---

The following week arrives gray and drizzly, the kind of November day where the streets shine wet and the light never quite breaks through the clouds. The city hums quietly—horns in the distance, footsteps on slick pavement, the smell of roasted chestnuts from the corner cart.

You’ve invited Steve, Bucky, and Andrew to your apartment for a small “planning dinner.” Nothing formal—just a way to go over some details before your mother and Andrew’s parents join for the final tastings next weekend.

The dining table, usually cluttered with fabric swatches and half-burned candles, is covered now with plates and notebooks. You’ve spent the whole day rearranging, making sure everything looks right. There’s a neat little spread of sandwiches, cookies, and tea laid out, and your engagement ring glints whenever you reach for a cup.

Bucky’s the last to arrive. He hesitates on the landing before knocking, half tempted to turn back. But then he hears your voice through the door—that light, hurried tone he’s heard a thousand times—and he knocks once before he can talk himself out of it.

You open the door with a smudge of flour on your wrist. The smell of something warm and buttery drifts out from the kitchen. “Buck!” you say, smiling. “You made it.”

He grins back, awkward and genuine all at once. “Wouldn’t miss it, doll.”

You let him in, taking his coat and hanging it carefully beside Andrew’s. The apartment feels cozy—too small for four people, maybe, but bright and alive with the hum of conversation. Steve’s sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, papers spread over his knees. Andrew’s standing by the table, sleeves rolled up, carefully arranging sandwiches on a platter. “Glad you could join us,” Andrew says pleasantly, looking up. “We were just about to talk food.”

“Dangerous subject,” Bucky says, pulling out a chair. “You sure you want my opinion?”

“Only if it’s good,” Andrew jokes.

You laugh, and the tension eases for a moment. They spend the first twenty minutes talking about seating charts and table settings, Steve occasionally chiming in with comments that make you laugh and roll your eyes. Bucky mostly listens, offering a word here or there when you ask him to weigh in.

He watches the way you move, the way your fingers hover over the list as you read it aloud, how you press your lips together when you’re thinking. Every detail feels sharper than it should, like his mind’s cataloging every part of you to hold onto later.

Then Andrew says, “Oh—speaking of food, I talked to my mother today about the luncheon menu.”

You glance up, smiling. “Oh? What did she say?”

“She’d love to prepare some of the dishes herself. Thought it’d be a nice personal touch,” Andrew explains, flipping through his notes. “You know, her cucumber sandwiches, that salad she makes with the dill dressing—your favorite.”

Bucky’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t say a word, but something in his chest goes still. Your expression flickers—not enough for Andrew to notice, but Bucky sees it. A tiny hesitation. A half-second of polite confusion. Then your smile smooths back into place. “Right,” you say gently. “That’s lovely.”

Andrew beams. “I told her you’d be thrilled. She’ll start prepping this week.”

Steve nods approvingly. “Sounds fancy. I’ve never had cucumber sandwiches before.”

“Oh, they’re very refreshing,” Andrew says cheerfully. “Perfect with tea.”

“Sure they are,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his tone too quiet for anyone but you to catch.

You shoot him a look, small but sharp, as if to say don’t. He gives a slight shrug, leaning back in his chair. The rest of the conversation moves on—table linens, music, who will walk you down the aisle—but the air feels different. Bucky can’t stop hearing Andrew’s voice echoing that one word, favorite.

He remembers the real story. The diner, years ago. You’d ordered a sandwich with cucumbers and took one bite before making the most disgusted face he’d ever seen. He’d teased you for it, and you’d shoved your plate at him, muttering something about “texture” and “godawful smell.” He’d laughed until you threw a napkin at his head.

It was such a small thing—ordinary and stupid—but somehow, it feels enormous now. Because Andrew doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the girl who once snuck a stray cat into her parents’ kitchen, who carried three pairs of gloves every winter because you always lost one. He doesn’t know that you used to hum Gershwin when you cooked or that you hated thunderstorms but loved the smell of rain after.

He doesn’t know you. And Bucky realizes, with a quiet ache that steals the breath from his lungs, that he’s the only one left who does.

After dinner, Steve leaves first, promising to help you haul boxes to the venue next weekend. Andrew lingers a few minutes longer, kissing your cheek before heading home. You see him off at the door, murmuring soft goodnights, and when you turn back, Bucky’s still sitting at the table, arms folded, eyes fixed on the empty plate in front of him. “Thanks for helping tonight,” you say, voice careful. “I know it’s not the most exciting thing in the world.”

He looks up slowly, a faint, wry smile on his lips. “Exciting’s overrated.”

You roll your eyes affectionately and start gathering the dishes. He stands to help, wordlessly taking a stack from your hands. The quiet between you feels different now—heavier, but not uncomfortable. Familiar, almost. You wash, he dries. It’s easy, practiced, like slipping back into an old song you both know by heart. When the last plate’s done, you lean against the counter, exhaling. “Andrew’s mother’s really going all out. It’s sweet of her.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says lightly, though something sharp threads through his tone. “Sweet.”

You glance over at him. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin’.”

“Bucky,” you press, arms folding. “Don’t do that. What?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Just funny, s’all. You always hated cucumbers.”

You blink. “What?”

“Cucumbers,” he says again, half-smiling. “You used to pick ’em off your sandwiches and dump ’em on my plate. Said they tasted like cold soap.”

You stare at him for a second, caught off guard. The memory is so vivid it startles you—the diner, the cheap plates, his teasing grin. “I… guess I did.”

“Guess you forgot,” he says quietly. You open your mouth to answer, but the words stick. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, too quiet. His eyes are on you, steady and sad, like he’s seeing something you’re only just starting to remember. He clears his throat, looks away, and grabs his coat. “Anyway, I should go. Long day tomorrow.”

You nod slowly. “Right. Of course.”

At the door, he pauses. “Goodnight, doll.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

When the door closes, you stand there for a long time, your back to it, the faint smell of soap and tea still clinging to the air. You don’t know why the stupid detail bothers you so much—why it leaves your chest tight and your eyes stinging. But you can’t shake it.

Because he’s right. You do hate cucumbers. And you can’t quite remember when you started pretending otherwise.

---

It starts as something small, almost imperceptible—a ripple under the surface of a life you’ve been trying to convince yourself is whole. After the night of the cucumber remark, everything feels… tilted. The moment itself had been nothing, really. A few harmless words in a quiet kitchen. But they’d cracked something open that you’d spent months keeping tightly sealed.

Now, the smallest things catch at you. Andrew’s laughter, too practiced. His kisses, always polite and brief. The way he talks about the future in tidy, well-planned sentences—his job, the house you’ll have, the way “Mrs. Reid” rolls so easily off his tongue.

You smile when he says it. You always smile. But inside, there’s this quiet voice that keeps asking, when did you stop belonging to yourself?

You start noticing how often you nod when you don’t agree. How many times you laugh even when something doesn’t strike you as funny. How you smooth over the rough edges of who you are to fit the life that’s being built around you.

It isn’t bad, you tell yourself. Andrew is a good man. Gentle, thoughtful. He works hard, treats you well, makes sure you never walk home alone. He listens when you talk—or at least, he listens enough to respond in all the right ways.

But sometimes, when he looks at you across a dinner table or from the driver’s seat of his neat little car, you get the sense that he’s seeing a version of you that isn’t real. A woman built from good manners and careful words. A woman who never picks fights, never rolls her eyes, never swears when she drops something heavy.

And every time, you think of Bucky. Of the way he’d grin when you cursed, teasing you just to see if he could make you do it again. Of how he never flinched when you disagreed with him, never made you feel smaller for it. Of how, somehow, he could read your silences better than most people could read your words.

You try not to think of it, but the thought follows you like a shadow.

You see Bucky again a week later, almost by accident. You’re on your way back from the tailor with your arms full of packages—bolts of fabric, invitations, a box of new gloves. The wind’s sharp and biting, tearing at your hat, and you’re juggling everything when a voice behind you says, “you always did try to carry the world by yourself.”

You turn, startled—and there he is. Bucky stands a few feet away, collar turned up against the cold, hair mussed by the wind. He looks better than he did last week, or maybe it’s just that he’s smiling, a little shyly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.

“Buck,” you breathe, shifting the packages. “What are you—”

“Was passin’ by,” he says easily, stepping closer. “Figured you could use a hand.” You start to protest, but one of the boxes slips, and he catches it before it hits the ground. He looks at you with that same half-smirk he’s always had—the one that makes your heart stutter for reasons you don’t want to name. “Still stubborn as ever,” he murmurs.

“Still nosy,” you shoot back automatically, though the words come out softer than you intend.

He grins, just a little, and takes the rest of the boxes from you before you can argue. “C’mon, doll. I’ll walk you home.”

The walk is quiet at first. The city hums around you—the whistle of a streetcar, the chatter from shop doors, the faint smell of roasted nuts from a vendor down the block. The two of you move in step like you used to, your gloved hand brushing against his sleeve every so often.

It feels almost normal. Almost easy. He asks about the wedding, and you tell him bits and pieces—the dress, the flowers, the venue—but even to your own ears, it sounds rehearsed, like you’re reading from someone else’s script. When you trail off, Bucky glances at you sideways. “You happy?”

The question lands like a pebble in a pond—small, but the ripples keep spreading. You blink, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”

He shrugs, eyes on the pavement. “Just seems like a thing a guy oughta ask his friend before she gets married.”

You laugh, but it doesn’t sound right. “Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?” He doesn’t answer, just nods slightly. The silence stretches between you until you add, “Andrew’s good to me. You’ve seen that.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ve seen it.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach twist. The rest of the walk is quieter. You talk about safe things—the weather, Steve’s latest SSR gossip, a new bakery opening down the street. When you reach your building, you pause at the steps, clutching your packages tighter than necessary. “Thanks for helping,” you say.

“Anytime,” he replies.

You linger a moment longer, the wind tugging at your coat. “You should come by Sunday. We’re having dinner with Steve. Just the three of us, like old times.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, finally, “alright. Sunday.”

You smile, relieved. “Good.” When you go inside, you can feel his gaze following you up the stairs. You don’t look back.

Sunday comes, and with it, a quiet warmth you didn’t know you’d been missing. The three of you sit around your little kitchen table, laughing about nothing—the way Steve still can’t cook, the way Bucky still eats like a man starved. For a few hours, it’s as if the years between you’ve been peeled away.

You pour coffee while Bucky leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, telling a story about one of the guys from the docks. His voice is rich and low, easy with laughter. You’ve missed that sound more than you realized.

When the story ends, Steve gets up to wash dishes, leaving you and Bucky alone for a moment. You watch him quietly. The curve of his jaw. The scar by his temple. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You shouldn’t look at him like that, but you do anyway.

He catches your gaze and holds it. Something flickers between you—familiar, dangerous. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but Steve comes back, clattering dishes, and the spell breaks. Later, after the dishes are done and the laughter’s faded, Bucky lingers at the door. You walk him down to the stoop, saying goodnight like always. The street’s quiet, washed silver by the lamplight. “You really are happy?” he asks again, voice almost lost to the wind.

You hesitate. “I’m supposed to be.”

He studies you for a long moment, then nods, as if that’s answer enough. “Take care of yourself, doll.”

He starts to turn away, but you reach out, catching his sleeve. The fabric is rough and warm under your fingers. “Bucky.” He looks back, and for a heartbeat, everything stops—the air, the sounds, even your own pulse. You want to say something. To tell him that you don’t know how to do this—how to want two different lives, how to stop pretending. But the words won’t come. So you just let go. “Goodnight.”

He hesitates, then tips his head slightly. “Goodnight.”

When he walks away, you stay there for a long time, the cold biting through your coat, your heart pounding like it’s trying to tell you something you already know. And somewhere down the street, Bucky doesn’t look back—because he’s afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to keep walking.

---

The afternoon is one of those deceptive early-winter days—bright sun, brittle cold, wind that nips at your cheeks but never quite steals the warmth from the light. The four of you—you, Andrew, his mother, and Steve—have spent the better part of the day at the reception hall, finalizing decorations and seating arrangements. Bucky had tagged along under the excuse of “lifting heavy things,” but truthfully, he just couldn’t stay away.

The hall itself is beautiful in that sterile, echoing way—pale walls, high ceilings, windows that catch every bit of sunlight and spill it onto the polished floors. There are samples of floral arrangements along one wall, stacks of folded linens, a small buffet table with coffee and pastries that have long gone cold.

You’ve been moving nonstop for an hour—bending, rearranging, lifting centerpieces, trying to visualize how it’ll all come together. You’re tired, your hands ache, and the hem of your skirt keeps catching on your heels.

Bucky watches from the side, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. Steve’s beside him, dutifully holding a roll of seating charts while Andrew and his mother discuss silverware with the event planner. “Careful, sweetheart,” Andrew calls as you lean over to move a stack of chairs. “You don’t have to do that yourself.”

You smile, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “I’m fine. Just making sure the space works.” It’s right about then that your purse slips off the chair where you’d set it—and the entire contents scatter dramatically across the floor. Lipstick, coins, a small notebook, a handful of folded receipts. You let out a startled sound, bend to grab it—and promptly hit your knee on the edge of the table. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that the word slips out before you can stop it. “Goddammit.”

The sound echoes, far too loud in the open space. For a second, the entire room freezes. Andrew’s head snaps up from where he’s been talking with his mother. She blinks, the faintest twitch of disapproval crossing her expression—not much, just the tightening around her mouth, a small flicker of polite discomfort that might have gone unnoticed if Bucky hadn’t been watching her.

Steve looks like he’s about to laugh, then catches himself. Bucky turns away, biting down on the grin that’s already threatening to break loose.

You flush hot, half from embarrassment, half from frustration. “I—sorry. Table jumped out at me.”

Andrew recovers quickly, his voice smooth, reassuring. “It’s alright, darling. Maybe watch where you’re stepping next time.”

You nod, forcing a small laugh, and crouch to gather your things. You can feel your face burning. Bucky moves forward before you can stop him, crouching beside you. “Here,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it. His gloved hand brushes yours briefly as he hands you your lipstick. “You kiss your fiancé with that mouth?”

You shoot him a look, half scandalized, half amused despite yourself. “Don’t start.”

He smirks. “Couldn’t help it. Been too long since I heard you swear.”

“Should I be flattered that you missed it?”

He shrugs, sliding a coin toward you with one finger. “Maybe I just missed you.”

The words hang in the air a moment too long. You swallow, eyes flicking to his, but before you can respond, Andrew’s voice cuts across the room, “everything alright?”

You stand quickly, clutching your things to your chest. “Yes. All fine.” Bucky rises slower, expression carefully neutral, though you catch the flicker of amusement still dancing in his eyes.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of polite conversation and half-hearted planning. Andrew’s mother offers notes on napkin folds, Steve provides the occasional grunt of agreement, and you smile so much your cheeks hurt.

But you feel Bucky’s gaze every time you speak. Every time you laugh too softly or fidget with your gloves. When you finally leave the venue, the daylight’s already fading into that soft gold that makes everything look warmer than it is. Steve walks ahead with Andrew and his mother, deep in conversation, while you and Bucky lag behind, the cold air frosting your breath. He glances sideways at you. “You okay?”

You exhale a laugh. “Just humiliated myself in front of my future mother-in-law. Totally fine.”

“She’s gonna live,” he says with a grin. “Hell, I think it was worth it just to see her face.”

You groan. “She looked like I’d cursed out a priest.”

“She kinda did,” he teases. “Never thought I’d say this, but I missed hearin’ you swear.”

You glance at him, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But you used to call me worse than that.”

You roll your eyes. “When you deserved it.”

He laughs, genuine this time—the sound so warm and familiar it hits something deep inside you. “You got a mouth on you when you’re mad, sweetheart. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I was sixteen,” you protest, shoving your hands in your coat pockets. “Everyone had a mouth at sixteen.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, looking ahead. “But you had fire.” That quiet tone—low, almost reverent—steals the humor right out of the air. You look up at him, but he’s not smiling anymore. His eyes are distant, thoughtful. You walk the rest of the way in silence. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy. The kind of silence that carries too many words neither of you can afford to say.

When you reach the corner where you’ll part ways, you stop. “You’re walking the wrong direction again.”

He smirks faintly. “Never said I was goin’ anywhere in particular.”

You hesitate. “You didn’t have to come today, you know. I know it’s not exactly your kind of thing.”

“I didn’t mind,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you lie automatically.

He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head slightly. “You’re allowed to be more than ‘fine,’ you know.” You open your mouth, but no answer comes. He gives you a small, tired smile. “See you soon, doll.” You watch him walk away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure fading into the crowd until he’s gone.

That night, Andrew calls—his voice smooth, polite, talking about dinner with his parents and the guest list. You listen, answering when you need to, but your mind drifts elsewhere. You think of the way Bucky had knelt beside you without hesitation. The quiet teasing. The memory of your younger selves flashing between you for one breathless second. You think of how Andrew had said, “watch where you’re stepping,” and how it had sounded less like concern and more like correction.

You hang up the phone with a headache and a hollow ache in your chest. When you turn off the light, you whisper into the dark—a soft, frustrated word that you’d never say out loud. Bucky would have laughed. And for the first time in a long while, you do too—quietly, bitterly, but real.

---

The night of the dance comes almost by accident—one of those things Steve insists on, claiming it’ll “do everyone good to get out.” He’s been helping with a fundraiser for returning veterans, something organized at a converted ballroom downtown. There’ll be live music, dancing, food, and a chance, he says, to feel normal again.

You’d refused at first. Between fittings, dinner invitations, and endless lists from your mother and Andrew’s family, your days already feel like borrowed time. But Steve is relentless—and Bucky, of course, is going. So you give in.

The evening is cold enough that your breath ghosts in the air as you step from the cab. The building glows warm through tall windows, laughter spilling onto the street in bursts as couples sweep in through the doors. Music drifts faintly out—brass and strings, something upbeat and elegant.

You smooth your gloves, nerves prickling under your skin. Andrew couldn’t come; a late dinner with a client, he said, promising to make it up to you over the weekend. He’d kissed your cheek on the way out the door, already thinking about something else.

Now, standing under the soft halo of the marquee lights, you almost turn back—until you hear a familiar voice. “Hey, doll.” Bucky’s leaning against the doorframe, coat open, tie slightly undone. He’s smiling—that lazy, easy grin that used to make your stomach do strange things when you were younger.

You exhale. “You look—”

“Don’t say it,” he warns playfully. “I already know.”

You grin despite yourself. “You were going to say it anyway.”

“Maybe,” he admits, pushing off the wall. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

It’s simple, unembellished, and it lands harder than it should. You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “Thank you.”

He offers his arm with a flourish. “Shall we?” You take it before you can think better of it. The hall inside is alive—bright lights glinting off polished floors, the air full of warmth and perfume and brass. A small band plays near the stage, their instruments gleaming under the glow. Couples swirl across the floor, the sound of laughter weaving with the rhythm of the music.

Steve finds you both near the entrance, already grinning, already holding two glasses of champagne. “You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say, smiling.

Bucky raises a brow at the glasses. “Since when do you drink the fancy stuff?”

Steve shrugs. “Figured I’d start celebrating before anyone gets sentimental.”

“You’re the sentimental one,” Bucky teases. “You cried when you saw that puppy in the paper last week.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You two haven’t changed a bit.”

For the first hour, everything feels easy. You sit together at a table near the floor, watching dancers spin, the band switching between swing and slower numbers. Steve gets dragged onto the dance floor by a brunette in a red dress, who you’re pretty sure is Peggy, leaving you and Bucky to nurse drinks and trade quiet jokes.

But as the night wears on, something shifts. The music slows. The lights dim slightly, turning everything gold and soft. Couples begin to drift together, the chatter thinning into quiet laughter. You’re fiddling with your glass when Bucky stands. “Come on.”

You blink up at him. “What?”

He nods toward the floor. “Dance with me.”

“Bucky, I don’t think—”

He extends his hand, palm up, eyes steady. “It’s just a dance.”

Your heart stutters, but you take it. His hand is warm around yours, solid. The other settles lightly at your waist as he guides you into the rhythm. It’s slow, easy—the kind of song that sways more than moves, leaving space for breath between every step.

You haven’t danced together since before the war. Back then, it had been all laughter and clumsy steps—your heels on his boots, his grin bright enough to fill the room. This feels different. Older. Heavier. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as you try to keep your eyes anywhere else. “So,” he says quietly, his voice just audible over the band. “Big day’s coming soon.”

You nod. “Two months.”

“You nervous?”

You laugh softly, though it sounds a little hollow. “Should I be?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking down to yours. “Guess that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re happy.”

You swallow. “You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”

“Maybe,” he says, smiling faintly. “But you still haven’t given me an answer.”

You look away, focusing on a couple nearby, the woman’s patterned dress catching the light as she spins. “It’s not that simple, Bucky.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

The music slows further, the last few bars stretching out. His thumb traces an idle circle at your waist—so small you almost think you imagined it. You glance up at him. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I’ve spent half my life lookin’ out for you, and the other half trying not to.”

Your breath catches. “Bucky—”

He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can say more. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna ruin your night.” The song ends, but neither of you move right away. You’re still caught in the slow sway of it, the warmth of his hand, the nearness of him. Finally, he steps back, the loss of his touch like stepping into cold air. “Thanks for the dance, doll.”

You nod, voice soft. “Anytime.”

He smiles—that quiet, sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—and turns away before you can say more. You stand there, trying to steady your breathing, watching him move toward the bar. The crowd shifts around you, but everything feels strangely far away—the music, the laughter, the shimmering gold of the lights.

When Steve returns, flushed and grinning, you force yourself to smile. You make small talk, you drink another glass of champagne, you laugh in all the right places.

But every time you glance across the room, Bucky’s already looking at you. And when the band starts another song—something slow and aching—you can feel the pulse of it in your bones, the echo of his hand still at your waist. You know, with sudden terrible clarity, that the world you’ve built is about to crack.

The cold hits like a slap when you step outside the ballroom, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the swell of brass and laughter. The sky is a heavy gray-black, the kind of night that promises snow. Streetlights cast soft circles on the pavement, and the air smells faintly of salt and smoke.

You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders and exhale, trying to steady yourself. Inside, the party is still going strong—laughter, footsteps, clinking glasses. You can still hear the echo of the band through the doors. The sound feels far away, like it belongs to someone else’s life.

You hadn’t meant to come out here. You just needed air. Space to breathe. You’re halfway down the steps when the door swings open behind you. “Figured I’d find you out here.” You turn. Bucky stands in the doorway, coat over one arm, his expression unreadable. His hair’s a little messy from the heat inside, his tie loose. He looks nothing like the man who’d smiled and danced with you an hour ago. He looks like someone who’s come to do something he can’t take back.

“Hey,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. “Needed a minute.”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping down beside you. “Me too.”

The silence stretches, filled with the low hum of the city and the distant sound of a passing car. You look out toward the street. “It’s getting late. I should—”

“Don’t go yet.” It comes out sharper than he means, and he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sorry. Just—just wait a minute.”

You hesitate, then nod. He steps in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. The lamplight catches the faint scar at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw. You can see the muscle in his throat move when he swallows. “You can’t marry him,” he says quietly.

The words hit like a physical thing—not shouted, not dramatic, just certain. You stare at him, the wind tugging at your shawl. “What?”

He exhales hard, almost laughing, not because it’s funny, but because he’s run out of ways to hold it in. “You heard me.”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t.” His voice cracks slightly, the word raw. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. You’ve been pretending long enough.”

You step back, shaking your head. “You don’t get to say that.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“You don’t,” you repeat, louder this time, the tremor in your voice betraying you. “You had years, Bucky. Years to say something, and you didn’t. You went off to war, and you didn’t write, you didn’t—”

“I thought I was dead!” he shouts, then lowers his voice quickly, the sound cracking in the cold air. “I thought I was dead, and when I wasn’t, I didn’t know how to come back. You think I wanted to ruin what we had?”

“You already have,” you whisper.

He laughs—quiet and bitter. “Yeah. Guess I did.” You turn away, hugging your arms around yourself, staring out at the blur of passing headlights. Your breath clouds the air, your chest tight. He steps closer, voice low again. “I’m not tryin’ to hurt you, doll. I just—” He stops, searching for the words. “Every time I see you with him, it feels like I’m watching somebody else live your life. And I can’t keep doin’ it.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do.”

He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look when you’re with him—polite, careful. Like you’re walkin’ on glass. You used to laugh with your whole body, you know that? You’d throw your head back and snort like it was the funniest thing you ever heard. You don’t laugh like that anymore.”

You blink, and your vision goes blurry. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

You shake your head, half laughing, half crying. “God, you think you can just come back and tell me I’m unhappy? You think you can just say that and everything changes?”

He takes a step forward, closing the space between you. His voice drops, rough and steady. “No. I think I can tell you the truth. I love you, and I have since before I even knew what that meant.” The words hang there, suspended in the cold air, heavy enough to change the shape of the night. You stare at him, heart pounding, your mouth open but no words coming out. He laughs again, softer now, broken. “I know. I know I’m too late. But I’d rather ruin what’s left than spend another day pretendin’ I don’t still feel this way.”

You whisper, “Bucky, stop.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. Not this time.”

“Don’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doin’ anything to you,” he says quietly. “I’m tryin’ to be honest. For once.”

You step closer without realizing it, until you’re only a breath apart. The air between you feels electric, sharp, full of everything you’ve both been avoiding. “You don’t get to tell me you love me now,” you say, voice shaking. “Not after all this time.”

He swallows. “I know.”

You look up at him—his eyes, his face, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious and painful all at once. “Then why are you saying it?”

“Because I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You should pull away. You don’t. The touch is so light it barely registers, but it’s enough to make your heart lurch. You realize you’ve been waiting for it—for years, maybe.

And then he kisses you.

It isn’t careful. It isn’t perfect. It’s desperate, aching, years of silence collapsing into one impossible moment. His hand finds your face, yours fists in the front of his coat. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and regret.

For a second, you let yourself fall into it—the familiarity, the warmth, the terrible rightness of it. Then reality slams back. You break away, breathless, trembling. “Don’t,” you whisper. “Please.”

He takes a step back immediately, hands raised like surrender. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, voice thin. “No, you’re not.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. “You’re right. I’m not.”

You stand there in the cold, neither of you moving, the echo of the kiss still pulsing in the space between you. Finally, you turn. “I have to go.”

He doesn’t stop you this time. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You walk away, your heels striking the pavement, each step harder than the last. You don’t look back, because if you do, you’ll break. Behind you, Bucky stays where he is, the wind tugging at his coat, the sound of the music from inside drifting faintly through the doors. He runs a hand over his mouth, as if he can still taste you, and lets out a shaky breath that turns white in the cold air.

When Steve finds him later, still standing outside under the lamplight, he doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to. “Guess she went home,” Steve says quietly.

Bucky nods, staring down at the street. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Bucky laughs once, soft and bitter. “Not even close.”

Steve doesn’t say anything after that. Just claps a hand to his shoulder, solid and wordless, before leading him toward home.

That night, you sit on your bed in the dark, your shawl still around your shoulders, your hair still styled from the dance. The mirror across from you reflects a version of yourself you don’t recognize—flushed cheeks, tear-stained eyes, a ring on your finger that feels heavier than gold.

You press your fingers to your lips and close your eyes. The ghost of him is still there—the warmth of his hand, the tremor in his voice when he said your name. You tell yourself it was a mistake. That it won’t happen again. That it doesn’t change anything. But deep down, in the place where you’ve hidden everything that still feels alive, you already know it does. Because no matter what happens next—no matter how much you tell yourself otherwise—that kiss didn’t feel like the end of something.

It felt like the start.

---

The morning after the dance dawns gray and breathless, the kind of quiet that feels like the city itself is holding still. You wake long before your alarm, eyes open to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The bedsheets are cold beside you—Andrew had stayed at his parents’ house last night after the dinner he mentioned, something about convenience, early meetings. You’d told him it was fine. You’d meant it.

But now, the silence in the apartment feels unbearable.

Your shawl is draped over the chair where you tossed it last night. One glove sits on the floor, half under the bed. Your lipstick is still smudged faintly around the corners of your mouth. You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror for a long time—your eyes red-rimmed, your hair a little messed up from sleep.

You look like a woman who hasn’t slept. You look like a woman who’s done something unforgivable. You press your palms flat on the table, forcing a breath through your lungs. You should feel guilty. You do feel guilty—but not in the way you expected. The shame sits alongside something else, something more dangerous. You feel awake.

You make it through breakfast without tasting a thing. The paper sits unread beside your plate, the coffee untouched. Every tick of the clock seems louder than the last. You keep hearing his voice, low and rough.

You can’t marry him. You used to laugh with your whole body. I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.

You try to drown it out with reason. Andrew is good. Steady. The kind of man your parents dreamed you’d marry. He’s kind to you, even if his kindness sometimes feels more like careful politeness than love. You’ll have a warm home, safety, a life without turbulence.

Bucky is none of those things.

He’s reckless, restless, full of jagged edges and ghosts that won’t leave him. His hands still tremble when he doesn’t sleep. He disappears for hours to “walk,” though you suspect he’s not walking so much as running from his own mind.

But when he’d kissed you—God, when he’d kissed you—there had been no distance, no pretending. Just truth. Raw, terrible, beautiful truth. And now you can’t un-feel it.

You find yourself outside his building before you realize you’ve even left home. The cold gnaws at your fingers; your breath fogs the air. You’re in your best coat, a hat tugged low, gloves clasped tight as if they’re the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door. Every part of you is screaming not to go inside—but your feet move anyway. The hallway smells faintly of tobacco and cheap soap. The floorboards creak underfoot. You reach his door, heart hammering, and knock before you can talk yourself out of it.

It takes a moment. Then footsteps. Then the latch.

When the door opens, he looks… wrecked. Bucky’s hair is rumpled, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes red-rimmed like yours. He blinks when he sees you, caught between surprise and something softer—something like disbelief. “Doll.”

“Can I come in?”

He steps aside wordlessly. The apartment is small—one room with a narrow kitchen, a half-drawn curtain separating the bed from the rest. There’s a record player on a crate, a mug on the windowsill gone cold. Everything smells faintly of metal polish and smoke.

You take off your gloves, set them down on the table, and stand there, unsure what to do with your hands. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s afraid if he blinks you’ll disappear. “I shouldn’t be here,” you say first.

He nods once. “Probably not.”

Neither of you move. The silence stretches. Finally, you force the words out, “what happened last night can’t—”

“—be undone,” he finishes for you. His voice is steady, quiet. “I know.”

You swallow. “Andrew—”

“Doesn’t love you the way you deserve,” he says, too quickly.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t make him the villain. He’s good to me.”

“I know he is,” Bucky says softly. “But he doesn’t see you.”

You turn away, pacing to the window. “You keep saying that. That he doesn’t see me. What does that even mean?”

He moves closer, not touching you yet. “It means he doesn’t know the way your hands shake when you’re excited. Or how you hum when you cook. Or how you hate cucumbers but love the smell of mint. He doesn’t know how you look when you’re mad and trying not to cry. He doesn’t know you fall asleep reading, or that you talk in your sleep sometimes.” You close your eyes. “He doesn’t know you,” Bucky finishes, voice low. “Not the way I do.”

“That’s not fair,” you whisper. “People change, Bucky. I’m not who I was before the war. Neither are you.”

“Maybe not,” he says, and now he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back. “But you’re still you. The real you. And I’m still the fool who fell for you before either of us knew what love was.”

You turn around, ready to tell him to stop—but he’s looking at you with that same quiet honesty that’s always undone you. No pleading. No bravado. Just truth. Something in you breaks. “You think this is easy for me?” you snap, tears stinging your eyes. “You think I haven’t spent every night trying to make myself believe that I can do this—that I can marry him, smile, build a life that’s good, even if it’s not…” You trail off, breathing hard.

“Not what?” he asks softly.

“Not you.” The words hang there like a confession torn from your chest.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes darkening. “Say that again.”

You shake your head, tears slipping free. “Don’t make me.”

He takes a step closer. “Say it.”

You look up at him, voice trembling. “It’s not you.”

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just studies your face—every tear, every tremor. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, “then don’t marry him.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Bucky—”

“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, firmer now. “Don’t spend the rest of your life pretending this never happened. Pretending you don’t feel it too.”

Your throat closes. “You’re asking me to destroy everything.”

“I’m asking you to be honest,” he says. “For once. Just with yourself.”

The silence that follows feels like standing on a precipice. You can hear the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant sound of a car outside. Finally, you whisper, “if I walk away from him, there’s no going back.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “But maybe that’s the point.”

You meet his eyes, and for the first time in months—maybe years—you feel something that isn’t fear. You feel clarity. You leave his apartment an hour later, the sun beginning to rise pale and pink over the rooftops. The streets are still quiet, the city half-asleep. You walk the whole way home.

By the time you reach your door, your fingers are numb, your heart raw. You set your ring on the table—gold glinting in the soft morning light—and sit beside it, staring until the sun burns through the window. When the phone rings, you don’t answer. Not yet. You don’t know what you’ll say to Andrew, not really. You just know it has to be true. And for the first time in a long, long while, that feels like enough.

That afternoon, Bucky finds Steve at the diner, coat unbuttoned, eyes still tired but different now—lighter somehow. Steve raises a brow when he slides into the booth. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “I didn’t.”

“She come by?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”

Steve studies him for a moment. “You tell her?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Bucky looks out the window, where sunlight spills across the street, turning everything gold. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “But for the first time since I came home… it feels like maybe things might be right again.”

Steve smiles faintly. “That’s something.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, fingers curling around his coffee mug. “It is.”

Outside, the city hums to life again—the promise of something new on the horizon. And somewhere across town, you sit by the window, your ringless hand resting over your heart, breathing in the quiet morning air. You don’t know what comes next.

But you know who you want to face it with.

---

It happens on a Sunday. The kind of pale, overcast morning that seems to hum with quiet finality—the sort of day that feels like the closing of a chapter, even before anything has ended. Your hands tremble only once when you lace your gloves. Then again when you look in the mirror and see the faint indentation where your ring used to sit. It’s strange how something so small could leave a mark so deep.

Andrew had called three times since last night. You’d answered none of them. You’d written him a letter—neat, careful handwriting, the kind of letter that doesn’t waste words. You apologized, you explained just enough, you didn’t say Bucky’s name. You thanked him for being kind. For being safe. For giving you a life you could have loved, if your heart hadn’t been somewhere else.

When you finished, you folded it, sealed it, and set it gently in his mailbox before you lost your nerve. Then you walked. The city feels softer than usual—washed clean from an early morning drizzle, streets gleaming faintly under the muted sun. People bustle past you in coats and scarves, voices muffled, the world continuing as if nothing monumental has shifted. But for you, everything has.

Bucky doesn’t hear the knock at first. He’s just come back from the docks, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the mist. There’s a record playing—something scratchy and old, the kind of jazz you used to hum when you worked beside him at the old diner near Flatbush.

He’s been trying not to think about you; he’s failing. So when the knock comes, soft but steady, he almost doesn’t answer. Some part of him is terrified to open that door, afraid that seeing you—or not seeing you—will finally undo him for good.

But he does. And there you are. Your coat’s damp at the hem, your cheeks stinging from the cold. There’s no ring on your hand, and your eyes—God, your eyes—look clearer than he’s ever seen them. “Hey,” you say, voice small but sure.

He blinks, then steps aside automatically. “You came.”

You nod, stepping inside. “I did.” The air in the room feels charged, the same way it did that morning in his apartment. But this time, there’s no hesitation between you. No guilt. Just a quiet certainty settling in your bones. “I ended it,” you say.

Bucky freezes. “You what?”

You meet his gaze. “With Andrew.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, struggling to find breath. “You sure?”

You nod once. “I told him the truth.”

For a moment, neither of you move. Then Bucky lets out a slow, unsteady breath and takes a step forward—one, then another, until you’re standing close enough to feel the warmth of him through your coat. “What did you tell him?” he asks softly.

“That I couldn’t marry someone I didn’t love,” you whisper.

He searches your face, voice barely a murmur. “And who do you love?”

You don’t look away this time. “You.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full. Alive. Like the first inhale after years of holding your breath.

And then he’s kissing you.

It isn’t desperate this time. It’s steady. Sure. The kind of kiss that feels like coming home after too long away. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the tear that slips free. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he murmurs against your lips, “hey, hey. Don’t.”

You laugh, half-sobbing, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

You nod, smiling through the tears. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He exhales shakily, relief breaking over him like sunlight. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

“Maybe I do,” you tease gently, your hand resting over his heart. He covers it with his own, fingers threading through yours. His pulse beats strong under your palm. You stay like that for a long time—standing in the quiet of his apartment, the city noise drifting faintly through the window. It feels fragile, this peace, but also real. Earned.

Eventually, he guides you to the small kitchen table, sets a kettle on the stove, and makes tea—the way he used to when you were kids, strong and too sweet. You sit across from him, elbows on the scarred wood, steam curling between you. He watches you for a moment, eyes soft. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smile. “You’ve asked me that three times.”

“Can’t help it.”

“I know.”

You reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I think I’ll be okay, Buck. For the first time in a long while.”

He nods slowly, thumb tracing circles against your wrist. “You know this won’t be easy.”

“I know,” you say. “But at least it’ll be real.”

He looks at you then—really looks—and you see the weight lift from him. The guilt, the fear, the quiet ache that’s been hiding behind his smile since the war. “Real sounds good,” he murmurs.

The weeks that follow aren’t simple. There are whispers, of course. Muted condolences from neighbors who think you’ve been jilted. Polite confusion from Andrew’s family. Your mother’s disappointment—quiet, tight-lipped, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling.

But there’s also laughter again. You and Bucky and Steve falling back into a rhythm that feels like the world before it went to hell—coffee at the diner, evenings spent walking home through the city, warmth slowly replacing what had been hollow.

Sometimes, it’s quiet—hands brushing on park benches, shared cigarettes in the cold, Bucky’s coat around your shoulders. Sometimes, it’s loud—dancing in his room to bad jazz, arguing about who cheats at cards, Steve rolling his eyes fondly from the doorway. And every now and then, when you least expect it, he’ll reach for your hand—just a touch, light and unassuming—and it’ll still take your breath away.

It’s early spring when you wake in his bed for the first time with sunlight spilling through the window, his arm slung across your waist. The city hums faintly outside—car horns, laughter, the world moving on.

You turn your head, watching him sleep. He looks younger like this. Peaceful, almost. You reach up, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. His eyes open slowly, blue and soft, and he smiles—that same crooked grin that’s undone you a hundred times over. “Mornin’, doll.”

You grin back. “Morning.”

He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything except the promise that you’re both still here. When he pulls back, he murmurs, “you know, I still think about that night at the Expo sometimes.”

You laugh, low. “When you vanished to find Steve?”

“Yeah,” he says, smile widening. “Should’ve kissed you then.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “You made up for it.”

He hums, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Not done makin’ up for it.”

You smile against his skin. “Good.”

Outside, the city keeps moving—trains and laughter and sunlight spilling over everything. The world isn’t perfect. It never will be. But for the first time, it feels like yours again. And when Bucky pulls you close, his voice low against your ear, you know with absolute certainty that you did the right thing.

extra notes: this fic has been done for months, probably since tloas came out in october. i still think months later it's one of my favorites so i hope y'all liked it as much as i do <3

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

bucky barnes taglist: @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu @averyhotchner @heldbybarnes @thegirlwhowaited5everok @herejustforbuckybarnes @daddysbitchybaby @greatenthusiasttidalwave @sidkneeeee

[amethystarachnid]

OPPOSITES - part I

⤷ JAMES B. “BUCKY” BARNES

ᯓ★ Pairing: James B. “Bucky” Barnes x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff, tiny bit of angst

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL multiverse

ᯓ★ Story type: short fanfic

ᯓ★ Part II

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.5k

ᯓ★ Summary: you were raised with strict rules, never once dared to break one of them but the mysterious man you meet at the bar maybe deserves a few rules break.

ᯓ★ TW(s): mentions of alcohol

ᯓ★ AU: 1920s Gangstares

ᯓ★ Request: plz i neeeeeeeed the 1920s one i’ve been binging peaky blinders ( @one-lengthiness36 )

ᯓ★ Since request didn't spicy reader's gender I'll write it as a fem!reader, as I've said in the post

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests open)

ᯓ★ Masterlist

ᯓ★ If you are a Charles Xavier fan click on this link!

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language and this isn’t proof read

The Jazz Club pulses with life on a humid Friday night, filled with the muted glint of candle-lit chandeliers and shadows that dance to the lively notes of a trumpet solo. The place is alive, but you feel like you’re not quite part of it, like you’re watching through glass. You smooth the soft folds of your dress—borrowed from your friend Anna, who insists that it’s the only suitable thing to wear in a place like this—and tuck a stray curl behind your ear, feeling more out of place than you ever have. The excitement and energy around you only seem to emphasize your own nerves.

When Anna and Lucy had insisted on bringing you here tonight, the “exclusive bar everyone’s talking about,” you’d hesitated. You’d been raised on rules, boundaries, and curfews. Late nights and smokey speakeasies had never been on the approved list. But the moment you’d stepped in here, breathing in the heady scent of bourbon, old wood, and something vaguely illicit, a part of you couldn’t deny the thrill that’s begun to buzz under your skin. You’re in a different world here, and your friends seem to thrive in it.

The club, “The Silver Swan,” has a reputation, and you’d heard the whispers about its owner: a shadowy figure with connections that aren’t exactly above board. Rumors say he’s dangerous, a man who rose through the ranks with a rough, unbreakable resolve. And yet, something about those stories only makes this place more thrilling, as if the Silver Swan is something of a forbidden fruit.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror behind the bar, looking wide-eyed and uncertain, the fabric of your dress reflecting the dim light in a way that makes you look more like a stranger than yourself. The low, smoky lights give everyone a sort of glamour, making the crowd seem less like people and more like characters from some gripping novel. A soft laugh tumbles from Anna’s lips, and she nudges you, arching an eyebrow.

“See, aren’t you glad you came?” she teases, her voice barely audible over the music. She’s right—you do feel a strange, exhilarating freedom here, your usual reservations fading into the back of your mind.

But then you feel it—eyes on you, unmistakable and intense. A shiver runs down your spine, and you glance around, suddenly alert. Your gaze lands on a man sitting at the edge of the room, half-hidden in the shadows. His eyes are piercing, almost predatory, watching you with a focus that makes you want to look away and stare back all at once.

The man is handsome in a way that’s almost unfair, with dark hair swept back neatly, a sharply cut jaw, and broad shoulders beneath a crisp suit. He’s lounging in a seat like it belongs to him, exuding a confidence that makes your heart stammer. Something about him is familiar, but you really can't seem to remember where you already saw him.

And right now, he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the room.

You look away quickly, feeling your face flush, but his gaze is unrelenting. It’s like he’s assessing you, taking in every detail. Even from across the room, the heat of his stare is enough to make you feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with your dress. Your friends are too busy chatting to notice, and part of you wants to tell them, but another part—one you barely recognize—likes the thrill of keeping it to yourself.

Slowly, almost deliberately, Bucky stands up. He moves with a grace that’s startling for a man of his size, all smooth lines and careful steps. The room shifts around him as people notice, some going silent, others nodding in deference. You try to look away, to pretend you haven’t noticed, but it’s impossible not to track his progress. Your heart beats faster with every step he takes in your direction, a drumbeat echoing louder in your ears as he comes closer.

When he finally reaches you, he stops, tilting his head and giving you the kind of smile that should be illegal in a place like this. He has a magnetism that’s undeniable, as if he could pull you in without a word.

“Good evening,” he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to settle over you. The accent’s faint, a New York drawl that somehow makes every word sound like a promise.

You swallow, trying to steady yourself. “Good evening.”

Up close, he’s even more striking. The lines of his face are sharp, softened only by the faintest of smirks that hovers at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, a shade of blue so intense it’s almost unreal, seem to see right through you. But there’s something else in them too, a flicker of curiosity, as if he’s just as intrigued by you as you are by him.

“Bucky Barnes,” he introduces himself, extending a hand. His fingers are gloved, the leather cool and smooth against your palm. “And who might you be, sweetheart?”

The endearment catches you off guard, and you struggle to remember your own name for a second. “Y/N,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “I—um—I don’t usually come to places like this.”

His smile widens slightly, a flash of white teeth that’s as dangerous as it is charming. “That much is obvious,” he says, his gaze dropping briefly to your dress, then back up to meet your eyes. “But I’d say you’re fitting in just fine.”

Your cheeks heat up again, and you find yourself at a loss for words. It’s disconcerting how effortlessly he seems to get under your skin, making you feel as though he knows things about you that you don’t even know yourself. The bar seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you, caught in a bubble of heady tension.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks, breaking the silence. He gestures to the bartender, who looks over immediately, waiting for Bucky’s order with a kind of nervous deference.

You hesitate, then nod. “Yes, please.”

Without looking away from you, Bucky nods to the bartender. “A glass of champagne for the lady.”

The drink appears almost immediately, and you accept it, your fingers brushing against his gloved hand. The touch is brief, but it sends a jolt through you, making you feel both exhilarated and unnerved. You take a small sip, hoping it’ll calm your nerves, but his presence is overwhelming, making it difficult to think clearly.

“So, Y/N,” he says, leaning a bit closer, his voice a seductive whisper, “what brings you to my little corner of the city?”

His little corner of the city. The way he says it is almost proprietary, as though he truly owns every inch of this place, every beat of the music, every glass of liquor poured.

“My friends,” you say, gesturing vaguely to Anna and Lucy, who are engrossed in conversation with each other. “They… they thought it was time I had a bit of fun.”

He chuckles, a rich, low sound that makes your pulse quicken. “And are you having fun, doll?”

The question catches you off guard, and you meet his gaze again, caught by the intensity of it. The truth is, you are. Despite your nerves, despite the fact that you feel completely out of your element, there’s something exhilarating about being here, talking to him.

“I think so,” you admit, a smile tugging at your lips. “Though I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Bucky’s eyes light up with amusement, and he leans in a bit closer, his voice a low murmur. “Well, sweetheart, maybe I could help you with that.”

The suggestion hangs in the air between you, charged with a promise that sends your heart racing. You’re not entirely sure what he means, but the thrill of it, the idea of letting him show you something unknown, is intoxicating.

“Would you like to dance?” he asks, and his voice is so soft that it almost feels like a secret.

“Yes,” you reply before you can second-guess yourself.

Bucky leads you onto the dance floor, his hand firm and possessive against your back, and you can feel the curious stares of the other patrons as he holds you close. He’s surprisingly graceful, moving with a practiced ease that makes it easy for you to follow his lead. The world seems to melt away, leaving just the two of you, swaying to the rhythm of the music.

The song is slow, sultry, and Bucky’s hands are warm through the thin fabric of your dress, guiding you effortlessly. He keeps his gaze on you, unwavering, as though he’s studying every reaction, every flicker of emotion on your face.

“Tell me something, Y/N,” he murmurs, his lips close to your ear. “Do you always let strangers sweep you off your feet?”

You can feel his breath against your skin, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “No,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “I don’t… I don’t usually do things like this.”

He smirks, clearly pleased by your admission. “Good,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Because I’m not interested in being just anyone to you.”

The words leave you breathless, caught in his intensity. There’s something about him that’s both dangerous and magnetic, and you can feel yourself

being pulled in, the thrill of his attention washing over you.

As the music fades, he doesn’t let go, his gaze darkening as he studies you. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “I’d like to see you again.”

You’re not sure if it’s the champagne, the music, or the heady warmth of his gaze, but you find yourself nodding, your heart racing as you meet his gaze. “I’d… I’d like that too.”

He smiles, and there’s something possessive in it, a promise of things you can’t even begin to imagine. As he guides you off the dance floor, you can feel the eyes of the crowd on you, but for the first time, you don’t care. You’re captivated, ensnared, and in that moment, you realize that stepping into this bar has changed everything.

Two nights have passed since you met him, and you can’t shake the memory of the man with the dangerous smile and the piercing blue eyes. It feels almost ridiculous how one night could stick with you like this, lingering in your mind like a melody you can’t quite shake. His voice, low and confident, keeps playing back in your head, making you feel things you barely understand.

It’s just that he was… so different from anyone you’ve ever met. Mysterious, maybe a little bit dangerous, though you can’t say exactly why. He was a stranger, yes, but you can’t help but feel there was something there—something that makes you want to know more.

Tonight, you find yourself standing outside The Silver Swan, the same bar where it all began. Your heart thuds in your chest as you glance at the door, nerves warring with the thrill of seeing him again. You’d told yourself that coming back was silly, that you didn’t even know if he’d be here. But in the end, your curiosity had won out over reason, and here you are, alone this time, without your friends to distract you.

Steeling yourself, you step inside. The place feels both familiar and surreal, as though returning to a dream. The low lights, the smoky haze, the soft murmur of laughter—it’s all just as you remember. Except, this time, you feel different, like you’re here for something specific. Or someone.

Your eyes scan the room, searching. At first, you don’t see him, and a pang of disappointment settles in your chest. But then, across the room, there he is, sitting in that same dark corner, half-obscured by shadows. He’s alone, nursing a drink, his gaze resting on the crowd in a way that seems watchful, attentive. He’s so focused that you almost turn around, almost lose your nerve. But he catches your movement, his gaze locking onto you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

And just like the first night, he smiles—a lazy, inviting smile that makes your stomach flip.

You take a steadying breath and walk toward him, feeling as though every step is pulling you deeper into something you don’t entirely understand. When you reach him, he stands, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he looks at you.

“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice every bit as smooth as you remember. “Back again, doll?”

You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady. “I… you didn’t tell me your name. I didn’t know where else to look.”

It’s a flimsy excuse, and you know it. The corners of his mouth twitch as if he’s fighting back a laugh, but he’s too much of a gentleman to let it show.

“Didn’t I?” he asks, feigning surprise. “Must have slipped my mind.”

You raise an eyebrow, catching onto the teasing edge in his tone, and he chuckles softly. It’s a warm sound, richer than you remember, and it puts you a little more at ease.

“James Barnes,” he says finally, extending a gloved hand to you. “Though everyone just calls me Bucky.”

Bucky. You repeat the name in your head, testing it out. Somehow, it suits him perfectly.

“Y/N,” you say, letting him take your hand. His grip is warm and firm, and his gaze remains steady, holding yours with an intensity that feels almost intoxicating.

“I remember,” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower. “Been thinking about you since that night.”

The admission catches you off guard, your cheeks heating as you try to keep your composure. There’s no trace of insincerity in his tone, no hint that he’s merely flattering you. And it does something to you, hearing that he remembers, that he’s been thinking about you, too.

“Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart?” he asks, gesturing to the seat beside him. The offer is simple, but his gaze tells you that he’s waiting for something more than just a drink. It’s a silent invitation, one you find yourself unable to resist.

You sit beside him, nodding as he signals the bartender. Within moments, a glass of champagne is set in front of you, the same as last time. The tiny bubbles rise to the surface, and you take a sip, savoring the taste as you try to steady your nerves. Bucky’s eyes never leave you, tracking every move you make with a quiet intensity that sends a thrill through you.

“So,” he says after a moment, his voice soft, “what brings you back here tonight, Y/N?”

There’s a teasing glint in his eye, and you can tell he already knows the answer. But you can’t bring yourself to say it outright. Instead, you glance down at your glass, letting the bubbles fizz against your lips.

“Maybe I was… curious,” you admit finally. “About you.”

The words hang between you, more honest than you’d intended, but his reaction is worth it. His gaze darkens, and he leans in just slightly, his voice lowering to a murmur.

“Is that so?” he asks, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I don’t suppose you know much about me, do you?”

You shake your head, feeling both embarrassed and exhilarated by the question. “No, not really,” you say. “Just that you’re the owner of this place.”

Bucky chuckles, the sound low and amused. “That’s one way to put it,” he says, his eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place. “But there’s a bit more to it than that.”

He leans back in his seat, watching you with a faint, assessing smile. “And you,” he says, “are a little out of place in a place like this, aren’t you?”

It’s not a question, more of an observation, and he’s not wrong. You feel the flush of heat on your cheeks as you give a small nod.

“My friends wanted to show me something… new,” you say, glancing around at the bar. “And I guess I wanted to see more of it.”

“More of me, you mean,” he says smoothly, the teasing lilt back in his voice.

You try to stifle a laugh, knowing he’s right. “Maybe,” you admit.

He seems pleased by your honesty, his smirk softening into something more genuine. The conversation flows more easily now, and you find yourself telling him things you wouldn’t usually share with a stranger—about your strict upbringing, your sheltered life, how your friends are always telling you to try something new, something daring.

“Sounds like you’ve been living under lock and key,” he says, a hint of sympathy in his voice. “Bet you’ve never even snuck out after curfew.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I haven’t, actually. I don’t even know what it feels like to break the rules.”

His eyes glint with something mischievous, and he leans in just a little closer, his voice a murmur. “Would you like to find out?”

The suggestion sends a thrill down your spine, and you glance around, feeling both nervous and exhilarated. “Maybe,” you say, your voice softer than you intend.

Bucky’s gaze holds yours, his expression one of quiet satisfaction. “How about a little tour of the place, then?” he asks, offering his arm. “You don’t get to see the real Silver Swan from the barstool.”

You bite your lip, hesitating for just a moment before you slip your hand through the crook of his arm. His gaze softens, and you can feel the weight of his attention on you as he leads you away from the bar. The patrons barely look up as you pass, and you wonder if they’re used to seeing Bucky escorting guests through the place.

He leads you down a hallway that seems to stretch on forever, passing doors that look as though they lead to secret places—rooms shrouded in mystery and intrigue. Bucky says nothing, letting the quiet settle between you, and you feel yourself growing more curious, more intrigued by him with every step.

When he finally stops, it’s at a private booth at the very back of the club, tucked away from prying eyes. The lights are low, the shadows casting his face in a way that makes him look almost otherworldly.

“This,” he says softly, “is where I like to sit when I want a break from it all.”

You glance around, taking in the plush seating and the faint scent of leather and bourbon that seems to hang in the air. “It’s… nice,” you say, feeling a little out of breath. “Quiet.”

He nods, watching you closely. “Not many people get to see this side of the club,” he says. “Guess you’re special, Y/N.”

The words are simple, but they make your heart skip a beat. You hold his gaze, feeling that pull again, that magnetic attraction that brought you back here tonight.

“Thank you,” you say, almost whispering.

He leans in, his hand resting on the back of the booth behind you. “It’s my pleasure, doll,” he murmurs, his voice a low, intoxicating murmur. “I meant it when I said I wanted to see you again.”

You feel yourself getting lost in his eyes, the promise in his voice making your heart race. And as you sit there, hidden away from the world, you realize that you don’t care about the consequences or what you’ve always been told.

As the two of you settle into the private booth, Bucky leans back, relaxed, his gaze never straying far from you. The low hum of the club fades into the background, and for the first time, you feel as though you can truly open up. There’s something about him—something magnetic, confident, almost disarming. It’s as though his quiet intensity has created a space where you feel safe, unjudged.

“You know,” he says, after a moment of comfortable silence, “you’re different than most people who come through here.”

“Different?” you echo, taking a sip of champagne to cover the sudden rush of nervousness. “How?”

He smiles, his head tilting thoughtfully. “Most people here, they’ve got something to prove. Or something to hide. They’re running from their lives or getting a break from them. But you? You seem like you’re still figuring out what it is you want. Not in a bad way. It’s…” His voice softens as his eyes sweep over you. “It’s refreshing.”

You can’t help but smile, feeling a flicker of warmth at his words. But that warmth quickly fades into something more bittersweet, a feeling that gnaws at the edges of your happiness. You glance down, fiddling with the stem of your glass as you think of your father, of the tight restrictions he’s kept on you for so long, and the rules you’ve never dared question.

“Maybe that’s because I don’t know what I want,” you murmur, barely loud enough for him to hear. “I don’t think I ever learned how to decide that for myself.”

He studies you in silence, letting the confession linger in the space between you. Bucky doesn’t press, doesn’t pry—just waits, watching you with a quiet patience that feels comforting.

“It’s just…” you continue, hesitating, unsure how to explain the life you’ve led, the one so tightly wrapped in rules and boundaries. “My father has always been very… strict. Growing up, I had a list of things I could do, places I was allowed to go. There were rules about what I could wear, who I could talk to.” You give a short, bitter laugh, almost embarrassed to admit it. “My whole life has been about following those rules.”

Bucky’s expression shifts, his jaw tightening slightly. “He must be real protective of you.”

“Protective? Yes,” you say, nodding slowly. “But it’s more than that. He always said he was trying to keep me safe, but…” You trail off, staring into your glass. “It feels like I was more of a possession than a person sometimes. Like I was something he could control.”

Bucky’s hand rests on the back of the booth, his fingers inching closer to yours as he leans forward. “Must have been lonely,” he says quietly, his voice gentle, understanding.

The truth of it hits you in a way you weren’t expecting. You’ve never been allowed to admit that, not even to yourself, but hearing it said aloud feels oddly freeing. “It was,” you confess, barely above a whisper. “I think that’s why I stayed. I didn’t know any other way to live.”

A quiet moment stretches between you, and then Bucky speaks, his tone warm but filled with a fierceness you hadn’t seen before. “You know, there’s more out there than just following someone else’s rules, Y/N. There’s a whole world waiting to be discovered—by you.”

His words make something tighten in your chest, a thrill mingling with fear. It’s tempting to believe him, to imagine a world where you could make your own choices, live by your own rules. But the thought is daunting, and part of you wonders if you’d even know where to begin.

“I don’t know if I’d know how to live like that,” you admit, your voice wavering slightly. “It sounds… wonderful, but it’s not easy. Not when I’ve been told my whole life what’s right and wrong.”

“Right and wrong?” he repeats, an amused smirk quirking at the edge of his lips. “Who’s deciding that, doll? Your father?”

You hesitate, feeling a swell of defensiveness and something else—guilt, maybe. “I mean, he’s only ever tried to protect me. He says that the world’s dangerous, and that if I’m careful, I’ll stay safe.”

Bucky’s gaze darkens, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. “And what’s that gotten you? Safety? Or just limitations?”

The question hangs heavy between you, and for a moment, you don’t have an answer. You think about your life as it’s been: the curfews, the rules, the carefully monitored friendships, the way you’d once looked forward to every day shrinking into a comfortable, predictable routine. And it hits you that you don’t remember the last time you actually felt alive, felt excited about something. Meeting Bucky, coming back here tonight—these things have pulled you out of the haze that’s been your life, made you realize just how small it had become.

“I don’t know,” you say, feeling that truth in your bones. “I just… I’ve never known any other way.”

Bucky’s gaze softens, his hand moving closer until his fingers brush lightly against yours. “Maybe it’s time to change that,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost a whisper. “To start making choices for yourself.”

His words stir something in you, something you’ve ignored for far too long. Maybe it is time. Maybe there’s more for you out there, more than just the safe life your father has laid out for you. The thought is thrilling and terrifying, a leap into the unknown that you’re not sure you’re ready for.

But sitting here, under Bucky’s intense gaze, you feel a flicker of courage.

“What if… what if I don’t know where to start?” you ask, barely realizing you’ve spoken the thought aloud.

Bucky smiles, a quiet, reassuring smile that makes your heart skip a beat. “Then start with something small,” he says. “Just one little choice that’s all your own.”

The suggestion feels manageable, like a tiny, contained spark in the face of a bonfire. You look down at your hand, still so close to his, and a thought occurs to you, simple and impulsive.

“Then I choose to stay here,” you say, your voice soft but certain. “With you.”

Bucky’s eyes flash with something you can’t quite name, and his fingers close gently over yours. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes tells you more than words could. It feels as though a silent promise has passed between you, a vow to share this moment and maybe more.

“You made a good choice,” he says, voice low and sincere. “You’ll find it’s not so bad, choosing what you want for yourself.”

And as you sit there, wrapped in the warmth of his presence, you realize that for the first time, you feel free. It’s a small thing, yes, but it’s the beginning of something bigger. It’s a spark, a chance to break away from the life you’ve known, to carve out something that belongs only to you.

“Thank you,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “For… for making me feel like I could do that.”

Bucky’s grip tightens around your hand, his gaze unwavering. “Sweetheart, you don’t need anyone to give you permission to live your life. But I’ll be here to remind you, as often as you need.”

The weight of his words settles over you, grounding you, anchoring you in this moment. And as the evening stretches on, you find yourself leaning into this new feeling—this strange, exhilarating freedom. You don’t know where this will lead, but for the first time, you’re not afraid of the unknown. For the first time, you feel ready to face it.

The hours seem to slip away as you and Bucky talk, wrapped up in a world that feels like it belongs only to the two of you. Conversation flows easily, and each answer you give, every shared look, every quiet laugh feels like a step further into uncharted territory—a life you never imagined could be yours. With each word, each moment, you feel yourself coming undone, shedding pieces of the careful person you’ve been told to be.

You learn more about him, too, though his answers are sometimes elusive, his stories sketched in broad strokes rather than fine detail. He talks about Brooklyn, about the fast changes sweeping through the city, about what it means to take control of your life and make your own choices, no matter the risk. And there’s a gleam in his eye when he speaks of it, a sort of fierce independence that leaves you breathless.

He notices your rapt attention and smiles knowingly, and just as you start to look away, he reaches over, lifting your chin with a gentle hand. “Don’t go hiding now, doll,” he says softly. “You’ve got that look in your eye, like you’re learning a secret.”

Maybe you are. Maybe tonight is a door opening in your mind, a glimpse into a world beyond everything you’ve been raised to believe. You don’t want to look away. Not now.

The night deepens, the lights around you dimming further as the crowd in the bar begins to thin. You’ve lost track of time, and when you look at him again, you realize you’ve also lost track of everything else—the worry, the rules, the constraints of who you’re supposed to be. All that exists now is the weight of his gaze, steady and warm and laced with a depth you can barely fathom.

“Bucky,” you murmur, his name foreign but sweet on your tongue, “you’re right. I don’t want to live like that anymore. I want… more.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but the way he looks at you speaks volumes. The intensity in his eyes softens, a hint of something tender mingling with his usual confidence. You’re close to him now, closer than you’ve ever been to anyone before, and it feels so natural, as though you’re meant to be in this moment, with him.

As if sensing your thoughts, he brushes his hand along your cheek, his thumb tracing a soft line along your skin. “You deserve that,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of music. “You deserve to have everything you want.”

Your heart is racing, but it’s no longer just nerves—it’s excitement, the thrill of something new, something you’ve only read about in books or dreamed of late at night when no one was watching. Bucky’s thumb pauses, just beneath your lips, and you hold your breath, wondering if he can feel the heat rushing to your face, if he knows just how much you want this.

And then, as if time has slowed, he leans in, his lips brushing yours in a featherlight kiss.

It’s softer than you imagined, gentle and tentative, almost as if he’s waiting to make sure you’re alright with this, as though he’s giving you a moment to pull away if you want to. But pulling away is the last thing on your mind. Instead, you close your eyes, letting yourself melt into the kiss, letting him guide you.

It’s your first kiss, and yet it feels like it’s something you’ve waited your whole life for. His lips are warm, and there’s a softness to him that contrasts with his strong grip as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly. You feel his hand cradle the back of your neck, anchoring you to him, and it’s like everything you’ve known has been turned upside down, as if your world has narrowed to this single point of contact.

When he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, he doesn’t let go. His eyes search yours, and there’s something vulnerable there, something that makes your heart ache in the best way.

“You okay?” he asks softly, a faint, tender smile playing on his lips.

You nod, your voice barely a whisper. “Yes,” you manage, feeling breathless. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

He chuckles softly, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “Then we’ll take our time,” he murmurs. “No need to rush. Just… let yourself feel it.”

You can feel the warmth of his hand against your skin, his thumb brushing slow, soothing circles on the back of your neck. The kiss has stirred something in you, a hunger for more—more of him, more of this feeling of freedom. It’s a feeling you didn’t know existed, a kind of heady joy mixed with an electric thrill, and you find yourself wanting to savor every second of it.

“I’ve never…” you begin, your cheeks warming as you try to find the words. “This is all so new.”

Bucky smiles, his gaze softening further. “I know, sweetheart. But I’ve got all the time in the world.” There’s a promise in his voice, a quiet reassurance that lets you feel safe, cared for. And in this moment, with him, you believe it.

“Thank you,” you whisper, not sure how to put into words everything you’re feeling. “For… for this. For making me feel like I could do something I’ve always been afraid to.”

He rests a hand on your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin as he studies you, as though he’s memorizing every detail of your face. “You don’t ever have to thank me for that,” he says, his voice rough with sincerity. “If anything, thank yourself. You’re the one taking the chance.”

The world outside this quiet, shadowed booth feels a million miles away, and you realize, for the first time, that you’re not thinking of anyone else—not your father, not the rules, not the life you’d been told to live. Here, with Bucky, you’re allowed to simply be.

As the night wears on, you talk in hushed tones, sharing fragments of dreams, whispered promises, and moments of laughter. And when he kisses you again, it’s no longer tentative or restrained, but warm and inviting, a promise of something more. It’s a gentle pull, a quiet invitation to step further into this new life that’s slowly taking shape before you.

And as you close your eyes, feeling his arms wrap around you, you can’t help but think that this—this feeling, this night, this person—might just be the beginning of everything you’ve been waiting for.

The weeks that follow are filled with secret rendezvous, stolen glances, and a flurry of emotions you’ve never experienced before. Bucky becomes your world, a thrilling, hidden part of your life that you keep safe from prying eyes and questions. You meet him on street corners, take long walks in the early morning hours, and share intimate moments in dimly lit corners of his bar. He shows you parts of the city you never knew existed, places tucked away from the polished streets you grew up on. With every touch, every lingering look, you feel yourself slipping further from the quiet girl your family knows and closer to the woman he’s helped you become.

But Bucky’s expression has grown increasingly serious each time he sees you. One night, after a quiet dinner at his place, he turns to you with a look that makes your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

“Sweetheart, we need to talk.” His voice is calm, steady, but there’s something heavier behind it. The warmth that always seems to light up his gaze is dimmer, a flicker of worry casting shadows over his features.

The unease in his voice sends a shiver through you. You reach for his hand, squeezing it gently. “What is it, Bucky?”

He pauses, his jaw tightening before he speaks. “There’s something I haven’t told you.” He meets your gaze, searching your eyes as though bracing himself. “About who I am. About what I do.”

The words make you stop short, your heart pounding as you try to read his face. But there’s no trace of the softness he usually holds for you; instead, he looks almost haunted, caught between protecting you and confessing something you suspect he’s wanted to share for a long time.

“Alright,” you say softly, not letting go of his hand. “Then tell me.”

Taking a breath, Bucky looks away for a moment, as if gathering himself, before he speaks again. “I… I’m not just the guy who owns that bar, Y/N.” His voice drops to a low murmur. “I’m in charge of a group of men—a group that does things your father would never approve of. People see me as… as someone to be feared. I’m the boss of a gang.”

You stare at him, processing each word slowly, feeling the weight of them sink in. The man you’ve fallen in love with—the man who taught you how to live outside the lines, who showed you how to think for yourself—he’s also a feared figure in the world of crime, someone your father would have you believe is dangerous and immoral. But despite the shock of it, you can’t seem to find fear in your heart. Instead, you feel something different, something even stronger.

“And… and you think that changes something?” you ask, barely louder than a whisper.

Bucky’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, as if he’d expected you to pull away or look at him with horror. “Y/N, this isn’t a small thing. It’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be mixed up in a life like mine. I can’t offer you the same kind of safety you’re used to.”

You shake your head, your hand tightening around his. “But I don’t want safety, Bucky. Not the way my father has defined it. You’ve shown me a different life, one that’s real. I can finally breathe with you, be myself. And if that comes with danger, then so be it.”

He looks at you, the disbelief in his gaze melting into something softer, something filled with a kind of raw gratitude. “You’re sure?” he asks, voice thick with an emotion he doesn’t quite name. “Because once you’re in, sweetheart, there’s no easy way out.”

You lean into him, closing the space between you, your hand resting against his cheek as you meet his gaze with unwavering certainty. “Bucky, being with you has taught me more than anything else in my life. I don’t care about what you do, or who you used to be, or what other people say. You showed me how to stand up for myself. That’s what matters to me.”

A mixture of relief and disbelief flashes across his face, and for a moment, he seems almost lost for words. Then, as if unable to hold back any longer, he pulls you into his arms, his embrace fierce, filled with a desperate kind of gratitude. You can feel his heart pounding against your own, and the depth of his feeling, the strength of his emotion, overwhelms you.

When he finally pulls back, his hands stay on your shoulders, as though to anchor himself to you, his gaze piercing as it holds yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he says, a quiet, honest confession.

You smile, touching a hand to his cheek. “Maybe you do.”

For the first time, he lets out a quiet laugh, a genuine smile breaking through the intensity of his expression. And then, slowly, he leans down, his lips finding yours in a kiss that’s deeper, more intense than any you’ve shared before. This kiss is filled with relief, with unspoken promises and the kind of love that goes beyond the superficial, the kind of love that’s forged in fire.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ll protect you with everything I have. I promise.”

You nod, understanding the weight of his words. But you also know that you don’t need protecting, not the way you once thought. Because being with him has shown you that you’re stronger than you ever knew.

And as you sit together in the quiet of the night, Bucky holding you close, you know that this life, complicated and messy as it is, is exactly where you’re meant to be.

maybe a part 2 where y/n's family discovers their relationship? If you liked the story don't forget to like, reblog and drop a follow if you want to read more. <3

[tonycries]

Hips Don't Lie - G.S.

Synopsis. Gojo Satoru: he’s the best striker the Japanese national team has. The strongest, the sharpest, the fastest—and the hottest. With a 66% accuracy rate and a goal headed straight for your heart. You: a reporter for the FIFA World Cup, and the greatest at goalkeeping Gojo’s flirtations. You just can’t stand him- or so you say… You—1. Gojo—0.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!sports reporter!reader, football pIayer!Gojo, FIFA World Cup AU, Football AU, enemies-to-Iovers, sorta, he has a BIG crush on you, yearner!Gojo, fIirting, banter, bets, first date, paparazzi, fan cIubs, pússydrúnk!Gojo, MUNCH!Gojo, oraI (f + m), 69, bets in BED, fíngering, spítting, p taIking, sIight p sIapping, bj’s, cIit bíting, goals, races, bIack cards, tongue f, doggy, wearing his jersey, manhandIing, making it fit, stopping you from running, he’s FÉRAL, cervíx smooches, counting, he BREAKS, babbIing, sIight overstím, making him whímper, making him cry, getting together, happy ending aww, PDA, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 13.9k

A/N. In honor of the FIFA World Cup heheheh I just had to-

“—Geto—a beautiful pass to Gojo. The one and only Gojo.” Booming. If there was one word that could describe the FIFA World Cup then it would be simply that: booming. Everything from the bacchanal cheers; the resounding noise of the football coming into contact with flesh; and excitement mixed with fear that was an amorphous neighbor next to where one sat.

Speaking of seats; everyone was on the edge of theirs.

They watched as Gojo Satoru stopped the football using his chest. Alternating it to a dribble—he’s quickly bypassing some of the opposing team’s defenders- and it doesn’t take long before Gojo’s coming face-to-face with the goal.

“—the famous Gojo technique, Limitless, because of the sheer unlimited speed and strength. It’s a play unable to be recreated by another, with a 100% scoring…” Gojo takes a deep breath. He points. He kicks.

And he misses.

And in-between the commentary and the chaos, Gojo’s eyes can’t help but meet yours pitchside. Amongst the cameras and the anchors-

—you were laughing.

At him.

“And it seems the world-famous Gojo Satoru has missed! He missed! Oh—what a blow for the Japanese team—hey Mech, can we get a close-up of who he was pointing at before missing the goal?”

As requested; the wedding replays the moments before Gojo’s missed goal: his look of determination, his deep breath, his arm raising for mere split-seconds to point…straight at you. And then it’s cutting to you outright laughing at the missed goal.

Fucking laughing.

Gojo himself pauses to watch the unfortunate sequences of events from below. 

“Aaaaand that’s half-time, folks!”

He immediately feels a wave of adrenaline strike him - nearly knocking him over at the force. The molten lead sensation floods every corner and crevice of him, and it makes his fingers tremble, it makes an unexplainable heat rise to his cheeks. Where the hell was this energy when he needed to score that last goal?

Gojo’s eyes remain fixated on you like two frozen-over lakes- made only brighter, not warm, in the face of the Sun.

As you’re finding yourself at the edge of those lakes, you wind down that laugh of yours- that stupid, gorgeous laugh of yours. It makes his heart ripple. And then with a soft smile upon your lips, you’re mouthing an apology. Instead of backing from those stone-cold lakes, daring to dip a toe in. Mocking, surely.

Fuck.

Gojo feels his clenched fists unfurl.

And his irritation.

He doesn’t suppose that you’re feeling guilty in the slightest - but what sort of world-famous sports reporter would you be if you got caught laughing at the star player? 

And Gojo Satoru is the star player—mind you. He’s just…having an off day? It’s exactly 45 minutes and 22 seconds into the quarter finals of perhaps the biggest football tournament in Gojo’s life: the FIFA World Cup. Japan has been facing off against an opponent they’d already been told would be a tough match to beat, with the odds stacked 79% against them- it just surprised Gojo that that 21% included him, too.

After all, he’s motherfuckin’ Gojo Satoru (don’t quote that).

With his signature white hair- and his ‘twinkling’ blue eyes- and that dimple at the corner of his smile. See that dimple? That dimple’s insured for ¥2,000,000.

But it wasn’t just fanfare and his dashing good looks. There’s no football without Gojo Satoru, and there’s no Gojo Satoru without football.

Ever since he was a young kid, the game just seemed to…call for him. 

Just starting out as some stupid sports channel he’d put on in order to avoid having to do his chores; then he’d started watching. Then he started paying attention. Then he started remembering their names and collecting his pocket money to buy some markers and a red, red t-shirt. He still remembers sprawling the t-shirt out on the floors of his cramped living room, and scrawling on Akers 10. Gojo Satoru was raised by Michelle Akers, Alessandro Del Piero, Roberto Baggio, Homare Sawa, and Jay-Jay Okocha as much as he was by his parents.

And then he’d started playing. 

He’d begged and begged his parents to get him a football for Christmas- even going to do extra chores around the house to butter them up.

And once they caved - making him promise not to play inside - Gojo had stumbled out to the playground faster than his legs could keep up. Although he remembers thinking that he’d make them- he’d make them keep up.

He admits he wasn’t instantly amazing - just slightly above average, if anything. But kids on the playground used to think he was the coolest thing.

Wanting to become a professional footballer? Every kid wanted to become a professional footballer at that age. So he’d gather the teams, he’d assign their roles, he’d play with them until the streetlights turned on and the crickets started chirping - except the only difference between Gojo and the rest…was that he wouldn’t go home. Refused to.

Not until his parents had to come down and physically drag him back home.

Until then, Gojo would kick and kick that damn ball as long as he had to to become good enough. Until his feet had to fuse with that damn ball, if it had to.

In middle school they adored him just as much.

The best football player and he’s got dimples to boot? 

He won’t lie - Gojo understands why he was called out for a confession at least thrice a week throughout the entirety of middle school. His grade, lower grades, and even some in the grade above. Manga club captains and school presidents- and some friends of friends not even going to this school. Some of his friends. Most…who’ve never even talked to him. 

And he doesn’t regret not letting any of that ‘sweet Spring love’ that his father always talked about blossom. He just wished his middle school-self had a bit more tact when rejecting girl after boy after girl.

Although he admits that the attention was nice- and those onigiri they brought him after practice was a sweet touch. But Gojo could never quite understand—what did they see in him?

He was hot, yes. He was talented. He was smart. He was funny- yes. But he just wasn’t…like the heroes that he looked up to. Not yet.

Gojo Satoru could never quite understand how he could love another as much as he loved football.

Sometimes when the confessions and the onigiri got a little too much, he’d go to the school rooftop and kick his ball around until the bell rang. Sometimes he’d simply sit and stare off into the distance—what was love? If we should love another as we love ourselves, then perhaps one doesn’t need it? Who said love had to be a person, not a dream?

Around this time, Gojo applied for the local junior football club.

He smoked them all- hah!

Then high school rolled around and here people started giving him looks - still dreaming of becoming a professional footballer? Wasn’t that child’s play?

Popularity was measured, at least for most guys, by how many girls you’d banged or whether or not you’d actually tasted beer. He himself wasn’t one to subscribe to such notions - but the status quo meant that people started…distancing themselves from him.

Reaching for him- if only to point at him like a party trick. Maybe throw a volleyball at him during gym classes, or puncture his football.

They actually did puncture his football.

He beat that boy until his knuckles bled - Gojo had gotten a temporary suspension, of course. He didn’t argue with the punishment. He thinks they went so lenient on him because it was his first offense.

But when he came back, it was even worse. There goes that freak still obsessed with football- isn’t he just going to get his dreams crushed? Isn’t he going to wake up? Grow up? He didn’t need them. He didn’t need a single fucking one of them.

Gojo threw himself into playing football more than ever around these years; until every bone in his body seemed to ache, and he always tasted metal from how hard he’d grit his teeth. He imagined their sneering, snickering faces at the end of the goal and kicked and kicked and kicked that fucking ball. And it was also around this time that he’d gotten the offer.

The offer.

He was glad to leave it all behind.

He was the youngest player in Japan to get a national team offer - oh, he remembers how nervous he’d been then, walking, wondering whether they’d look at him like they all do - and the second-youngest in the world to join an international club. He was an express - and damn expensive - pick for Real Madrid, and the only Japanese player to make a first-team appearance. He was the youngest player to win a major tournament at the UEFA European Championship. He was the youngest Japanese football captain leading them into the FIFA World Cup- and the only one to lead them into the quarterfinals. Not to mention his rabid fan club and his four-time title as the world’s prettiest striker!

But fuck, man. 

All that…for this.

Today, Gojo Satoru was having an off time. And he’s blaming it on you—was that necessarily fair? 

Hm…not likely. But nothing matters when he’s in the zone and he’s supposed to keep his eyes on the football- but they keep somehow drifting to you.

Fuck again.

This was on him, he knows. He knows. And yet-

And without a single word to any of his teammates or Coach Yaga…he’s marching straight over to you. Behind him, he hears Yaga’s choked-up call of his name and his teammates’ confusion. 

The cameras follow him with every step he takes- of course they do, he’s Gojo fucking Satoru. In the distance he can practically hear the tension tighten, as the commentators mention something about him, as the big screen zooms in on his steadfast path, as you’re turning around to see him nearing and your eyes widen.

For a mere split-second - before your hand tightens ‘round your mic, and you’re immediately holding it towards him at the ready.

“And here we have the star player-” It amuses Gojo how your lip tightens around that little phrase you just have to say when referring to him. “-Gojo Satoru’s…best friend in the distance—can the camera capture Geto Suguru during his pre-match stretches?”

The. Fucking. Audacity.

Gojo’s mouth drops as the camera hastens to focus on that damned Geto next to Coach Yaga behind him. He isn’t even the one that came up with those stretches! He stole them from Gojo-

Pointedly—he coughs into his fist.

And then you’re turning towards him with a faux-shocked expression on your face. Lashes fluttering. Those glossed lips of yours dropped into the perfect ‘oh’.

Gojo gets the urge to mimic the exact same expression - and just his luck, the camera’s turning to him at that very moment. There’s a small smirk at the edge of your lips as you’re bringing the mic up to your lips.

This wasn’t his first match interview with you.

Not in the very least. 

Gojo was the greatest in his field, and you were (admittedly) the greatest in yours. So it was inevitable that the two of you would meet- match after match, interview after interview, you’d fired your questions away at him.

And sure…there were the usual ones he already scripted for. But you’d quickly climbed up the ranks for asking on-the-spot questions specific to each player, to pick their brains - and in Gojo’s case, to make him squirm.

You asked him about his elementary school nickname as ‘The Strongest’ (which he later adopted as his actual field name so hah- jokes on you!), and his affinity for sneaking sweets into his strict athlete’s diet (Yaga lectured him after that one…jokes on him), and his utterly barren love life.

For someone so flirtatious, one must wonder why he’s never seen out and about with anyone. Maybe he’s simply football-sexual?

That particular interview had racked up quite a few (…million) views across various social medias as Gojo had turned red and stuttered - the first time someone had managed to get the chatterbox to pause - s-something about well, if you really want you can date him-

But he digresses. The point is that Gojo has had interviews with you before - so this should be a piece of cake. Really. Actually…Gojo’s first ever professional interview was almost with you- but that’s a story for another time.

“—and we’re live at the FIFA World Cup Quarterfinals with Gojo Satoru, Captain of the Japanese team.” You’re plastering that camera-ready smile of yours; though honestly he finds your priggish one more- “It’s your first time at the FIFA as a team captain. How are we feeling today, Gojo-san?”

His heart leaps a little at the honorific. “G-good. Good.” And then at the little raise of your brows - did Gojo Satoru just fucking stutter? Again? - he’s instantly shaking his head free of…whatever. Splashing on his own irresistible smile- dimple? Check. “Oh- y’know me, sweetheart. I’m always good~”

“Is that so?” You ask. “I’m glad to hear that. Because it seems like we’re going to need all the confidence we can get, Gojo-san. Tell me—what changes might the defense have to see in the next half if we’re going to beat the opponent’s two-point lead?”

“Well, I can’t share every secret here now, can I~?” Gojo chuckles. “But just know that we’re going to make good use of Geto in the next half- I know Coach Yaga has some good plans for him.”

You nod. “Speaking of- how is Geto Su-”

“We’re talking about me.” Gojo whines. And he’s sure that this part of the interview is going to get clipped to hell and back—but it doesn’t matter when you’re smiling…like that. When you’re throwing your head back and gesturing at that Japanese jersey of yours- number 4?

Geto Suguru.

“My apologies, I do tend to be favorable towards defenders.” You hum. “But I see you’re rather defensive yourself today, Gojo-san. What changes might the strikers have to see for this next half-”

“Nothing.”

That makes you pause. Your smile falters, though you manage to salvage it. “Erm- my apologies, I didn’t seem to hear you over the crowd. Did you say nothing?”

“I did.” And for how priggish you might act - you’d never amount to his sheer levels. His haughty hair flip that sends a few fan club members fainting in the front row, “Absolutely nothing. I’m perfect.”

“Oh-”

“I’m Gojo Satoru, don’t you know? Neeeeext question~”

“Yes I…I am aware.” You mutter under your breath. “Unfortunately.”

“What did you just-”

“But whilst we absolutely erm- adore your confidence, Gojo-san, one really does start to wonder with the two point lead…” You have a fire in your eyes - for how much you might be exasperated by him, it was undoubtable that you needed this win, too. “And I have only one more question for you: will we win?”

He pauses at that.

Just a split-second.

It’s a fleeting moment, yet it seems to hold the world. You’re not letting your gaze waver from his, and he’s not letting his gaze waver from yours. That fire in your eyes? It’s spreading across his own cheeks and then down his neck, across every inch of his body and coiling around his heart. And who’d have thought…that the great Gojo Satoru was flammable?

Gojo shoots a quick look down at himself to make sure that he’s not actually- before then wrapping his hand around the mic handle. He doesn’t exactly take it from you - just keeps his fingers resting on top of yours, and you’re not letting go either..“Nah, I’d win.”

Someone’s breath hitches- either yours or his.

He’s leaning in - down -so close that his lips are nearly grazing the grille. 

Gojo keeps his summer lake-blue eyes directly on you as he speaks—“And if I do…how about I get to take you out on a date?”

“You what-” Around you, cheers are erupting. And you’re wondering just what might have been shown on the big screen, only to realize that it was…the two of you. Glamorously displayed for millions of people to see.

You wonder if he can hear your heart race.

You wonder why he wasn’t paying attention to the thousands of people nearby that were chanting ‘say yes, say yes, say yes-’

“So, Miss Reporter?” Gojo cocks his head, a smile upon his lips. “What’ll it be?”

You’re biting down on the inside of your cheek- and it’s only too late that you’re realizing it’s to keep yourself from mirroring that world-famous smile. “Yes.” Your heart leaps.

And you’re sure that Gojo heard you- you’re sure of it. But he’s taking the mic completely now, and turning it upon yourself—“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said…” Something akin to…adrenaline? Something akin to…excitement? You didn’t know what name to put on it, but it’s making it difficult to keep your voice exactly steady. “-yes.” Thank goodness it was just a one-word answer.

Gojo smiles wide.

And as the commentators recite the entire interaction in various languages, Gojo’s hearing a call of his name from the coaches’ bench. Realizing that he’d nearly spent the entire break with you- he’s throwing a dazzling smile your way - and several flying kisses at the fans - before making a break for it. 

Reaching Coach Yaga, Gojo’s ducking his head and listening to every word the older goalkeeper has to say. There’s a fierce look of concentration on his face—

“You’re staring~” Shoko, from behind the camera, croons. “He really is even better-looking in person, huh?” She’d long since known about the little tension between you and Gojo Satoru- not any kind of good tension, that is. You’d just somehow gotten on his nerves as much as he got on yours.

And you shake your head free of any suggestions that Shoko might put in it. “I wasn’t staring-”

“Mhm.”

“I was just imagining the look on his face after he loses that bet.”

Shoko smirks. “That’s if he loses that bet.”

“Well…”

And then you’re glancing at him once more. Gojo was now jogging in place and doing a few warm-ups before the second half of the quarterfinals started.

Because for all that talk- Gojo Satoru wasn’t going to win that easily, was he?

Was he?

.

.

.

“It’s incredible—Japan has won! The Japanese team has really won!” The commentator’s voice booms across the stadium, making it shake with sheer excitement. It was contagious. The taste of victory was often sweet. “Gojo Satoru has led the Japanese team to the semi-finals—!”

2-3 to Japan.

All the way from 0.

And you knew the scores - you watched the game unfurl before your very eyes. And yet - surrounded by it all - you stand stunned.

From your right, you’re feeling Shoko euphorically shake you. Her camera equipment nearly slips out of her hands before she’s back at it and recording close-ups of the players’ tearful reactions. 

Most of them had surrounded Gojo and were crushing themselves together in an embrace. They’re pushed so far together that you could only make out a flash of white hair and an uproarious distinct laugh. The microphone damn-near slips out of your hands.

“I repeat, folks—Gojooooooooooooo Satoru has led the Japanese team to the semi-finals for the first time in history! It’s a momentous occasion for the underdogs- Gojo Satoru and his Unlimited hat-trick, everybody.”

They’re replaying those historic moments on the big screen: when Gojo dribbled past four players to strike his first goal of the match, just two minutes into the second half of the game; when Gojo upset the game by drawing the score 2-2 with a goal from the 18-yard box, a goal that went around the fucking goalkeeper; when Gojo finished with a flourish with a head-butted goal just over the goalkeeper’s shoulder, at the 89th minute.

At that last goal, he’d pointed right at you- a hatrick. A hatrick.

“Who’s gonna win?” He’d mouthed, as his teammates were drawn to him in embrace like magnets flying across the field.

You’d simply rolled your eyes.

It was a match for the books - and for generations of footballers just like him to watch and rewatch and watch. And maybe…just maybe they’d buy their own blue t-shirts and scribble down: Gojo 66. Around you, reporters were already chattering about Japan’s succession into the semi-finals—could these underdogs actually have a shot?

Japan had risen from an impending bitter defeat- and that very same Gojo 66 was breaking free from his teammates and flouncing across the field. And the MVP - surely - beamed as he lapped up the attention; running across the pitchside and blowing sappy kisses to his fainting fan club. He’s getting thrown a water bottle- and wastes no time before tearing it open and letting the cool water run on top of his head. Water making his jersey stick to him even more so.

Long legs slightly shaking from fatigue. Blue eyes brighter than ever. If there was one word to describe him, then it would be- dazzling. His skin glistened with sweat, and small droplets of water like diamonds - his jersey was practically glued to him—a part of him, in every single possible manner. Celebration seemed to cling to Gojo just as tight as that jersey did.

And Gojo then catches sight of you watching him- and runs. Runs. 

To you.

And stops right before you.

“So…” He pants out, and makes sure to flash a quick smile at the rolling cameras. “-about that date…?”

You sigh.

But you can’t help yourself- you chuckle.

“Fine.”

“Fuck yeahhhh—!” And then Gojo’s darting back onto the field in celebration - his team engulfs him once more, and before you know it he’s being thrown into the air. Cameras shift between his ecstatic celebration, and your more muted watching, because honestly…you had no idea what to say. What to do.

You just bagged yourself a date with Gojo fucking Satoru - and you hadn’t even thought you’d be able to tolerate him just about an hour and a half ago. 

But that earnestness in his eyes…

You wonder if-

Nope. And then you’re watching Gojo threaten to take his jersey off and throw it somewhere into the crowd - you’re sighing and wondering just how you’re going to get through this. When a mic happens to be shoved into your line of vision—and you’re just about to take it and get ready for your post-match interviews, when-

“Ah ah-” Shoko tuts, amusement lacing her tone. “The interviewer holds the mic. The interviewee answers the question on how it feels to be the future girlfriend of the MVP of the match? Japan’s pride and unofficial prettyboy?”

“Terrible.” You state, extremely seriously. “In fact, I’m considering breaking up with him this very second.” Well…partially seriously.

Shoko faux-gasps. “After a hatrick like that? Why?”

You’re waving breezily. “I’ve always been more of a Geto or Modrić fan myself. Strikers aren’t my thing.”

“Well they’re about to be your thing because you’ve got a date with one-” Shoko checks her watch. “-in just a few hours.”

It’s sinking in. And although you don’t regret saying yes- “Fuck, the fan clubs are gonna kill me.”

Shoko nods. “I won’t disagree with that. I’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

“Shoko- darling- sweetheart- you’re supposed to disagree to make me feel better.” 

She shrugs. “You’re a reporter- give ‘em hell. Whack them with your mic or something.” She’s then finally handing you the mic—and you’re smoothing out your suit with a sigh. “But until then- try not to kill Gojo Satoru. We need him for the semi-finals.”

“No promises.”

And as Shoko and the rest of your team start counting down until you’re On Air again, you’re stealing a fleeting look behind at Gojo Satoru. It seems he hadn’t tired of the fan service yet- and now actually had taken off his jersey and thrown it at the fan clubs- was that a brawl up there in the stands?!

He catches your eye and sends you a flirtatious wink.

And a flying kiss.

You mean to swat it away- but then you’re rolling.

.

.

.

“Shoko- what does one wear to a date with a football star?”

“I don’t know, ask the Akinator.” 

“Shoko, that’s…actually I should have done that.” It seems that all around you was defeat: having the team you were rooting for win the quarterfinals for the FIFA World Cup, scoring a date with the MVP of the match, getting a promotion and a bump in your paycheck all because of it? All in all, you were having a terrible day. 

And not to mention- you hadn’t even begun to check your social media—according to the way that Shoko had painted it: the football side of the Internet had crashed into your little circle of the Internet, and then it’d been set on flames and trampled with cleats five times over. And that’s not even beginning to dive into Gojo’s stan Twitter…the horror…

The edits. The speculation. The articles. The fanfiction- out of curiosity, you’d searched a few up.

And you’d have to say…that they were very…descriptive. @tonycriesaboutfootball you were looking at her.

All in all- it’s safe to say that your little agreement had caused a little break in the Internet.

And here you were: cooped-up in your humble hotel room for the match. On the phone was Shoko <3 your biggest help since after the match and right now- gathering your thoughts…and your look…and yourself. After putting her on video call—the two of you worked together to sort through your suitcase and find something half-decent for some fancy schmancy date.

In the end, you’d decided on a chic outfit you’d actually planned to wear when reporting the FIFA World Cup Finals.

And nevermind how much you protested and lamented and complained about how expensive shopping for another dress is going to be, Shoko had simply replied- “Just get your millionaire athlete boyfriend to buy one. Take his black card, duh?”

Ah…

And right now you were simply putting in the final touches- slouched over your hotel vanity. 

She disappears from the screen for a minute and comes back wielding her chunky laptop. “About 21% of people think this is a PR stunt…18% think you two won’t actually go on the date…and 44% think that this is true love and both of you can bear their children. They also may or may not be camped outside the restaurant.”

You take one last look at yourself in the mirror. Hell yeah…“And the other 2%?”

“Ah- well they’re out for blood.” Shoko casually closes her laptop. “Ready?”

You shudder. “As I’ll ever be. Do I look okay?”

“You look good enough to eat- now go.”

Someone from what you assume to be Gojo’s team had actually approached you after the match - something about exchanging numbers, and then letting you know the details about the date. And around 5PM that evening, you’d just been getting off of a final few interviews from another match- when they’d texted you.

He’d texted you.

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): guess whooOOoooooOooOOO~? (⌒▽⌒)☆

You: ?

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): hehehe you have three guesses. clue no. 1: i’m hot asf. clue no. 2: i’m even hotter wwwww. 

You: I’m blocking you.

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): waitヽ(O_O )ﾉ

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): wait nooooooooooo 

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): don’t block me ( ◣∀◢)ψ

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): i was jokinggggggggg

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): it’s satoruuuuu ☀(▀U ▀-͠)

You: Ah, of course. 

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX) added to your contacts.

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX) changed to (Foot)ballz.

You: Hello, Satoru-san.

(Foot)ballz: hehe

(Foot)ballz: no need to be so formal with me when we’re going on a date~ (͡o‿O͡)

(Foot)ballz: i’ll come pick you up at your hotel so just lmk where you’re staying!!

You: You just want to find out which hotel I’m at, you perv…

(Foot)ballz: I’VE BEEN CAUGHT (ʘ ͜ʖ ʘ)

Ultimately you ended up sending your location to the ridiculous man - however you’d expected Gojo Satoru to text like…it certainly wasn’t this. But you found yourself tolerating it, for the most part.

You suppose.

And once you’re done spritzing on some of your favorite perfume, your phone lights up with a new message.

(Foot)ballz: here ⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝

With a small huff of laughter, you’re grabbing your things and heading out.

The car parked outside was anything but inconspicuous. 

And you don’t exactly know what led you to think that in the first place—because when has Gojo Satoru ever wished to fly under the radar? 

What was sprawled across the hotel porte-cochère was a gleaming red feline of a vehicle; that type you’d see on the covers of car magazines, or parked outside stadiums with fans surrounding it. Many, many fans. It had all those sorts of curvatures and indents that made it built for speed just like the athletes that owned these types - spoiler wagging behind it, bumper pawing forward, iridescent tyre rims catching the light and showing off. Even stopped outside the hotel, it purred as though impatient to get back on the prowl once again.

From the driver’s seat, Gojo Satoru is opening the door and standing tall- and your breath catches in your throat. 

Gojo had cleaned up nicely. He was dressed in a form-fitting suit—such a dark blue that it was nearly black. The velvety fabric draped around his trim waist, flaring ever-so-slightly where his broad shoulders were- it made him look so much more handsome than was fair. His long legs were covered in the same fabric, and at the ends peeked out shoes so polished they were almost painful to look at- you wonder how long he spent on that…

That usually-messy hair of his had pushed backwards, and on his face were semi-opaque round sunglasses. On his face was a smile.

Where a celebrity often wished to blend in, Gojo stood his six-and-a-something feet high above the rest.

In seconds, Gojo’s reaching inside the car and pulling out a massive bouquet of red roses. Thus he crosses the short distance between you both in two strides, and gently hands them to you- you take it with bated breath. “This is…”

“I know I know-” Gojo cocks his head with a smug smile. “I’ve outdone myself.”

And without further ado, he’s tipping the valet well - the elderly man catches your eye, and you’re shrugging at him helplessly - and helping you inside the car. “You look gorgeous, by the way- although, of course you always do and this isn’t just me saying-”

“Gojo.” You smile. “Shut up and get in.”

He wastes no more time.

“D’you like the car?” Gojo asks as he buckles up, “It’s a Ferrari F80. I was thinking of buying this here as a little congratulatory present for myself- you’re the first one in here besides myself.”

“Seriously?” You ask. And he holds your gaze earnestly. “This is amazing.”

His smile flashes as he sets his hand on the wheel. “Then buckle up, sweetheart. We’re gonna be the hottest couple in town.”

“Not a coup- oh.” He speeds away.

.

.

.

“GOJO- GOJO—LOOK HERE—! GOJO IS THAT YOUR PARTNER?”

“GOJO HOW DO WE FEEL ABOUT THE HISTORIC WIN TONIGHT—DID HAVING YOUR GIRLFRIEND THERE HELP?”

“GOJO HOW DO YOU MAINTAIN THE TITLE OF PRETTIEST STRIKER FOUR YEARS IN A ROW?”

That…last one Gojo actually stopped to give a thorough answer.

And as for the rest, he’d given those paparazzi a coy smile and a wink before diving into the restaurant with you. The maître d’ quickly helped you get escorted to your private table.

The restaurant was…fancy. Right. That was one way to put it.

Another way to put it would’ve been: it was the type of restaurant that you honestly would’ve talked shit about with Shoko, then spent the next hour scrolling through its pictures. Then you’d catch a glimpse of a menu…and have immediately turned your phone off. Because in no conceivable world would you attend a restaurant of that high a price, for portion sizes no bigger than the meat rations you’d given yourself during your impoverished intern days.

And yet, here you were.

Gojo Satoru seemed to fit right in amongst the decor- the abstract artwork on the walls that looked like phalluses, the lights on the walls that also looked like phalluses, and the bowl of oranges upon every table - like a piece of the furniture himself. You don’t doubt that such a place was as casual as walking into a fast-food restaurant for him—but for you…let’s just say that whilst sports reporting jobs may pay high - especially for someone of your ranking - it wasn’t phallus-restaurant level quite just yet. 

“So uh…what did you say the name of this place was, again?” You ask Gojo after he’d ordered…whatever he was having. You’d gone with the same primarily because you didn’t want to butcher the pronunciations of the menu.

“Hm?” Gojo delicately folds his napkin. “Big D’s, why?”

You’re biting back a laugh, “No reason.”

He sends you a look. “And um…how was your day?”

“What are we, an old married couple?” Though there was something strangely…jarring about having the world-famous football player - the very same one you’ve rolled your eyes at or been forced to interview about a million times over - speak about something so…mundane with you. What else could you have expected? Maybe to talk stats, maybe updates on his fan club—maybe what ranking he’s surpassed now. You sigh. “But if you must know, the usual- oh, although I did get to interview Gakuganji for the first time in a while today—so that was fun.”

“Gakuganji Yoshinobu?” Gojo’s interest clearly piques. “Oh, he’s a legend. Did you know that since retirements he’s taken up-”

“Electric guitar.” You nod eagerly. “And he’s damn good at it, too.”

“I was thinking that after my retirement I should take up writing or something.”

“You seem like the type to never retire.”

And so the conversation…had strangely enough flowed- not something you would have expected from the haughty football player, but it was a pleasure nonetheless. And it had been about two hours into the conversation - currently on the topic of whether sharks were misunderstood - when the two of you looked down at your empty plates—and servers that seemed to be flitting about literally every table…but yours.

“Do you think they forgot about us?” You whisper to Gojo.

“Maybe they were so stunned by my devilish good looks that-”

“Okay.” And with a semi-fond smile upon your face, you’re standing up in your seat. Gojo’s mirthful expression drops—but before panic can start setting in, you’re gesturing for him to stand up as well. So you weren’t going to leave him in the phallus restaurant…you surprised even yourself with that. “C’mon- I know this great place downtown that sells the largest pizza you’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, please.” Tipping the servers, you two darted out of Big D’s through the back entrance where no paparazzi roamed. And into a night that was wild and untamed, you snuck into the darkness between stars and created light of your own—you copped a few good slices of pizza, greasy and not half-bad for the price, before walking down shadowed alleys where no one could find you. Almost no one. A few pictures snapped here and there- surely it couldn’t do much harm?

Oh, who were you kidding.

You could see the headlines forming already - had this been anyone else, you’d have been the one writing it. But tonight…“Everyone’s going to think we’re dating after tonight.”

“I know.” Gojo had replied, half of his profile illuminated by the neon shop signs. The two of you were walking around the less-nicer parts of town, or so one would say…how strange it is that where things are discarded and dilapidated, the lights shine the brightest and the moon seems to sing softly tonight. “But strangely enough- I don’t mind.”

“Getting dating rumors?”

“Getting dating rumors with you, I mean.” Gojo’s saying- before he coughs into his fist and attempts to amend. “Although, of course, you’d be lucky to get dating rumors with the Gojo Satoru~”

“You mean the Gojo Satoru who’s never gotten a dating rumor in his life?” You scoff. “Y’know before tonight they were calling you No-game Gojo?”

Gojo’s gasp is so loud that it startles passerbys.

In order to soothe him, you’re forced to buy this grown athlete ice cream. He asks for three scoops with extra sprinkles, and the two of you walk together - close but not touching - down by a nearby waterfront—the river around the massive city and pulled it into a tight embrace. You yourself felt the strange coil of something at the pit of your stomach.

“Did you really mean it?”

Gojo, who’d been eying your own ice cream cone, startles. “Hngh?”

Sighing…you hand him your final bite. “Did you really mean the thing about not minding dating rumors with me?”

“I did. Why?”

“No…just thinking that if I had to get dating rumors with anyone- at least you’re not the worst option.”

“Awwww-”

You smirk. “Although, Geto would have been-”

“Let me have this moment—”

His pinky finger grazes yours as you two walk.

.

.

.

The door slams behind you.

And following right behind it, Gojo’s doing the same to you.

He has his hands clutched at your waist, and his mouth down your neck - leaving hot, slimy strings of spit wherever he’s pepperin’ the most filthiest kisses. You’re moaning as you let yourself get engulfed in Gojo Satoru’s wave of need—molten desperation shooting through your veins.

There’s something wet forming at the in-betweens of your pretty legs- and it seems as though Gojo almost has a sixth sense. Because he wastes no time before sliding a hand down your front and cupping your throbbing pussy through your dress. “Mmm-” He grunts off against the side of your ear. The hot breath sends goosebumps skittering down your exposed skin. “And who are you this wet for, sweetheart~?”

“Mmm, dunno.” You bat your lashes up at him. “Probably the best player on the team.”

A priggish smile toys at Gojo’s lips, and he’s leaning ever-closer to you. “And just who might that be?”

You’re pulling Gojo down as though this was a secret just between the two of you - and the man eagerly reciprocates closing the distance between you. You’re basked in his likely maddeningly expensive cologne as he leans in—“Geto Suguru, of course.”

And Gojo’s letting out just the softest surprised gasp—

He leans backwards with slightly-parted lips, and you’re getting the feeling that no one’s ever said anything like that to him before. Gojo’s eyes sweep down where your pretty body is pressed up against him- and before you know it, he’s crashing his lips onto yours. “Mmm—” He’s lappin’ at your moans- and the edge of your bottom lip. There’s a squeaky noise that’s being let out as Gojo tastes the lipgloss slathered on your maw. “Cherry.” He notes.

You’re stringing your fingers into his pure-white hair.

With the pad of his thumb, Gojo wipes off the remnants of glossy make-up on his mouth. “You taste sweeter than you are, y’know that?”

And with your fingers twisting into his hair so that he moans- you’re dragging him right back to you. “And you’re better when you shut up.”

Eventually, you’re backing him into your bed.

The hotel room wasn’t all that spacious, and it’s only a few hasty strides before you’re preparing to push him onto the mattress—

But Gojo’s reflexes are too quick. And he’s flipping the two of you around so that it’s your back that’s coming into contact with the springy bedcoils, falling onto the cloud-like bed with the MVP of the match. Mr. Hotshot Gojo Satoru himself.

Gojo smirks as he hovers above you. “Wanna hear a magic trick? I know exactly what you’re thinking about, pretty girl~” He husks.

And you’re letting out a gasp as his lips come kissing down your neck once more. You can’t help it - you’re arching into him already. “And what’s that?”

“Me.” 

As he chuckles, you’re rolling your eyes. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“Oh?” Gojo raises one of his white brows- like a challenge. If there was anything he was weak to—then it was a challenge. And maybe you, but…you didn’t need to know that just yet. “Then let me be clearer…you were thinking about me—” As he speaks, his dominant hands are exploring your body - starting at the right side of your tits, and massaging for a few moments before switching to the other one. “-running these trained hands everywhere on your body like this, weren’t you?”

Your heart leaps to your throat- and down there. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

He chuckles. “And then you must’ve thought about my fingers- I did have a little stint as a goalkeeper—” Through your fabric, he’s pinching your left nipple and you moan. “-did you know that?”

“I did.” You admit. Your reporting habits left you investigating every single nook and cranny of these footballers’ careers and lives.

“And then maybe these spectacular abs- I have them insured, did you know that?” The urge to roll your eyes is immense—but you’re more focused on the way that the world-class player was shuffling his body purposefully down yours, letting the button-up underneath his suit push against your core- you’re feeling his abs. As though he could read your mind, Gojo flashes you a devilish smile and keeps going down- “Or these arms.” Down. “Or these thick thighs. Heh.” Dooooown.

All the way until he’s between those tremblin’ legs of yours. At least his face was.

“But most of all…how about this glorious face?” Gojo shoots you his camera-ready smile inches away from your clothed cunt—pearly-white teeth and dimple to boot. “And I know m’fucking pretty- but I get the strange feeling that I’d look even prettier between your legs.”

And just as he’s about to lean in-

You’re sitting up and putting a hand on his shoulder. Stopping him.

Gojo looks up at you with a face full of concern. 

But you’re merely shaking your head. “You’d be hard-pressed to think that I’d let you get all the bragging rights.” You scoff. “Get up. Let me sit on your face.”

His blue, blue eyes gleam in delight. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

“Shut up and get over here.”

And you’re sure that Gojo murmurs something about ‘making him shut up’ (you’d be more surprised if he didn’t) and yet within seconds you suddenly have his 6’4 toned frame stretched-out beneath you.

With your knees making the mattress upon either side of his head dip, straddling him, you’ve straddled the two of you into an oh-so-perfect 69 position - but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Looking underneath you, you notice that the white-haired man has hunger consuming every inch of him, with his eyes half-lidded and his mouth slightly-ajar, licking his lips as he fucking chases your clothed cunt—

“But just ooooone thing.” You’re placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back down- Gojo lets out a cracked whimper. He stares up at your clothed cunt like the gates of heaven above.

“Yes, my demanding girl~? More demands? Isn’t having the great Gojo Satoru underneath you and begging for your pussy enough?”

“Hmm, nope.” You pop the ‘p’. Without wasting more time, you’re fumbling with Gojo’s outrageous dress pants until they’re managed off. What’s revealed to you first is his v-line that stands out—moving with every one of his impatient bucks; then his bulging boxers; then looooong smooth legs, toned from so many years of training. And then you’re almost done. “How about a bet that whoever makes the other cum first gets a reward?”

“A reward?” You’re not turning to look at him- but you don’t need to to know that Gojo’s eyes were probably shining by now. “What kind of reward?”

“Hmmmm, how about…” You suggest. “The winner gets to decide the position for se-”

“I’m in.”

And that’s all that’s being said before Gojo reaches up n’ pushes your dress up. He titters as he takes in the way your pussy was oh-so-wet being outlined against your underwear—that already-thin fabric hugging to your pretty lips n’ soaking wet for him already.

“What’s that about not being so wet?” Gojo hums. He makes the loudest noise as he leans in and presses a great big smooch right on top of your sopping lips. You’re keening out sweetly on top of him- he didn’t even know you could sound that sweet-

“You said that out loud.” You’re grumbling behind at him. “Don’t tell me you’re pussydrunk already, hotshot?”

“Awwww—” Gojo’s spankin’ that swollen exterior of your cunt. “You think I’m hot?”

And now about that damn evening dress obscuring his view- ah, he knows…

Soon enough, you’re hearing a rip-rip-riiiiip—! that makes your blood grow cold. The sensation of cool air biting into your skin is registering in your brain - and then only the realization that Gojo had just fucking ripped your best dress- “Now, I know that isn’t what I think it is.”

“Ah…” He grunts distractedly. Before reaching down to his dress pants and pulling out something dark, sleek, and cash-cold. “Buy yourself whatever you need usin’ this, sweetheart.”

Gojo reaches forwards and stuffs his black card between your pretty drivelling lips. And then he’s divin’ nose-deep between your legs and eating you out with the panties on—letting his looooong luscious tongue zigzag across your slit and accumulate every wad. Once he’s done stealing every drop of slick leaking out of you, Gojo wastes no time before slippin’ aside your panties using his tongue, then making your inner lining feel eeeeeevery coarse tastebud of his taking over you.

It’s just so much.

You’re arching your back and letting out a prolonged moan - or at least you’re attempting to. But what’s really coming out instead are a few muffled sounds as the black card holds firm between your lips.

Your eyes widen.

How could you let yourself be swayed by Gojo Satoru’s black card, of all things…?!

Spitting the black card out, you throw a glare at Gojo. “D-don’t think you’ve won the bet just because you’ve gotten a headstart.”

“Oh?” Gojo coos. “I think I’ve won the bet regardless by how much you’re stutterin’ and whining like a slut on my tongue.” He’s spitting every syllable out against your pussy- literally. He’s drizzling a splash of saliva that he’s using a hand to smack- to smear across every inch of your sodden lips.

You let out a sudden whine, and he laughs.

“Was I wrong~? Mmm- shell me. Who’s the bwest—?” Muffled by his burning-hot kisses.

And you won’t let yourself be bestest just like that, would you? Especially not when he sounds so silly already drunk on your pussy?

In sultry seconds, you’re spittin’ out his damn black card and dragging Gojo’s boxers down. By how much he’d been showing through his bulge…you’d already assumed that he’d be massive.

But Gojo was…really massive.

Mentally you’re counting about eight or nine inches- seriously. And each of those inches were fat and throbbing, the girth of a Coke can and the length of something you’re sure would leave you unable to walk. At least for a week.

As though somehow sensing what you were thinking; Gojo’s thickened tip pulses. Grows even pinker.

“Cock got yer tongue?” He giggles wetly. “Why’re you stupefied, huh? Looks like m’gonna win~”

From the top of his shaft, he’s ooooozing out a constant source of precum—and you’re leanin’ in to sweetly kiss away the syrup that clings to his tip. Just the softest kittenish kiss- but it’s enough to make the football player yelp from underneath you.

His toes curl. His hips buck up without him even seeming to realize - and Gojo lets out an echo of your name - like a prayer - as his fat tip sticks inside your mouth. “O-ohhhh, now you’re playing dirty, sweetheart.”

“M’just doing the same thing you’re- mmm, doing.” You answer- purposefully keeping your mouth on Gojo so that the vibrations shoot up his veins.

“Tch- yeah.” Gojo admits. “But s’only fun when you’re the one getting all drunk on my tongue-” And just because he’s babbling away doesn’t mean that he’s stopping his ministrations for a single second - he’s lavishing and lavishing the tight rim of your hole with his tongue. Licking. Lingering. Letting the top of it hook inside and stretchin’ you out just a little bit more. “Why can’t I be the one to have all the fun—?”

“Do you always have to win?”

“Yes.”

As ridiculous as that sentence sounded, it doesn’t surprise you that it came out of Gojo’s mouth.

The very same mouth that’s becoming more n’ more feverish on your cunt - as some form of revenge, you suppose. Gojo’s grabbing a handful of your left ass cheek and using it to drag you deeper into his mouth.

His jaw unhinges. His nose pushes against your skin. 

He’s sucking onto every tender spot of your pussy- eventually resting his pinkish lips on your hole and shoving his tastebuds in so deep. “Tch- this is my fuckin’ win—and this should be my pussy, girl.” Deeper. “C’mon. C’mon. Forget sucking my cock- just fuck back in t’me, sweetheart.”

“F-forget? Sneaky…you just wanna win.”

You can feel him smile against your cunt. “Awww, you know me so well—”

“So selfish, Satoru.” You huff. 

“Ohhhh.” And he’s shivering- wracking with something primal all the way head-to-toe. “Call me that again~”

“Satoru.” You’re plopping your mouth over his puckered, pretty head- he was just so cutely needy.

It wasn’t something that you’d expected over the hotshot player. Even though Gojo Satoru might not look like it upon first impression—his cock was so sensitive, so very honest with you that it almost gave you secondhand embarrassment to see. The moment you’re putting your mouth on him n’ starting to suck, he’s spurting out the sweetest honeyed wads of precum here n’ there. The moment you’re leaving him- Gojo throbs even angrily bigger and shuffles his hips to chase your warm mouth.

One of your hands reaches down to squeeze at his balls - so plump and perfectly-shaped. It was annoying that everything about him seemed to be handcrafted by the heavens themselves.

And you’re massaging his most sensitive spots using the mountain of your palm, grinding him against your hand every time your mouth sucks on him. You’re repeating this sequence a few more times. 

But he’s not holding back either - Gojo’s now started using the side of your waist as a handlebar, almost.

And he’s grabbing you hard- dragging you onto his awaiting mouth even harder.

“Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Sweetheart- sweetheart.” He repeats like a broken record player. All whilst his tongue was open and ready—he hones it at the tip, sharpening, so that it can probe even deeper. Slithering it inside again and agaaaaaain until you’re soaking all down his face. “Mmm- again, sweetheart.” Gojo whispers, feeling the mess start to trickle down his chin. “C’mon- Satoru needs to hear you say his name when you cum.”

“Satoruuuuu—oh.” You’re gasping. “But you’re not winning before I do-”

 He’s immediately reaching for your throat with a vicious thrust of his hips.

You’re relaxing that muscle there so that he can delve deeper into your velvety cavern- the tresses of his veins scrapin’ against the roof of your mouth. Breathing through your nose as you have to win this. You fucking have to. It’s the competitiveness that’s getting to the both of you—and you’re moving in a fucking frenzy.

A stalemate.

Every zap of electricity, both of you reciprocate it twofold.

With your thighs wrapped around his head, with Gojo’s cock shoved down your throat. And the two of you move in synchronous tandem - you with the rapid bobs of your head, slobberin’ all down his plump inches—and him eatin’ away like a ravenous fucking wolf between your legs. The both of you were starved. 

But you have to realize…that a draw just isn’t enough for Gojo Satoru.

Because Gojo Satoru was a competitive motherfucker.

And without warning; he swipes three slick-buttered fingers ‘round the orifice of your cunt. ‘Round and ‘round a few times. Before he’s then letting them sliiiiiiiip in—he replaces his tongue with those long fingers of his that just manage to stretch you out so right.

You’re removing yourself from Gojo’s cock with a lecherous pop! Just to gasp n’ moan away as Gojo opens you up using his fingers.

“How about it now?” Gojo coos. He elongates his words- and something about it just makes your limbs twitch—as he’s probin’ inside in loooooong yearning thrusts with his seemingly never-ending digits. Again and again. “How about you say- ngh- ‘Satoru you’re the best~’ and maybe I’ll go easy on you when I win?”

Gojo mocks your voice by pitching it about a zillion octaves higher and making himself sound ridiculously flirty.

You scoff, embarrassment sizzling across your skin. “You fuckin’ wish.”

“Now, that’s not very nice~”

And he wasn’t going to play easy. He reaches his fingers back- then slams! them down all the way till the knuckles. The curvaceous tops of his digits were slightly thicker than the rest of him—so he’s able to drive apart your sticky walls n’ stick himself into every hidden spot and crevice. 

He was filling you up sooooooo good - “Oh p-please…” Tears drizzle down your cheeks. “That feels so good-”

“That’s not what I wanted you to say…” Gojo had amusement laced into his every syllable. “C’mon- tell your Satoru that he’s the best.”

“S-Satoru—” No—you can’t give up so easily. And lazily…you’re instead slobberin’ down his thick, vein-covered shaft instead. You can’t even take him in by now, because you were too afraid a sudden graze of Gojo’s fingers along your tender spots would leave you scramblin’ for air.

Speaking of tender spots…

“Y’know I’m real close to the goal.” Gojo trundles. Those long lashes of his flap, as though innocently. “Real close. I could just…” 

“O-ohhhh, fuck-” All three of those fingers are slippin’ around your g-spot - you get the impression that he was missing it on purpose, and it made you nervous over just what he might have planned next. Fuck he was massaging the softest areas of your cunt’s channel. “You’re bluffing.”

“By how much wetter you’re getting…” He smirks. “-I think the fuck not. C’mooooon the world’s strongest striker is eatin’ your pussy out, and you can’t even be nice?”

“N-no-”

“I sure can be.” The area of Gojo’s knuckles were practically gluuuued like adhesive to your cunt’s folds. His other hand lifts off of your hips- starting to knead your swollen nub—you’re starting to see stars as Gojo toys with your clit. “But only if you admit m’the best. C’mon, tell me I’m the best- tell me…and I miiiiiight just go a little easier on you.”

“S-Satoru…” It’s inevitable - between the constant probing, the suckling ‘round wherever he could reach, the targeting of your clit - that you’re about to reach your high. It’s simmering right underneath your skin. “Oh no-”

“Oh yes.” Gojo’s eyes glimmer with delight. “Close, huh? And what do you have to say—?”

“Satoru—” You knew that you’d have to do this if you wanted a satisfactory orgasm- Gojo would’ve gladly left you high and dry just to prove a point. “Y-you’re the best…”

The words feel sickeningly sweet leaving your tongue.

But just as soon as they’re rollin’ off- Gojo probes deeply into your g-spot. Hitting that exact area of nerves dead-on. And your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave - it’s burning hot and feels more blissful than anything you’ve ever felt before. Anything.

You hate to admit it, but you’re seeing stars as you cum on Gojo’s tongue.

And he has the audacity to giggle- giggle, pussydrunkenly. “Mmm, you think I’m the best, sweetheart?”

“Yeah…” You breathe. “When you shut up.”

Immediately, you’re pushing back into Gojo’s mouth - shutting him up. His mouth drops open for you on instinct. His cock’s floooooding silver, satiny spurts of precum at the mere act of being used—your walls fluttering around his tongue. Sucking him up. 

Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. “G-goal…”

Your jaw drops.

His fingers are tunnelin’ straight to your g-spot during every peak of your high - those twinges of extra pleasure that he’s managing to prolong using his fingers, his mouth, his other set of digits kneading your pulsing clit. And what’s driving you even further past that tipping point is the way that Gojo whispers ‘goal, goal, goal, goal’ every time he strikes your g-spot.

Goal.

Goal.

Goal.

Goal.

Goal.

There’s no use trying to make him cum soon afterwards—you’re too drunk on your pleasure, and Gojo’s attempting to squeeze his thighs together to keep himself from cumming. Once your clit’s properly massaged, he uses that hand to squeeze his thickened hilt and prevent anymore beads of pearly-white from leaking.

Fucking unfair. 

By the time you’ve ridden through your high - you’re well and fully wrung out. Struggling to catch your breath. Struggling to stop your limbs from shaking- sensitively.

He’s left you oh-so-sensitive.

Gojo Satoru hadn’t even had to fucking try to overstimulate you—he’s just that good with his fingers. He’s just so flexible with his tongue. He’s just so-

“Is this some sort of subliminal? Why are you whispering those to my cunt?” You ask him. And it’s with a final squelch! - and Gojo whispering for a goal once his fingers detach from your g-spot - that you’re managing to untangle yourself from his ravenous mouth.

Though it wasn’t for a lack of trying from his part—Gojo chases after your drippin’ wet pussy like a bee chasing his beehive. Were you the Queen or were you the honey? He’s having a hard time deciding, as Gojo finally sits up on the bed- dazedly.

“Woah-” Now sitting opposite him, you steady him with a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay there, Satoru?”

His cock twitches. For both your dignities, you pretend you don’t see that. 

“You’re fucking asking me if I’m okay—?”

Using that same helping hand you’d lent him- Gojo flips your positions around so that now your back’s facing the creaky hotel headboard. And then you’re both shuffling down the mattress, so that you’re being bent into-

“A mating press.” Gojo grins. His eyes twinkle with something so…dark. “Since I won our little bet, I choose the mating press- oh, and that’s not all.”

To your astoundment, Gojo suddenly stands up and flounces off the bed. He scans for something on the floor- “Give the great Gojo Satoru one second.” And then saunters up to your open suitcases of clothes as though they were his—it doesn’t take long for Gojo to find what he’d been looking for. 

And you’re feeling embarrassment curdled with something akin to an unfamiliar shyness start to rise in your chest. Because in Gojo Satoru’s hands…was his own jersey.

“You had Geto’s jersey.” He smirks. “I knew you must’ve had mine in there somewhere, too.”

“Someone should teach you not to go through others’ things.” You huff, crossing your arms.

“Oh, my apologies.” Gojo says, sounding utterly unapologetic. “How about I make it up to you? Arms up, baby.”

And, well, a bet is a bet.

You’re raising your arms and letting Gojo take off the rest of your clothes. Before you know it, the Gojo 66 jersey on you—one you’d never even admitted to Shoko that you’d bought. In your defense, it was a buy-one-get-one-free deal that they’d been doing for the FIFA World Cup- but you doubt that Gojo would be open to hearing about your transaction history right now.

Not when he’s admiring the look of his name - his last name - emblazoned against your back. The look of his team’s colors rising and falling with every deep breath.

Your hardened nipples looked so pretty against the athletic fabric that he can’t help but reach out and pinch—

“Change of plans.” Gojo grunts- breathless, as if he hadn’t planned to say this. “We’re doing it doggy style so I can look at my name across your back while I hit it from behind.”

You grumble but you’re changing positions anyway. “Ever heard of the story of Narcissus, Satoru?”

“Are you the river because you’re so wet, or…?”

“No, don’t worry- that dried me up enough.”

He temporarily shoves a knee between your legs. “Lies.” Smirking.

You’re on all fours now. And Gojo shrugs off whatever else is left of his garments- and his rock-hard abs press into your back from behind, practically gluuuued skin-to-skin. A line of goosebumps shoot up your spine at the sudden feeling of him pressing into you—and Gojo takes the opportunity to lean down and kiss up your back.

All the way sloppily to your shoulders.

Your neck.

“Mmmm—and this is my win, isn’t it?” He rasps against your skin- there’s a…slightly crazed tone in Gojo’s voice that you’d never heard before. You shiver. You nod. “Mhm- then this is going to be how a winner fucks, sweetheart.”

In the time that you’d been distracted by Gojo’s incredible body, his ruby-reddened cock had slipped between your legs. There, Gojo had been keeping his length cushioned by your pretty, pretty legs.

Only now was he lettin’ his drivelling tip sliiiiiiide down your slit- giving you an experimental stretch along your first rim. “And yer wearing my name, aren’t you~?” It makes him fucking blush - out of everything…this is what breaks him - to see Gojo 66 and the blue jersey against your skin. You can’t help but nod again. “Then you’re doing to- fucking- take it- like a winner, sweetheart.”

Between each word, Gojo pauses to give a thorough slashing of his thickened cock.

He’s not even fitting in all the way at first- just the globular tip.

Just that decadent girth; where his shaft had flared out massively - all blushing red and plastered in precum - and then honing out into a perfect point to just dive right into you. Gojo’s length also had a slight curve reaching towards the top of your cunt—and he was built oh-so-perfectly to itch at your sweetest spots inside.

Not that you were going to admit it, of course.

“Cock got your-”

“You already used that line, Satoru.” You’re grumbling- though it’s a proper task to keep your voice steady in front of him. To pretend you’re not as affected as you really are.

And Gojo notices. Of course, Gojo Satoru notices. “Y’know…you might not be honest.” He titters in your ear. And then he’s shovellin’ in a few more thick inches—you’re feeling the near-spherical end of his shaft slip inside without too much resistance. You just wanted him so badly. “But this pretty cunt sure is. And what do you think she has to say about me?”

“I-I don’t need to—”

“She’s saying…”

Gojo trails off. Though not without reason.

Almost that very instant, he’s un-velcroing his chiselled abs from your back. A soft whimper leaves your lips as you’re startin’ to miss him already. Already.

But Gojo’s merely pattin’ at your utterly stuffed pussy. You only had a few inches of him pushed inside and throbbing inside you, but your cunt still struggles to take him. “Needy girl. Be patient for a fuckin’ minute- sheesh.”

And then he’s tugging at your jersey.

You’re looking up in confusion.

Then he’s pulling at your jersey—

And only too-late are you realizing that Gojo has that hem of your - his - football jersey bunched up. Using just a single one of his hands, he’s twistin’ his fingers around the velveteen fabric and trapping you right along with it—then he’s dragging you- just by the hold he has on your jersey. He falls back on his haunches.

And he’s taking you right along with him.

Now you’ve got your arms lifted off the bed- in a praying position…except Gojo’s fat cock was drilling into you from behind. With your ass cheeks against his pap-pap-papping hips, with his thick meaty thighs kneading into yours.

His hips are pushing and pushing and pushing—wielding his cock into yours so deeply, so furiously, that it’s as if the man’s entire body has been set alight. 

Raw desire runs through his veins instead of blood- and Gojo’s letting out such an animalistic growl- “S’my fuckin’ name on you…”

His mouth waters- waters at the mere notion.

Shit, what an effect you had on him. Maybe all that adrenaline during interviews was…

Gojo’s never felt so utterly drunk than he was in this very moment—pussydrunk. Like the most intense of alcoholics chase their vise, he’s chasin’ the back of your gooey cunt. Every thrust manages to scrape his pumping veins against that snug channel of yours, every thrust manages to push him a little deeper than he already was. What a wonder he’s managed to fit in the first place.

You were just so fucking tight and heavenly that it’s as though you were sucking Gojo’s sanity - and soul - right out of him.

“My fucking name.” He repeats. Breathless. Gojo thwacks! his extremely tight balls against the front slit of your cunt. More beads of syrupy slick end up leaking out of you—n’ they’re pouring down Gojo’s vast shaft. “My fucking number on you.”

“Sh-shiiiiit—” You’re clawing for a lifeline: anything. Your only hope is to bend your arms behind your head- and start clawin’ at Gojo’s own sweaty scalp instead. 

As he rams in again and again and again—your poor ass cheeks were stinging.

Gojo’s almost all the way bottomed-out now. It makes your back arch, and your throat bubble over with moans instead of answers. “Fuck-”

The audacity that he has…no one but Gojo Satoru could have. He’s mocking your moans- “Satoru, fuck~” Before rolling those azure eyes of his and emptyin’ every inch of himself into the back of your pussy. “Yeah, yeah- fucking you is exactly what I’m—oh.”

Oh, was right.

It was exactly right.

Because just then Gojo finally - finally - bottoms out. He’s gotten all of his inches happily trapped between your gorgeous legs.

And it’s not just that.

Just then Gojo’s breath hitches.

Just then Gojo thinks he can’t breathe- his entire upper half collapses on top of yours—and you’re being pushed back into a regular, sloppy doggy position. Gojo’s letting shivers run amok across his skin, Gojo’s letting his handsome features twist into something of pure euphoria as he bottoms out- how can it feel this good?

This fucking good?

And in the time it’d taken the self-proclaimed world’s best striker to shatter on your pussy- you’d gathered yourself up.

At least to the point where you can look at Gojo over your shoulder and smirk. “Pussy got your tongue, Satoru?”

He frowns. “Har har—very fun- fuck, don’t squeeze me like that.” Gojo’s eyes flutter shut- on the edges of his lashes, you think you’re seeing tears. “I th-think I might cum.”

“Just that from a winner?” You’re tutting. “I thought you were the strongest, Satoru.”

“I-I am-”

“Then wouldn’t the strongest also have incredible stamina?” You’re looking at him—Gojo’s peripherals are glazed-over with a thick layer of lust. His hair was a mess. His lips were kiss-bitten. There’s a sort of unleashed hunger within him that makes you wish for him to ravage you…You pout. “And here I was hoping we could go- all night.”

He shivers at the words - cock pulsating deep inside you.

But you’re not done just yet. “But ah…I suppose if you can’t, then maybe Get-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence - not even your thought - before Gojo’s hips are pinning yours down. His upper half is cushioned against you. His bodyweight fully keeps you delightfully trapped- as Gojo’s starting to fuck you like an animal. 

He pushes you into the mattress.

He fucks you into the mattress.

His thrusts deeeeeep and loooooong—all the way from the slick-embellished top of his shaft, and then down, down, down until you’re feeling your cunt struggling around his incredibly thick base. The scruff of Gojo’s white pubic hair pushed n’ pulled against your pussylips-

Grinding.

And before you could even register the different sensation, Gojo already has one of his hands looped underneath you. The calloused tips of his fingers are instantly finding your clit, like magnets find one another, and he’s teasin’ that sweet nub. Again and again—tuggin’. “I c-can’t believe…” Gojo chokes out eventually.

“What was that?” You’re asking with a pointed clench of your sopping wet lips. 

And the man above you instantly shudders. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, girl.” He somewhat snaps- but rather than irritation it’s simply pure need in his words. Gojo pinches your clit. “It doesn’t matter h-hoooooow many times you clench- or just hooooow pussydrunk you’re getting me…”

You’re keening as he swabs your g-spot several times.

“But I- won’t- forget- whose- jersey- is on- you—” Gojo says between thrusts.

Every one of his movements was getting more n’ more erratic by the second- sweat drenched every part of him, and a curtain of his white hair obscured those laser-blue eyes. Locked in on his target: you.

Gojo’s touch is searing as he’s pinching your clit once again—“But just in case this pussy does- heh, get too rowdy…how about you remind me?” Your eyes are jerking open at his words. What does he…“Because it feels fucking gooood wearing the winner’s jersey as he fucks you, huh? Huh?”

Your lips quiver. Pressure was building at the pit of your stomach. “Y-yes…”

“Oh yeah? What does it say, then?” The team captain whispers. He’s using his dexterous fingers to twist your too-sensitive nub, and you’re whimpering.

“Fuck-”

“I already told you before- oh. M’already fucking you.” Gojo’s mirthful grin spreads across his face. He had that pussydrunken look about him as his hips accelerated. Even more. “But that’s not the- hah, question. What number is it?”

“S-six six…” You’re letting out in a defeated gust of air.

“Mmmm, good girl.” Maybe because you’re being such a good girl - Gojo takes the time to lazily and lethargically draaaaaaag his vein-covered cock wherever he felt like you were the most delicate. His zig-zagging patterns were getting outlined deep, deep inside you—and you’re shivering as he inches close to your g-spot. “And what name?”

He can’t stop himself from nudgin’ himself just a little closer and puuuushing down hard and thoroughly on that nerve-covered spot. “O-ohhhhh, fuck, there-”

Gojo’s face contorts - his brows furrow, his jaw drops. “Tell me the fucking name, sweetheart~”

“Gojo Satoru.” Barely even audible.

He leans in with an exaggerated smirk. “What was thaaaat?”

“Gojo Satoru- fuck.”

“And how many goals did I score today, Miss Reporter?”

You’re clawing at the pillows by now. “Th-three—!”

“Oh yeah?” Gojo hums. “M’gonna double it tonight.”

You don’t need to wait too long to find out exactly what Gojo meant- because in mere split-seconds, he’s reeling his hips baaaaack and snappin’ them. Once from the very blushin’ tip-top and down to the hilt. “Goal.” He whispers as he grazes past your g-spot - activating the white-hot pleasure from your cunt to your brain - and striking his target of your cervix. “H-heh.”

“Yellow card for being such a dick.” You whisper.

“Oh, but you love a winner’s dick.” He counters. And it’s barely three seconds later that you’re feeling another forcefield of carnal vibrations that set your teeth on edge—“Oh- and goal.”

Saliva puddles on the pillow in front of you. The hotel headboard has your nail marks on it- dammit.

Gojo repeats- faster this time. “Goal- oh, look at that…a hatrick.” His voice is on the verge of shattering- “Can we make that double hatricks?”

“O-oh my god, Satoru-”

“It’s captain.”

And then he’s pumping out those final few thrusts—hands a blur upon your throbbin’ clit, hips a blur between your legs. That jersey bearing Gojo’s name was drenched in sweat and stuck to you like a second skin- “Goal.” It’s radiating the heat that your body was giving off. “Goal.”

It’s displaying that number and that name so proudly. So fucking proudly.

And for that last and final score of his—Gojo’s bending down until he’s able to press his mouth against the area between where your shoulderblades should be. He kisses that spot. He licks his name on your skin. “Goal.”

And it’s inevitable that you’re crashing into your high as one.

Gojo holds you closely as incredible bursts of pleasure make your cunt convulse- you’re practically keeping him glued to your walls. It just felt too good to let him go, even if it was just to fuck you through your high. And it’s by pushing past that little resistance that Gojo’s managing to probe his rounded tip into you- to press those invisible buttons of yours that prolong your high.

More and more and more. This was an orgasm even better than your last one- and you hadn’t even known that’d be possible (not to boost Gojo’s ego).

Counting underneath his breath, he times the exact moment of your euphoria peaking—and then he’s bangin’ his rock-hard tip right on time. Bruising the back of your pussy.

White-hot pleasure was sizzlin’ just beneath your skin every time he did—and you felt as though your heart was beating too fast for you to keep up with. It’s a pounding drum in your ears, your chest…and your pussy.

Wrapped so vehemently ‘round Gojo’s own twitching cock.

He was pumping out wad after wad of looooong white cum that sticks to the inner lining of your pussy. Groaning. Grinding. Pleasure was tingling at the tips of his fingers, and all around him- soon enough you’re feeling a few tears of bliss splatter down your back. “You’re…” You just barely manage to breathe.

Gojo humps your behind like an animal- just shaking at the sheer force of his high. Gojo hums as he collects the droplets on the tip of his cock, and starts fucking it into your deepest depths- inside. Inside and inside.

It was just so warm and gummy inside you. Spreading. Seeping. 

Overspilling.

There wasn’t to be a single ounce wasted.

Gojo’s fingers alternate between rolling over your clit n’ helping push the excess amount of cum frothing around your entrance back inside. Some of it was currently forming a ring around his hilt, and he’s swiping it away using his thumb—popping it inside his mouth. “N-not bad for a guy you hate, huh~?”

Your eyes are shooting open. “Hate?” You frown. “I’ve never hated you, Satoru.”

And that makes the smile slip off his face. “Huh? But I always thought…you always asked me those probing questions and-”

“Satoru, that’s because I’m interested in you…as a player. Of course.” You’re admitting somewhat shyly. The two of you were past your orgasms by this point, and Gojo had taken to spooning you from behind whilst his cock was still inside. “I thought you hated me-”

“Me?” Gojo gapes. “When have I ever hated you? I flirt with you all the fucking time-”

“You flirt with everyone.” You huff. “But it’s just…that time after you’d gotten your offer for the national team. I don’t know if you remember, but it was my first interview then and-”

“Of course I remember.” He interjects.

Something warms in your chest. “But then- why didn’t you show up?”

“Pardon?”

“You promised you’d do your first interview with me- and I promised you’d be the first athlete I interviewed.” There’s a sadness in your tone - not overwhelming, just missing what might have been. “I waited and waited for you, but you never showed up.”

“You waited for me?” Gojo gasps.

“Yeah? I didn’t want to bother you too much, so I went to meet you at the field-”

“I didn’t want to bother you too much, so I went to meet you at the media room.”

You stare at Gojo. Gojo stares right back.

You sort of want to laugh- no wait, you’re laughing.

And he’s following right after. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”

“Mhmmm, but first how about you pull out, Satoru?”

“Aw, man.”

“And then next I’ll let you put the black card in my mouth while you fuck me.”

“Fuck yeah.”

.

.

.

Eight years ago.

“Are you new here?”

Gojo startles.

The Japan Football Association (JFA) had a meeting room…as Gojo Satoru supposes that all football headquarters do.

He wouldn’t know.

But outside was the waiting room. 

He also wouldn’t know whether other places had such purgatories- but then again, he digresses.

It was a hallway with two rows of chairs pushed against either side of it—gleaming plastic chairs that sat emptily - and strangely ominously - before photographs of some of the JFA’s most famous recruits. Gojo felt a strange sense of pride and fear soar up in him as the only chair occupied—perhaps mirror images of all the great players that had sat in them years prior.

Well, as the second chair occupied.

So focused on reciting his name, his age, and his position to himself - things that should come as naturally to him as breathing, now strangely so foreign in this stuffy waiting room - he hadn’t noticed you until you actually spoke to him. Which…you must forgive him.

Everything tends to slip Gojo Satoru’s mind when he thinks of football: people, places, eating and sleeping. 

And yet…with your soft call- he turns to you. There’s an instantaneous and mad urge for Gojo to flash his best, most flirtatious smile that’d gotten him voted as Most Handsome Boy for every year of elementary school and middle school. And yet, the memories of high school come rushing to him unbidden—and Gojo’s suddenly tampering it down.

Expressionless. “Yes?”

“Don’t do that.” You huff. You looked about his age- and by the uniform you were wearing, it didn’t seem that you were another recruit. He wonders what you were doing in such a place. “That smile of yours is so pretty- did you know that you have a dimple?”

“I…” Gojo watches as you point at the edge of your left lip. He reaches a hand up to feel for that very spot, softly smiling—just for the experiment. “Oh- I suppose I do.”

You shrug. “Win ‘em over with that smile, I tell you. You’re Gojo Satoru—the youngest recruit for the team, aren’t you?”

He feels his heartbeat pick up. “I don’t know…I hope so.”

“Tch- don’t be silly.” And it shocked Gojo just how casually you’d waved away his uncertainties - as though they were mere annoyances, like easy-to-catch mosquitoes, and not blood-thirst buzzards. “The interview’s basically a formality. The entire building’s talking about you. Gojo Satoru: the youngest recruit in Japanese football history, the football prodigy from a small town in Hokkaido, the new generation of Japanese football.”

The more you spoke, the more Gojo’s eyes widened. The more he held his breath.

“You’re like the Luffy of football right now, man.” You smile. “Have some more confidence- you’re Gojo Satoru.”

At the time, he hadn’t known how to respond to that. So he’d simply asked—“And are you…”

“Not a player.” Turning to the chair on your other side, you pulled out a notebook and a pen, an audio recorder, and a camera. “I’m an intern for the sports reporting department- it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do when I was young.” And he watched in something he’d later come to recognize as awe as you stared at the photographs of players in much the same way he did. “All those photographs? All those articles? It’s because of reporters—and if I can’t play on the field, maybe I can write the field’s stories, y’know?”

You sigh. 

And he simply keeps on staring like a buffoon.

“Everything that happens on that field is a tale to be told.” And as Gojo’s awkward silence stretches, your smile turns sheepish. “Or- something like that…I don’t know it’s just-”

“Don’t do that.” He interrupts. This time, there’s a faint smile on his lips—and you could see the dimples. “Be confident, erm…”

You share your name.

He repeats it like a winning scorecard, a legendary play, maybe a last-minute unexpected goal. Extremely unexpected.

And from inside the meeting room, there’s a call of his name. Gojo’s jerking up to his lanky feet and looking at you- you shoot him two thumbs up. He nods.

He turns.

And he’s just about to enter through those doors that could very well change his life—

But, Gojo Satoru turns back.

He looks at you and flashes you that too-handsome smile. The first sight of it seems to shock you. “How about if- when I get back you can be the reporter to get the first-ever exclusive interview with the Gojo Satoru~?”

You blink. “I’d like that.” Surprise melting from your expression and letting you smile. “I’d really, really like that—oh, shit, I should get my good camera for the photos- good luck—!”

And with your cheerful tone echoing down the hallway, Gojo huffs out a chuckle. He’s almost at the meeting room door when he realizes that he hadn’t exactly gotten a time and place for this interview - and who knows how long this meeting will last - but when he’s looking back you’re already disappeared. 

Ah, that’s fine. He supposes.

He’ll find you anyway.

.

.

.

Gojo Satoru’s first-ever professional interview was alongside Coach Yaga with some veteran reporter he now can’t remember the name of.

Your first-ever professional interview as a sports reporter was with the long-retired striker, Gakuganji, who’d taken time out of his busy electric guitar shredding schedule.

The two of you shouldn’t have drifted apart.

But then again, the two of you shouldn’t have found each other either. We are all parallel lines of the same football field; untouching and unceasing—not unless there’s bound to be a—goal

Gojo Satoru was face-to-face with the goal.

He takes a deep breath.

He points.

He kicks.

He scores.

There’s a second of silence before anything happens - like the brief yet somehow deafening pause before a rocket takes off. And just as loudly—the cheers of fans, Japanese and non-Japanese supporters alike, erupt raucously until the very frame of the stadium seems to rattle itself. They were crying. They were jumping. They were cheering themselves hoarse, because—

“Japan has just won the FIFA World Cup! For the first time in history, Japan has just won the FIFA World Cup! Gojo Satoru has done it again—!” 

1-2 to Japan.

To say that the match had been close would be the understatement of the century; but you suppose you’ll write all about it in some exclusive article. Later.

Right now, your gaze was fixated on the flashes of white n’ blue barely discernible through the explosion of confetti. As what seemed like hundreds of members of the audience break through the bars and run to the embracing team, there’s only one that’s untangling himself free from the embrace and running straight—to you.

You’re in Gojo’s strong, sweaty arms before you even know what’s happening.

“And is that Gojo—?! Our MVP Gojo is breaking free from his team- running to the lovely lady, eh? All because of that bet. And here we have more celebrations from—”

His face pushed into the crook of your neck, and his chest hammering against yours- “We did it.” Gojo pants - and you’re vaguely aware of Shoko zooming in on the scene with a cackle. “We did it, sweetheart.”

You’re pulling back slightly from him and smiling. “I always knew you could.”

He kisses you and he’s never meant anything more.

A/N. WHERE’S MY GOJOOOOOOOO?? Anyways ugh I’d been SOBBING during Modrić’s final match.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[yanderenightmare]

Ryomen Sukuna

♡ TW: kidnappning, captivity, cannibalism, gore, nonchalant nihilistic reader, casual mention of asexuality, dark humor but leaning more toward what I'd call morbid absurdity?

♡ FEM reader

♡ AN: normal au, idk this is more comedic than what i normally write, originally a gag response to this post, put it got long...

You wake up groggy somewhere clean and classy. 

The ceiling is tall, the furniture expensive—marble floors and Egyptian sheets—and none of it is any familiar whatsoever.

“Hello?” you call out, despite not seeing or hearing the hints of anyone, clutching the comforter to yourself with eyes still adjusting, blinking as you take everything in, getting more concerned as you do.

Did you get fucked up yesterday or what? 

Surely not so fucked up you can’t remember booking yourself into a five-star hotel, right? 

And yet, by the looks of it, you must have. 

It should be more concerning, and yet, “Please, God, don’t let it be in my name,” is the prioritized thought. You’re so broke, you couldn’t even afford a fucking motel room right now, let alone whatever the fuck kind of grand suite this is.

You get up, only then noticing you’re dressed in a silk night gown—which only further distresses you with thoughts about the bill. Clothes nowhere in sight—at least not anything you can recognize as your own. But, laying on the dresser is a pretty little number, with a tiny little note on top.

“Wear me,” you read out loud. Face puzzled with a grimace, before further talking to yourself out loud, mumbling, “What the fuck Alice in Wonderland type shit is this? Did I go home with a freak?”

Confused as shit, you leave the dress where it is while looking around some more. The more you do, you start noticing things that make you start thinking this might be someone's house rather than a hotel room. 

Walking into what you thought might be a bathroom, you discover a walk-in closet instead. Fully stocked with clothes. Expensive shit. Classy. And a little creepy, how it’s all solely in different shades of red. Your pajamas too, and the dress laid out. Someone must have a serious preference.

“Where the fuck am I at right now…”

Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.

Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.

You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.

Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?

You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.

You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes. 

Shit, how’re you supposed to—

“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.

He sets out two plates before sitting down.

He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar. His hair is newly washed, hanging in curly bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.

“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”

“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”

You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”

“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”

Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”

For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.

“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”

Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut. 

“What?”

A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly? 

“What the fuck’s going on?!”

He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life. 

“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”

Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with. 

Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”

Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?

“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you. 

The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.

“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”

Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind. 

Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar.

In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”

But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”

Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first. 

And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.

You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while. 

And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide. 

Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested. Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start piling up your plate.

While stuffing your face, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face. 

You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…

Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…

And that’s when it hits you.

“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…” 

You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering. 

“Malevolent Kitchen!” 

You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.

Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”

“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.

You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…

You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.

There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.

It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…

“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember. 

True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit. 

“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”

Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea. 

“A cannibal?”

You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.

But he doesn’t.

No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.

It fully dawns on you then.

“Oh God, that’s it, isn’t it?”

The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.

And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.

“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”

And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke. 

Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.

“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”

The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.

You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”

Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.

Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”

You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”

You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi is the least he could do.

You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”

You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”

So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.

In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.

But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”

To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”

—

You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you. 

Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be. 

He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him. 

But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.

He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun. 

And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.

Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances. 

But then again, you hadn’t proved to be very normal at all so far.

You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild curiosity, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.

By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.

You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way, at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.

“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.

Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.

“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well. 

It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is. 

But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.

It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.

Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”

You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.

He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.

Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.

“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”

Oh, so that had been your earlier concern. 

He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…

Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.

“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.

He halts. “What?” 

Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”

Oh, right. He chuckles.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.

“Hello? What’s so funny?” you ask again.

“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.

You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”

Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.

“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”

You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”

It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it. 

“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?” 

Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, looking for answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you. 

But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t actually buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”

He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”

You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”

You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.

No, not at all. 

Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.

And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”

It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.

And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.” 

“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.

He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”

You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.

Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…

—

True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night. 

The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep. 

Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.

Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.

Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.

He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.

“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.

To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”

You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.

You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.

In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.

“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”

“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.

You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”

You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it, given the man’s your cannibalistic captor you shouldn't be goofing around with. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”

He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”

“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”

You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”

Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll  take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”

You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.

“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”

You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.

“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”

He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.

“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”

You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,” 

Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.

You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you? 

“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”

You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”

With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.” 

You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”

He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as taking a fake sick-day just to get out of work.

But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”

His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”

You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind. “Anything else I can help with?”

He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”

You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual or abstinent while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”

—

A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.

He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.

In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.

Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself. 

He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.

“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to test your eye for precautions.”

He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.

“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time.

“No,” he answers shortly.

To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”

He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”

You drop back down with a pout at the boring response, staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…” 

Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”

He ignores you and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.

“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your stomach.

“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”

You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.

Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.

Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.

But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”

With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”

Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.

It’s boring, you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.

But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”

You lift yourself up from your slump, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.

You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”

As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”

It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.” 

—

More weeks pass. 

The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.

Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain. 

Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.

Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long. 

Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…

And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food.

“Not up to your standards?” he questions.

You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.

During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.

But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something more, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.

Lonely is the word that comes to mind.

“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—anything but this gourmet stuff…”

He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.

“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”

Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.

It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.

“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.

“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard before.

It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”

“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”

He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?

“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you. 

“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?” 

You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”

In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.

Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.

“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.

But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”

Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,” 

And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”

He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”

“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”

Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”

“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”

Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”

Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”

Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.

But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”

Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”

By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing.  “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.

“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.

But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”

He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”

His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding. 

You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”

“That’s it.”

It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think. 

One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.

“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him anymore to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”

And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.

“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”

“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”

Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.

“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”

—

“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”

He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.

No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”

You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”

Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”

He can only sigh and admit defeat.

Still, you got one thing wrong. 

“I’m not the freak here…”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[tonycries]

Super(girl) Trouper - N.K.

Synopsis. It’s a bird! It’s a plane! Look up out—it’s Supergirl. The villains fear you. The headlines hate you. The Justice League doesn’t understand you. And no one cares except for perhaps…Nanami Kento from the investigative journalism department. Tall. Blond. And sweeter than the world’s most potent aphrodisiac. But he doesn’t know that. The problem is that the villains now do.

Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!Supergirl!reader, journalist!Nanami, DC AU, Supergirl AU, he’s Iowk like genderbent Lois Lane, nerdy Nanami, journaIism, headIines, inhibitions, you’re hated by the pubIic, but he Ioves you, saving people, saving the worId, more about finding yourself acc, miId vioIence, feeIings, aphrodisíacs, Nanami is PÚSSYDRUNK, hand j’s, oraI (fem rec.), fíngering, spítting, x-ray vision, heat vision, YOUR powers, manhandIing, matíng presses, he’s FÉRAL, he’s big, making it fit, tummy buIges, pressing down on it, cervíx smooches, struggling to take it, making HIM break, creampíes, s with feeIings, confessions, getting together, happy ending, Kenjaku mentions, Nanami with glasses, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 13.7k

A/N. Haven’t watched the new Supergirl movie yetttt but I just KNEW I had to do an AU.

MEET THE NEW GIRL IN SPACE!

SUPERGIRL: THREE A-LIST VILLAINS AND THEIR HENCHMEN DOWN IN SHINJUKU TRAIN FIGHT. DESTRUCTION PRICELESS—!

SUPERGIRL FLIPS OFF THE JUSTICE LEAGUE MID-AIR?! TAKES DOWN THEIR VILLAIN FIRST. ACCUSED OF STEALING THE SPOTLIGHT?

SUPERGIRL HANGS ZENIN CONGLOMERATE HEIR—ZENIN NAOYA—BY HIS SHOELACES FROM TOKYO TOWER! CITES ‘CHAUVINISM’ (EXCLUSIVE)

SUPERGIRL—THE NEW FACE OF HEROES OR A DARK TURN FOR JUSTICE?

That last particular headline makes you scoff.

Your eyes are darting to the byline; and immediately afterwards they’re on the verge of rolling. Who else would write such a rag of an article but Usami from the sports journalism department? And it’s not like Supergirl even had anything to do with the latest football scores or which manager had been sacked recently.

But you suppose everybody wanted a piece of you now.

“It’s rotten, isn’t it?” A voice trundles behind you—low and lightly husked. “They beg for a saviour, but in the face of one it’s revealed that what they really want is perfection. But with everyone’s definition of perfection being different…”

Nanami Kento.

“-isn’t what they really want just conforming to their mold?”

You’re turning around. 

A faint smile on your lips. “Then what can we do about all the different molds?”

Nanami nods. “No one person is correct. It’ll never be good enough.” He lets out a soft sigh before pushing up his gold-rimmed glasses; they were a delicate kind that seemed to have a faint glow whenever they caught the light filtering in from Tokyo’s busy morning. Perfectly paired against Nanami’s handsome face—in the sort of classical, movie-star manner that might have caused him to be hung up on posters in teenage bedrooms or emblazoned outside of theatres.

Or so you’ve heard human customs tend to do so.

And yet, here Nanami Kento was: standing in a cream-colored suit with ink smudges on his fingertips. It often surprised you how a perfect Earthling like this was simply tucked-away in a little cubicle at Daily Planet Newspaper.

You certainly have never seen another like so.

But you got to see his face everyday—so you weren’t exactly complaining.

Nanami’s eyes drop at the growing smile on your face, and he pushes up a strand of golden-blond hair. That was just about as mussed-up as that perfectly slicked hairstyle of his would ever become. “Apologies. It’s just- it really bothers me to see the shit being written about Supergirl with no basis. Especially in respectable newspapers.”

“Well, it is the gossip column.”

“The sports section?”

“Same thing.” It was all human mish-mash to you either way. Beside him, the corner of Nanami’s lips give the faintest twitch. You’re flipping through the latest print of Daily Planet to another page; this time one with your (Supergirl’s) face plastered centrespread. Mid-air and your red cape flying behind you. It’s been only a few years since you’d landed on Earth after the destruction of Krypton. Then only a few weeks since you’d debuted as a superhero: stealing the spotlight from Green Lantern and the rest of the Justice League as you swooped in and defeated Metallo. 

Ever since then it’d been an explosion of newspaper headlines and television shows and even sketches; both good and bad. Mostly bad. You weren’t sure what got you off to the wrong foot. Maybe it was the uniform that too-closely resembled Superman’s? Maybe it was the crude words you’d spit out at villains mid-fight? Maybe it was that one time you flipped off the Justice League for being too late to the fight? 

In your defense, you thought Earthlings said something about early birds getting the villains?

And maybe all those were correct.

But whatever it was—they would tear you apart. Then piece you back. Then tear you apart again. You weren’t the family-friendly image of a superhero that most were; and it made something at the pit of your stomach feel saturated and dark and useless to have to edit such articles time and time again. To have to write them yourself, if you wanted to get approved by your higher-ups.

Perhaps that was a part of human culture?

Fuck those windbags either way.

You didn’t understand how any other hero did it - then again it wasn’t as if you could easily ask them. You weren’t an official part of the Justice League—and you didn’t see yourself getting welcomed with open arms anytime soon. So you hid yourself away and semi-hypnotized those at your workplace to see a forgettable face whenever they looked at you - not Supergirl—even so, it was brittle at best. 

Kryptonian hypnosis wasn’t as powerful as Martians. What you could merely do was suggest. “So- you don’t think Supergirl’s too crass?”

Nanami looks up, brows somewhat furrowed. “I quite frankly don’t think it matters. Who am I to judge?”

“Oh yeah? What about too destructive? Too disrespectful of the Justice League?”

“Again, who am I to judge?” Now, Nanami’s taking a seat—his desk was opposite yours, your backs to one another as you tap-tap-tapped away at new articles everyday. “Maybe she could do with a little less destruction of public infrastructure and that’s fine, but if she’s too crass then she’s too crass. That’s just her. Just as I’m not forced to like it—it’s silly to expect every superhero to conform to the ideal. Not one person nor mold is completely correct.”

From his seat, he tips his head up and looks at your standing self.

“But, personally, I wasn’t the biggest fan of Green Lantern in the first place.”

This time, it’s your turn to attempt to keep a too-big smile off your face. 

You give him a pointed look. “I dunno. I heard she steals candy from babies—says so on Page 9.”

“Ridiculous.” Nanami cocks his head and beckons for the newspaper from you; after you hand it to him he flips through to that very page and scans it. “And precisely without proof. This is why I’ve been investigating Supergirl, beyond what these pages or secret sources say—”

From where you were, you could hear Usami loudly bragging to his colleagues a few desks over about the ‘exclusive source’ that gave him that little tidbit of information. You wanted to roll your eyes again.

“-and I’ve been working on something.”

“What is it?” You lean over to look as Nanami unlocks one of his desk drawers and pulls out a thick file. Unmarked. Your heart leaps to your throat as he sweeps it open to reveal pages upon pages of…pictures of you.

Not you—

—but you as Supergirl.

You mid-flight amongst thunderclouds. You amongst rubble. You pushing a kid behind you in order to shield him from a villain. You with your face twisted in fury as you’re pummeling that very same villain with a ferociousness that scared most - even civilians.

Which explained the headlines.

You skulking off into an alleyway before the medics and police could arrive, as you always did.

You. You. You. You. You.

And around them were notes scribbled in Nanami’s own neat hand.

Hero analysis:

Best skills: Superhuman strength, superhuman speed (comparable to that of the Flash), heat vision, physiological control, martial arts (see more on…)

Costume is that of similar style of Superman however with the added adaptabilities of…(sketch on back)

—one of the strongest debuts of any superhero in history. The supervillain Metallo has been terrorizing—

—though at odd relations with the Justice League, it seems that clashes over justice enactment—

—train—

—the greatest—

Female. 20’s to 30’s. Features may be changeable with Kryptonian powers (follow up with…). Suspected resident in Tokyo—concentration of fights here; in close contact with the Justice League who has headquarters here in Tokyo. Furthermore, seems familiar with the alleyways for her ‘disappearing act’ (for more thorough analysis see more on…) and mapping (more on…) has revealed that Supergirl tends to head in the wider direction of—Kabukicho. 

(Follow up).

Your eyes widen.

Fuck.

You have to change up the bars you hit after fights.

And just when you think your heart can’t leap any higher; he flips through a few more pages and stops on one particular piece of evidence - the biggest of them all - a frontpage newspaper clipping of you…and him. Nanami all dust-covered and dishevelled, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, as you threw his arm over your shoulders and helped him out of Tokyo Downtown Bakery. You had your face twisted in fury, and Nanami…you never noticed it before, but Nanami was looking at you like you were the Sun.

The fight had happened just last week: you’d been heading home after work when your superhearing told you something was off. An explosion downtown. 

Tokyo Downtown Bakery was a favorite of gods, mutants, aliens, and other non-humans alike. Known for it, in fact. And there was only one villain you could think of that wanted to take down such non-humans—Kenjaku.

You’d zipped there as fast as your flight could take you, and only once you were there had you heard a familiar heartbeat. More frantic now, of course. But familiar.

Nanami was trapped underneath the rubble.

Kenjaku saw your momentary distraction - the realization that made your blood grow cold - and had taken the chance to disappear into the shadows. 

After making sure that every other customer and employee didn’t have to be flown to the hospital urgently, you dropped onto your knees in front of the mountain of rubble and dug and dug. And dug. And dug. You dug until you felt the control over your physiology slipping, and small cuts started to apply at your fingertips—healing over instantly. Then getting ripped open all over as you just kept- on- digging.

In reality it must have been less than five or ten minutes, but it felt like months, before you finally flung away the last block of debris from a soft body. And Nanami Kento stirred.

That was what had resulted in the photograph, and the headlines that followed.

SUPERGIRL A WEEK INTO SUPERHEROISM AND ALREADY LETTING VILLAINS ESCAPE?

SUPERGIRL PAUSES FIGHT FOR BREAK?! MORE LIKE LAZYGIRL (Exclusive)

SUPERGIRL SAVES THE DAY AGAIN—BUT WHAT ABOUT THE INFRASTRUCTURE?

SUPERGIRL SAVES RUBBLE-TRAPPED CIVILIANS: “I owe her my life.” 

That last one boasted the picture. And the byline of Nanami Kento. 

You try to control your breathing.

“Ever since she saved me, I’ve been trying to understand Supergirl better. That fury on her face…I’ve been trying to figure out who she is-”

“To…expose her?”

“No.” Nanami shakes his head. The both of you were breathless - though for very different reasons. Excitement practically makes him glow, “To maybe try and interview her- personally. I want to see what she’s like beyond all those cashgrab headlines and the rumors. And…” 

You’re silent as he pauses.

“-and I want to thank her personally.” So soft.

“Oh.” Your voice sounds small. Smaller than you’ve ever heard it. 

 He’s then closing his file and looking up at you so sweetly—“And if you’re interested, then maybe we could work together on it? I actually got a tip that I’m about to go do some field work on right now.” A sudden burst of shyness makes Nanami’s cheekbones burn a pretty rouge as you stare at him intensely. That was one thing you loved about humans - immense control over your physiology meant Kryptonians couldn’t blush unless you made yourselves. Humans couldn’t control when they blushed and it was just the sweetest thing to you. Was Nanami’s heartbeat picking up? “That is…if you would like to? I know you likely have better articles to work on, but just in case…”

He trails off and you’re trailing behind your head and your heart.

Your heart that wanted you to say yes.

Your head that made you say—

“I’m sorry.” You feel your heart fall. There’s a simmering of anger at yourself; soothed partially by the understanding that the more time you spent with Nanami…the higher the chance was of him finding out who you were. There were countless people out to get you: villains, henchmen, reporters. And the second-best thing to getting you was getting someone you cared for that knew you. About you. 

The only powerless humans that knew about you were Clark’s- Superman’s adoptive parents. 

And whatever misery that might put you in - you’d take it twofold if it meant keeping one more normal Earthling like Nanami safe. You’re taking a step back and giving him a sheepish smile. “It’s just I have this really ah- riveting story to write about the erm- tax refunds and the economic implications of Supergirl’s last fight and…”

“Oh!” Nanami nods fervently, pushing his glasses up. Embarrassment radiated off of him like a miniature Sun, and you wanted nothing more than to reach out and tell him this was on you. But alas. “Oh, right, of course- I wish you luck with that.”

“Thank you.” You smile, lips pressed together to prevent a sigh. “I’m going to need it.”

“A journalist like you? Not in the least.”

With a nod of graciousness, you’re just about to leave Nanami’s table and pretend that the latter half of this interaction perhaps never happened. You almost wished Kryptonians had the ability to hypnotize themselves as they could to others. And you’re considering a much more interesting article about that before you’re stopping in your tracks and half-glancing at Nanami over your shoulder. 

He was hard at work gathering his things for what you assume to be the extra field work regarding his Supergirl article.

You feel your heart clench.

“Nanami?”

He looks up eagerly. “Yes?”

Your words are slightly less than steady once you speak again. “If- when you discover Supergirl’s identity…you might be…disappointed. They say she’s nothing like Superman.”

“She doesn’t have to be.”

As Nanami throws his messenger bag over his shoulder and stands to leave—“I’ll see you tomorrow, my darling.” But he calls everyone that, doesn’t he?

“And I’ll…be working late.”

“Be careful not to miss your train.”

You don’t look at him until the very last second. When his tall frame is ducking beneath the doorway to the Daily Planet journalism department; cream-colored suit and golden glasses; old movie star looks drawing eyes, but not too close so he’ll never know that you stared at him from afar. Never.

You sink into your chair.

“What was that about?”

Had your superhuman senses not told you about Shoko’s nearing presence, you would have been startled. But you’re throwing in a slight jump just for the sake of it.

“Oh- come on.” Shoko says with a roguish grin. There was a slender cigarette tucked between her index and her middle finger; as was wont to have if one was Ieiri Shoko. You honestly don’t think you’ve ever seen her without one. “Not dramatic enough. Next time try throwing in a little gasp there.”

It seems that you still had work to do on your human reactions…“What have I told you about the cigarette smell getting on the papers?” You grimace at her - this particular human pleasure was especially sensitive to your nose.

“Can’t remember.” She replies, blowing out her last puff of smoke.

Shoko was perhaps your one exception to humans not knowing about your true identity—for the sole fact that she wasn’t your average human. Smooth. Silent. And stupidly intelligent - Shoko was perhaps the best investigative journalist Tokyo had to offer.

Which was to be expected, of course, given that she was the protégé of The Question.

A normal human journalist—just with enough combat skill and power to get him inducted into the Justice League. The Question had been a master in hand-to-hand combat even amongst the most trained superheroes; which paired well with the depth of investigative journalism that he would do. He exposed criminal underworlds that led to likely half the lodgers at Tokyo Island Penitentiary. 

When you’d been reading up on the superheroes of Earth - both current and inactive - it was his sheer heroism as a mere human that’d inspired you to become a journalist as well.

The Question had hand-picked Shoko as his successor—and for good reason. After his passing due to old age, Shoko quickly proved herself to be a master with the pen; she cracked her ink like a whip. Just last week, she’d exposed that damned Lex Luthor’s embezzling which at least got him out of Superman’s hair for some time. And despite the publicity of the event, the covert nature of her heroism meant she didn’t have to deal with the constant headlines.

Shoko was no different than those at the Justice League. Than you.

But she was an enigma.

So you couldn’t have asked for anyone better to have walked in on you hurriedly changing into your supersuit in the cramped cubicle bathrooms at the Daily Planet - there was a train about to go off-course a few thousand kilometers away - than Shoko.

“Oh.” You remember it like it was yesterday. The door had swung open as you had one foot into the suit. “The lock’s broken.” She’d said.

“Uh…occupied?” You’d murmured then, in a voice higher-pitched than usual. You considered hypnotizing her twofold- no wait, there was some power to do with amnesia even though you weren’t sure whether it would be—

“I know what you’re thinking.” Shoko had smiled then. “And don’t you dare try - not because I’d say anything, but because the Justice League’s paperwork is a pain in the ass when you try to fight another superhero.”

Your jaw had dropped. “Another…?” You’d shove that paperwork up their asses- but another superhero?

“Haven’t guessed it already?” Shoko shoved a hand into her long jacket, pulling out a square piece of what almost looked like rubber. It was in the exact shade as her skin tone, and when she placed it over her face—

“Featureless.” You’d gasped. Pseudoderm. “Just like The Question.”

“Flattered you know us, Supergirl.”

But there was no more time for chit-chat—that train you’d been hearing was dangerously close to going off-tracks now, and you’d hastily begun stuffing yourself into your supersuit. To which Shoko hadn’t flinched - instead appraising you curiously. “Why don’t you just wear that underneath your suit?”

“Because…” Because you were too afraid of someone sneaking a peak at the suit underneath. Because you were too afraid of being Supergirl when you were your ‘human’ self—hated. At least as a human you weren’t hated. Because you were too afraid of walking around as two halves making up one whole, when one half was all you needed at a time to feel content.

Ultimately you settled for not saying anything at all. “Listen- please don’t-”

“Yeah, yeah- I’ve already been through this song and dance.” She waved you off absent-mindedly. “Don’t reveal your secret identity to anyone. Don’t make it obvious when you’re off saving the world.”

You felt a smile come to your face at those last few words.

“You don’t think I’m…ruining justice instead?” A rush of embarrassment ran through you for even asking.

But Shoko merely cocked her silky head. “Hah, no? And who cares what the Justice League thinks? Now go do superhero things, superhero.”

The train and its passengers were saved in record time that day. And just like she’d said, Shoko hadn’t spilled a word.

Though for all the secrets she kept- she did love hearing them.

“So…” She relights her cigarette. “Did Nanami finally ask you out and you rejected him?”

“What-” You’re turning to her with a yelp. “He did not—” She takes the moment to blow a cloud of smoke at your papers, and you’re snatching the cigarette from between her lips and snuffing it out on one of your ceramic desk decorations. 

“Hey…” Shoko whines.

Finally you’re whispering to her in a low tone - “He did not ask me out. And I did not reject him.”

“Then why’d he leave all sad and puppy-eyed?”

You’re turning around—almost as if expecting Nanami there still. “He didn’t…did he?”

“Maybe. I didn’t see. But you looked, didn’t you?” Chuckling. The Question takes the cigarette back from you, and holds it out of your reach.

“That was only because you-” You find that you don’t quite have much to say - at least not something that Shoko would pay heed to. And so you’re settling for a few grumbled curses—“No. He just asked me to be part of one of his articles.”

Shoko looks up in interest. “Oh? About what?”

“Supergirl.” You cross your arms. “He said he wanted to figure out who she was so he could interview her- I said no, of course.”

Shoko - who’d now newly relit her cigarette - takes a long drag and lets it free into the air. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why’d you say no?”

You take her cigarette and put it out again. “Because the more time I spend with him, the more likely he is to…find out. And with everything going on, I can’t risk putting him in danger.”

“Hm…” Shoko thinks for some time. “Putting him in danger? Or putting his image of you in danger?” She stares at you intently. “Are you really afraid that he’s going to be captured by villains you’ve been defeating time and time again these past few weeks? Maybe.” Then she’s gently tugging the cigarette from between your fingertips - to light it again. A final time. “Or are you more afraid that once he finds out who you truly are- he’s going to be just like the rest of them?”

You don’t bother reaching for the cigarette anymore. “I…”

But Shoko wasn’t done just yet. She blows her smoke into the air and lets it linger. “It’s just like these papers and this smoke. When the nicotine sticks to them, it’s invisible but it’s there—even if you don’t like it. But that doesn’t change its contents. Nor does that make it any less worthy than any other article here.”

You crinkle your nose. “But others won’t like it either.”

“So fuck them.” She stands. “It’s gonna be printed into a damn article, it doesn’t need to smell like rainbows and roses. No two newspapers are printed the same.”

And with that said, Shoko striding off. Cigarette and all.

And you’re left staring at a blank paper—ready for typing.

.

.

.

Nanami Kento had never quite been to this area of Tokyo.

It was one of the seedier places; an amalgamation of everything your mother advises you against. Past the bars and the spas, past the graffiti-tattooed walls and the alleyways that seemed to stretch into darkness endlessly. Past men slouched on roads - drunk or dead. Past the rattle of trains in the distance and rats who chittered at the only abode they truly ruled. Where even those cowered standing next to—and one goes to share the same fear doused upon this neighborhood, doled, perhaps to replace that of their own.

Then again, there was a strange beauty in it itself - like a giant wound mending itself.

There was a stun gun in his pocket. He wondered what this place would look like in daylight. 

He ignored the knot in his throat as he kept on walking.

It wasn’t the place you’d expect to find a superhero - then again, Supergirl didn’t listen to anyone’s expectations of her. 

Often after fights, he’d see you disappearing into the shadows of a building or a lone alleyway such as these. As if never there. You didn’t wait around for any authorities or paparazzi. And it was only after weeks of investigation that he’d managed to narrow it down to one district that you were frequenting: Kabukicho. 

Even afterwards, he’d quickly learned that it wasn’t simply the entertainment district that you were fond of.

You were fond of hiding.

Asking around for sightings of a person of your description took Nanami meters away from actual Kabukicho, and down narrow alleys and underground streets. Into clubs and behind hotels. Into the seediest, smallest establishments hadn’t even the faintest waft of a main street. Currently he was heading towards a bar he was directed towards by an anonymous tip; the tip had said that you came here at least once a week or so. Sometimes not even to drink - just to people-watch.

And if Nanami Kento knew anything about you: it was that you found humans fascinating.

He’d seen it after fights, when you’d watch families rush to one another and embrace. He’d seen it even during fights, as you analyzed villains that were easy prey.

And he wondered…did you find humans interesting as much as they found you? Or at least, he did. 

It’s after a few minutes of walking down this small street, lit only by the angry neon signs of underground clubs, that he stops before a squat bat. THE CHAMELEON—the sign said.

He pats the stun gun in his pocket. 

And with a deep breath, he’s walking in.

The stench of liquor dances a frenzied waltz with cigarettes; it reaches his nose though he doesn’t cringe as he weaves between closely-pressed tables. Patrons hunched over nursing their columns of glasses look up at him suspiciously as he walks past them. He knew he should have changed out of his cream-colored suit. 

It was barely visible in the bar, due to the faint light buzzing solely from a few spots on the ceiling, surrounded by wine-drunk flies, but Nanami managed to sit himself down at the counter. A bartender with long greyish-blue hair wiping greasy glasses with an even greasier rag looks up at him.

“Ah…” Nanami’s eyes fall to the glass and the rag - he himself was a good drinker, though the establishments he frequented were nothing of this sort. “Just a beer, please.”

The bartender asks, “Mmm, tap?”

“Do you have bottles-”

“No bottles.”

“Then ah- just a water, please.”

“No water either.” He says in a strangely melodic voice, “Just cider. Just cider. Apple, peach, and pear~!”

Nanami looks at the man warily, “Then…a peach cider please.”

The bartender shrugs then takes the rag—blowing his nose into it- before he throws it somewhere over his shoulder and fetches a peach cider for Nanami. It pools condensation onto the counter as it’s set in front of him, but he doesn’t reach for it even a single millimeter.

“What are you trying to find, young man?”

Nanami almost flinches. 

The voice comes from the seat next to him; gruff and gravelly like when one has smoked far too many cigarettes for far too long. As he turns—the man next to him laughs. He had a white, wide-rimmed hat tipped low over his face, and was wearing an equally stark white suit. It was just about the only things he could make of him - nothing of his actual features.

And though Nanami didn’t know the man, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of kinship as the two patrons of the bar that didn’t seem like they belonged there.

Despite this, however, this other man’s fingers found a chip in his cider glass with familiarity. 

“There are only two reasons that folks come down to a bar like this: either to lose something—pain, memories, fatigue; or to find something.” He nods his head over at the younger man, but still doesn’t reveal a sliver of a face. “And since you haven’t touched that cider of yours, young man, I’m assuming…”

“Finding something, I suppose.” Almost robotic, Nanami grasps his glass. 

He thinks he sees a flash of a smile from the other man.

Nanami continues, “Maybe you can help me? Would you happen to have seen someone come in tonight-” His heart thunders as he lists off the features written down in that file of his—and the man keeps nodding with each one. “-perhaps around my age, though-”

“So it’s love problems.”

He stops short. “What?”

“Love problems.” That man clucks out a wet laugh, then takes a swig of his cider.

Nanami responds hesitantly. “I’m…afraid you misunderstand. I’m just trying to find-”

“I know perfectly what you mean.” He displays a set of paper-white teeth, gleaming. Reaching into his coat pocket, he slaps something down on the marble counter. “Her, right?”

Nanami peers in and finds it to be a blurry polaroid of you at this very bar, taken like you hadn’t known it was happening. And you weren’t revelling like one would have expected you to after a constant winning streak against villains. You weren’t even lamenting your woes with your fellow bar patrons.

You were just…watching. 

Alone at a booth. Nothing in front of you but a water- perhaps that bartender had lied to him. 

It was a night livelier than this one, evidently, as bachelor celebrations and 21st birthday parties and seemingly drunken singing surrounded you from all angles. But you simply watched. Waited. There was something so sorrowfully beautiful about you that it made Nanami’s heart ache. 

“It’d been my buddy’s divorce party and someone had pulled out the polaroid. He snapped a picture and somehow I just couldn’t find it in myself to part with it…there’s something so haunting about it.”

Nanami merely stares speechlessly, running his finger down the edge of the picture.

“Trying to understand someone is, too, an act of love isn’t it?” The other man says. Before Nanami could respond, he’s polishing off the last few drops of his cider and getting off the chair—he seemed much taller when he was standing. “Come now. This Supergirl of yours is quite the party- after draining The Chameleon she tends to head East towards the Golden Gai. Finish up your cider and then we can go.”

“R-right.” Nanami’s hand almost falls to pat his stun gun reassuringly- but under the man’s scrutiny he reaches for the cider instead. “And sorry- what was your name again Mr…?”

“Come now, come now. We can save the pleasantries for when we walk there, young man.”

“Right.” 

Bringing it up to his lips. 

Almost. “But how did you know I was searching for Super-”

He sighs. “You journalists ask too many questions.”

And with a forceful shove, he’s making Nanami chug down the cider - blood and peaches coating his tongue. And the sharp shot of something else he couldn’t place. 

“And you can call me Kenjaku, young man.”

And then it’s black.

“I saw the way Supergirl—” Spit. “—looked at you. And I must thank you for leading her to me.”

Kilometers away, you’re in the middle of heading to the train station with Shoko. You’d both gotten off work late and were lamenting what a pain it’d be to get up tomorrow morning—

Your head snaps up.

You’re immediately looking behind you.

“What is it?” Shoko asks with no small sense of emergency.

That gasp. That thud. 

You’ve never heard it; yet you’d recognize it anywhere.

“Something bad has happened.”

.

.

.

Alleyways. Bar. Rats. Love Hotel. Alleyways. Bar. Bar. Alleyways. Alleyways. Alleyways.

Why did you have to go down so many alleyways?

It was a bar that you’d only been to once; the shadows were long and the cider was sweet—but ultimately you’d decided that you didn’t want to return. It was the day after you’d saved Nanami Kento. 

And now you were doing the very same thing.

THE CHAMALEON had wound down for the night by the time that you skidded to a halt before it - with the tar road cratering beneath you as you stopped. There’s a thundering noise that echoes down the gloomy streets of this forgotten part of Kabukicho. You don’t waste a single second longer before kicking the door open and storming inside—

“Ah~ my lovely Supergirl.”

“Kenjaku.” You spit. The bar was empty save for the man seated at the counter - a dark waterfall of hair, darker eyes - and in his hand he held a single glass of what you assumed to be cider. “Where is he-”

“Slow down, my dear.” He croons. “Why don’t you sit back? Have a drink or two? And then maybe we can-”

“Where the fuck is he.”

It happens instantaneously—in a jerky movement you’re picking up an entire table by its leg. Using a mere fraction of your strength, you chuck it at the man - not quite to hit just yet - and it flies past him with naught a hair’s breadth of space between the side of his head and the table. Crashing against the wall of alcohol bottles in the back; liquor and shards of glass explode behind Kenjaku, yet he doesn’t move a single muscle. Not a single muscle.

Not even his lips to speak. 

It infuriates you that he can remain sitting and sipping his cider without a care in the world- and so you’re striding towards him. Though striding was perhaps a kinder word.

Grabbing a bottle off the counter, he breaks its end and attempts to stab you.

You dodge.

He stabs.

You dodge.

He swipes your cheek—

“Motherfucker you better know that I don’t care what you do to me-” Each word leaves you like a dagger. “I don’t care how you hurt me-” And within a few seconds, you’ve closed the gap completely to grip him by the collar and raise Kenjaku a foot off his chair. “But what the fuck have these innocent people ever done to you?”

Suddenly, his eyes go wide and he starts laughing.

And you’re only watching in stunned silence.

You only can watch—Kenjaku laughs long and unabashed, with a strange hitch like a crow’s call - he laughs so hard that he has to wipe away a tear. It sends red-hot fury curdling in your veins.

You reel your fist back.

Tightly-coiled. Trembling with anger.

And you’re just about to swing—

When Kenjaku raises a single finger - the gesture humans often do when asking for a moment of your time - that makes you halt in your tracks. Whatever tricks he had up his sleeve, you didn’t want to risk anything that might put Nanami in danger.

And so you wait.

And you watch.

As Kenjaku’s eyes fall to the glass of cider that had been kept on the counter. He takes it in his hand. He clears his throat, “You should have been here earlier, oh- your little boyfriend was just drinking away his woes. Something about his love being a filthy alien, you see?” Those deep amethyst eyes—they were so dark that they seemed to leave a stain where they then turned to look at you.

You can’t take your eyes off of him - even as you bring your raised punch back and instead grasp Kenjaku’s neck with both hands. If you can’t pummel him to death, you were ready to strangle him.

Your hands tighten.

“O-oh.” Kenjaku’s hands claw down your forearms, but he’s powerless against you. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

They tighten.

“And you already know it’s true, don’t you? You know that deep down—you’re everything they say you are- you’re everything and worse-” They tighten. His skin starts turning blue then purple. “Why else would they hate you so? They know- they know it and you do, too.”

They tighten.

And even though you had the upperhand, seemingly, Kenjaku seems to crane his head down to whisper to you.

“You were nothing. You are nothing. You will always and forevermore be nothing.”

Your breath hitches- and Kenjaku knows he’s got you.

Unbidden from your senses, you’re letting go of him - he stumbles to the ground but manages to catch himself on the bar counter. Throwing an arm over it to steady himself, Kenjaku looks down at his cider glass once more, with only a few drops at the bottom of it.

He throws back those last few ounces and holds the glass out to you- “Be a dear for me, and help your little boyfriend get me another glass, will you? It seems he’s gotten his…hands full.”

Shit.

Shit.

You’re forgetting to even fly down to the bar—you’re breaking off a leg of a nearby stool then bending the metal into something that resembles a handcuff, quickly restraining Kenjaku for the time being before darting downstairs. There was a dingy staircase in the corner of the room, of which the rusty handrailing bends and warps as you grip it with your superhuman strength.

As you do, Kenjaku calls after you…“But do be careful not to miss your train~!”

It doesn’t take long before you find yourself at the bottom of a damp cellar- running to a Nanami Kento who’d been hopelessly bound and gagged. His golden hair falls in front of his face. His skin glistens with sweat.

And as soon as you reach him, you’re noticing the sheer heat that radiates off of him.

It was as if he was on fire—

Was this…?

“Nanami- Kento.” You’re hissing - you don’t need to untie those cloth restraints, you’re tearing straight through them. Removing the fabric gag and cupping his face, you look deep into his eyes. “Kento- oh, are you alright? Speak to me-”

“Go.”

“What-”

“The train.” Tears fell down his handsome cheeks. His bottom lip was trembling as though he was cold - even though he felt like an inferno to the touch. “My darling, don’t worry about me worry about the train-”

You insist. “What about the train, Kento?”

“Kenjaku- fuck, I overheard him telling his henchmen to destruct the Yurikamome line on the Rainbow Bridge- the train is going to go over it any second now—”

Brows furrowing, you focus your supersenses. Hearing. “But that can’t be, I should hear…”

The zooming of a train. The distant rattling of train tracks that sounded different than usual - too different, too distant. 

Then it hits you.

“Kento, while you were here, did you encounter anything…strange?”

He strangles out. “The peach cider he gave me- a-after that I just…”

“I understand.” Your mind was racing a mile a minute—Kento. The train. Kento. The train. Kento. “Kenjaku probably laced it with something to weaken you, and amongst that he must have added…”

Your blood goes cold.

“Hold on tight.” And without another word, you’re scooping the man into your arms - a princess carry. You hold him to you like the most precious thing on Earth and Krypton as you crash! through the top of the cellar—past several stories without a single scratch nor ache. Past bottles of liquor and ceramic tiles. Past layers of concrete and your fear.

Once you’re out into the wild night, you’re taking in incredible lungfuls of crisp air, soothing the burning sensation in your lungs.

You could almost ignore the gasps around you- as people whip out their cameras. This time, you don’t shy from them.

Gently; you’re hovering down to the street below and setting Nanami down. “Are you okay, Kento?”

“Yes- yes.” He’s gasping as he struggles to stand- you’re attempting to help him, only for Nanami to back away as though afraid. Something painful twinges inside you.

And he must see the breaking of your expression - because he’s immediately rushing to answer. “The thing that was in that cider…it was Kryptonite, wasn’t it?” Your silence is enough of an answer. “You have to go.”

You step towards him. “We have to get you to a hospital. The Kryptonite-”

“The train-”

“Just let me-”

“The Kryptonite will poison you before it ever even thinks of poisoning me. Do you really think I’d ever- fucking ever put my life above yours?” Nanami Kento doesn’t exactly yell—but his voice carries to your superhuman senses above anything else. Anything else. “Save the people on the train. Save the world. Save yourself- for everything I love, please please leave me- save them, Supergirl.”

You’re straightening.

“I’ll be back for you, Kento.”

Stumbling back a few steps; you have to shake your head to do away with the fogginess of the Kryptonite.

And then you’re in the air once more.

Wind whipping your face. Cape thrashing behind you.

The clouds stick to your features and form condensation with how fast you’re flying to the train- fuck.

Once you get there, you’re seeing exactly what Nanami had been talking about.

The train track where the Yurikamome Line was going on top of - the lower deck of Rainbow Bridge - was completely obliterated in the middle. Throngs of metal sticking upwards. Train track rattling like a wounded snake. The train was charging full speed ahead, the driverless transit unaware of any anomaly in the track. 

Just enough of a gap that it would prove fatal to the 160,000 passengers aboard. 

Just enough of a gap that you could zip down—as fast as you could go. As low as you could afford. And as fearful as any human would have been in that moment - and just as foolhardy. 

And as the Yurikamome Line heads towards the broken railroad, you’re lifting the train once it passes. The dip in the train track; you’re making up for it with your hands and your shoulders—never letting the Line falter even a single decree—it stretches and stretches and sinks its heavy metal body down onto yours. Rolling over your shoulders. Like nothing you’ve ever felt before- you have to keep your shoulders up. You have to keep your shoulders up. You have to keep your shoulders up. 

Your body was indestructible. But you’re feeling cuts on your palms. But you’re feeling the strain on your core and your deltoids.

Every single axiom in your body was screaming—

Towards the middle mark of the Yurikamome Line, you feel a dip- fuck.

Gritting your teeth, you let out a clenched groan as you push the train up. From inside you can hear passengers scream. And from the horizon, you can hear news helicopters thundering.

Please.

A tear runs down your cheek. You struggle to move. 

Please. Please. Please.

You’re pushing the train upwards with all your might. 

Humanity above, only you know how strong you can be. 

Be strong.

.

.

.

Birds are twittering.

You would have assumed that the afterlife had no shortage of birds, too; but it’s a bit odd to you that they’re singing a tune so jolly.

Personally, since you were dead, you’d like to sing something more lamentable.

“My darling?”

It’s so quiet that you almost don’t hear it - but of course, you do. You’re Supergirl—and you hear everything everyone says to you whether you want to or not. But this one in particular sounds quite pretty in your ears - even prettier than the spring melodies of birds - and it makes you realize ah- angels…

But at the same time you’re realizing that angels didn’t exist on Krypton.

And then you’re shooting awake.

“Fucking fuck!”

Your graceful resurrection is marked by knocking your head with none other than Nanami Kento - whom you found quite understandable to mistake for an angel. As you’re clutching your forehead and letting out a few swears, he lets out nothing but the sweetest, soft chuckle—and as your vision slowly grows used to the light and unblurs, you’re seeing the most beautiful smile on his face. 

His eyes crinkled at the edges, framed by golden glasses. His cheeks had one faint dimple each. And he was looking at you with something humans had never looked at you with - love.

It couldn’t…

Was that your heart thundering or his?

“You don’t know how happy I am that you’re awake.” Nanami whispers, as if afraid to break this fragile piece. This suspension in a place that didn’t quite seem to be Earth nor Krypton. He presses his forehead to yours—“I wanted to thank you first, my darling.”

“Thank me…for what?” You ask- your voice is incredibly hoarse. How long have you been out for? 

Once you clutch your throat, Nanami hastens to pluck a glass of water off the bedside cabinet. And as you drink- you’re looking around the room. The next time you speak, it’s with a slightly steadier tone. “And where are we?”

“Ah- I guess I should apologize first.” Nanami says, sheepishly rubbing the blushing back of his neck. “We’re at my apartment. You’ve been asleep for about sixteen hours now.”

Your lips part.

He hurries to explain. “Chief Yaga from the police station wanted to keep you under their protection at the hospital, the Justice League insisted on keeping you at one of their quarters- your fan club wanted you all to themselves but…I…insisted you wake up in a place that’s somewhat of a home.” Eyes darting shyly downwards. “Just until you wake up- I asked Shoko and she wasn’t sure where you lived, either. You’re a very private person, Supergirl. And Superman is in outer space right now so…”

“Oh…I…I see.” You hold the glass limply in your hand. “And ah- fan club, you said?”

Nanami nods - you don’t see any humor in his eyes. “Your rescue of the train was shown on every channel and program- every breaking news. The Daily Planet won’t stop printing, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“That…” You feel strangely numb. “I don’t even know what to say. And the casualties-”

“Zero.”

“How did you get to the hospital?”

“Just after you left, Shoko arrived with the police to save me and arrest Kenjaku. Did you know that she’s a vigilante?”

You bite back a smile. “I did.”

He unabashedly smiles, as if meeting you for the first time. “And did you know that I know?”

“I figured by now.” Cocking your head.

“I always had a suspicion but…I don’t know what hypnosis you did but it just wouldn’t make sense in my mind. But when you came down to save me at the cellar, when you were affected by that Kryptonite it just…clicked.”

He’s reaching a hand up to softly cup your right cheek.

“It wouldn’t have made sense to be anyone else.”

It’s warm in Nanami’s bedroom. And it’s even warmer underneath the thin nightdress you’re wearing- you wonder where he got such a thing? And when you’d been put into it? It seems that he catches the questions in your gaze as it dawns upon you what you’re wearing—“I bought it for you after you got discharged at the hospital.” Nanami says. “Shoko helped you into it- althought…I did help.” With a shy blush, he’s looking away.

And you’re closing your eyes and leaning into the touch of his hand. “Thank you.” 

You don’t need to specify for what.

“And then there’s that.” Nanami surprises you as he says, reinvigorated. And how completely correct you were in him having those old movie star looks - that smile of his, with the soft little dimple on each cheek, should be on the big screen. He has a knowing glint in his eyes. “Thank you for saving me- that time at the bakery.”

You feel a little breathless. “It’s no problem.”

“No but it was- it’s how Kenjaku managed to escape. And I know how much you got torn apart in the papers for it—” His jaw clenches. “I saw it everyday.”

You look down at your hands, clasped on top of Nanami’s sweet cream-white sheets. “It’s nothing.”

And slowly - but surely - at a pace that matches the hesitant staccato of your heartbeat, Nanami’s own larger, roughened hands are sliding across the sheets. Intertwining with yours. “It’s not.” 

Your gaze was now flickering between your tangled hands and his unyielding gaze—you didn’t know which was more beautiful.

He continues, “And I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done. I know you don’t feel as if you’ve done enough to be thanked, but I can assure you- w-well, I don’t know how much my word will mean to you if anything at all, but just-”

“Kento.” You cut him off. “Kiss me.”

His lips meet yours and you never wish for them to leave; he tastes like coffee with a hint of honey and everything you’ve ever wanted. You feel as though you can finally breathe.

And he feels as though he can’t—and he’s searching for his first breath between your lips. Nanami gasps as you clutch his baby-blue button-up. 

Nanami’s hand caresses the back of your neck, and he’s cockin’ your head to the side so he can deepen the kiss. Eventually you’re feeling that initial sweetness of first contact melt into somthing…more…something that makes your skin simmer, as he’s letting his pinkish tongue brush your lower lip.

With a gasp you’re welcoming him inside.

And before you know it, you’re being laid flat on your back with Nanami hovering on top of you. With a tap at his broad shoulders, you signal him to get up—and when Nanami’s on his knees before you you’re letting your hands…wander.

“O-oh.” His breath hitches. His Adam’s apple bobs. And a sizzling heat takes over the man’s body as your fingers trace the line of this throat- the valley of his pecs- the bumps of his abs. 

All your knowledge of human anatomy led you to believe that he must be hiding immense strength beneath suits too-big for him, but even this was a surprise.

And then lower, lower, lower—until you’re reaching his rock-hard erection. 

“Shit…” The soft grunt escapes the back of Nanami’s throat—unbidden. He immediately brings one roughened hand up to his mouth, chewin’ on the insides of his cheek as he watches your workings down below. Watches through half-lidded eyes as your palm’s meeting the bulge of his perfectly plaid pants. Cupping. Caressing.

Nanami’s breath grows more n’ more ragged as you keep palming- fuck, he was so big.

You don’t even have to use your x-ray vision to figure that out - but you’re doing so anyway. And what you’re seeing are about seven- eight? Inches of his swollen cock, all throbbing and pulsating underneath your touch. And beads—no, puddles of precum were constantly tearing out from the top of his shaft, creating a mess underneath that made Nanami feel shy.

You swear he’s growing even bigger once he feels the staring.

“A-are you using your…?” Nanami asks, pushing his thick glasses up.

“Mmm, maybe.” You’re cheekily replying. And in mere split-seconds you’ve used your heat vision to incinerate Nanami’s fabrics without actually hurting him.

He gasps and instinctively goes up to cover his aching erection-

But you’re stopping him with a hand of your own. Those fingers of yours wrapping around Nanami’s pale pink cock—he’s oh-so-thick at the base of it, surrounded by a scattering of golden tresses that graze the bottom of your hand.

You’re squeezing the hilt of Nanami’s shaft and he lets his head drop backwards with a moan- “Fuh-fuck. I could cum right here and right now, you know….”

“So do it.” You’re tugging his cock- until you’re reaching the mushroomy top of it and wipin’ away a speckle of precum. It feels so warm underneath your touch—he was just melting for you. “But just know that this is going to be a looooong night, Nanami Kento.”

He gulps.

Meanwhilst you’re pressing your lips to Nanami’s while you keep a constant pace fisting his length. Breaking off from the heated kiss only to lean down and spit-

A direct glob of your saliva gluing to Nanami’s puckered tip.

He’s shivering as it gleamingly trickles down his length—then reeling you into a kiss once more. “Mmm- I can hear your heartbeat, Kento.” You smile into the kiss. “Any reason why it increases when you’re around me?”

“I’m in love with you and I cannot lie about it.” And you don’t know what you expected - banter? Denial? But it certainly wasn’t outright confession, and it certainly wasn’t for Nanami to pant against your lips—to push you back onto the coiled mattress, and shuffle his body down until he’s between your legs. 

With languid movements, he’s pressing your legs to the side until each one is pinned to the soft cotton sheets. And you let him.

Your peripherals locked with his. Nanami’s gold-rimmed glasses tracing your skin. You’re running a hand through Nanami’s blond mane as he presses a line of kisses up your right thigh, up your left thigh, before finally…“May I?”

“Please.”

The next sound escaping you is a deafening trill—as in that very moment Nanami pushes his face nose-deep between those legs. And his tongue’s darting outwards and swabbin’ up - eating you out as though he was starving.

Almost wolfish.

Mouth gaped wide open. Honed canines stickin’ against the opened sides of your folds. 

Your eyes dart to the back of your head- as you’re feeling the dots of his tastebuds push through your nightgown. He was eating you out through your nightgown—

“Kento, take a breather.” You’re whispering down at him, peeping at the ravenous man through struggling lids. The pleasure was consuming every inch of you rapidly; and before long you snake a hand to lift up the nightgown. “Let me just take this off-”

“No.” Nanami’s warm hand comes gripping yours - with surprising strength for a human. “Please- please keep it on.” He struggles.

To even speak.

To even keep his breathing even.

To even unlatch himself from your pussy for the mere moments he has to speak- he didn’t want to waste a single second. And it’s with carnal ferocity that he’s stuffin’ himself back between your legs, flattening his tongue and pressing it against your hot folds. “A-at this point, it might just be the only thing keeping me sane, my darling…if I feel you in all your entirety then I might just-” Nanami’s voice cracks. “-break.”

“What do you mean, Kento…?” You’re breathing. 

There was something…off about the handsome man. Sure, it could’ve just been the heated proximity that was warping your perception of him; but—

But that couldn’t explain the nearly-frenzied pace of his heartbeat - 112 BPM to be exact - or the furious red flush creeping down his neck, or the way he was plastered in a cold sweat. Golden tresses gluing to his forehead and the forefront of your pelvis. One of those beads of perspiration runs down his attractive nosebridge n’ ends up positioning where he was pushing and pushing his sensual face into your puffy folds. Cheeks hollowing as he’s sucklin’ on them through the barely-there barrier of your nightgown.

And you’re swiping your thumb across it - feeling the slightly-sticker consistency of his sweat. 

More so than normal.

And somehow…sweeter?

It doesn’t take your heightened senses to realize—you start to tug on Nanami’s sweaty scalp- but he’s hesitant to remove himself. Merely parting an inch or so with the most agonized groan. “Kento- Kento, don’t you feel a little different right now?”

“Hmmmgh?” He asks with his bleary eyes struggling to focus on you.

“A little different? Maybe a little…warmer?” You watch as he has to think a little bit before nodding. “Don’t you feel like you’re going to- hah, shatter on my pussy?”

“I do.” Nanami spits a glob of spittle down on your cunt, kissing it away before it trickles. “Fuck, I do.”

“Mmm—” Your back arches as his tongue straightens then starts dragging up and down your sopping slit languidly. “And aren’t you wondering h-how exactly I know?”

“How do you know, my darling…?” Sounding barely awake as he questions so.

“It’s because…” And then you’re sitting up and starin’ down at his movie-star face, eyes half-lidded and his blond hair a mess. A few strands of it were falling in front of his gorgeous eyes—so you’re pushing them away with your hand- and Nanami shivers as though just splashed with cold water. “-I’m feeling the same way.” A shiver runs down Nanami’s spine. “That aphrodisiac seems to be contagious.”

“A-aphrodisiac?” Nanami’s eyes widen behind his spectacles.

And you’re giving him a soothing nod. “Mhm. Back at the bar, it seems that what Kenjaku spiked you with was a Kryptonite solution. But what he hadn’t accounted for was the fact that sometimes…Kryptonite can have a bit of an…aphrodisical effect on humans.”

You’re leaning down and kissing his pussy-drenched lips. “Mmm, yeah, I can taste it on you still.”

Nanami’s immediately lurching back- but this time, it’s your turn to be reeling him back in. 

Keeping him delightfully hostage between your legs. “And where do you think you’re going, Earthling?”

“But the Kryptonite-” Nanami pants. Even though his eyes kept constantly flickering down to your cunt as if his favorite baked good set out right in front of him. Syrupy-filled. “It can’t be good for you-”

“At the weakened state it’s in now, it’s not bad for me either.” You smile. “The aphrodisiac shouldn’t impair you, either. But if you do not wish to fully continue-”

“I do.” The words can’t leave Nanami’s lips faster. He’s shoving your legs further apart and whispering. “I do I do I do—”

Then pressing such a harsh open-mouthed kiss against your swollen folds - so hard that it honestly felt as though he was trying to permanently imprint its outline against your pussy. And then when he’s pressed hard enough and long enough and deeeep enough—Nanami jerks away with a wrangled moan.

“But then since I’m already broken…”

And in robotic movements- he pushes your nightgown up until your tits- and he’s plastering his hot lips aaaaall over your cunt. Tongue swiping urgently between your folds and fuckin’ inside like a damn animal.

“Shit—” Moans bubble to your throat- seeping out with bubbles of spit. You’re clawing through his sweaty locks, holding onto him for dear life. “Shit, shit, shit- I didn’t expect humans to be so…”

“S’this your first time on Earth?” He peeks up at you through his long lashes.

“It is.” You’re nodding. Biting onto your lower lip.

And something seems to shift behind Nanami’s darkened eyes; he fixates them on you and doesn’t waver a single second as he lets his tongue fully out. Lavishes the tender in-betweens of your pussylips with all his sensual kisses- “Then I better give you a proper welcome to Earth.”

And it’s with absolutely no warning that he’s increasing the speed of his thrusts.

Flarin’ that sopping wet muscle out so that it stretches out your first ring of muscle- you can feel the sides of Nanami’s tongue slide-slide-sliding all down your channel. He was just so thick- you were feeling him so perfectly like this- and you can’t help yourself…you’re activating your x-ray vision to see how deep Nanami’s really going.

“A-a bit more to the left, Kento…” You murmur. “And a little deeper- ngh.”

He looks up at you in slight surprise. “Oh? You can see where I’m going, my darling?” Experimentally, Nanami stabs a few more thorough probes- deep.

“X-ray vision, remember?” You gasp. Buckin’ up in a sloppy staccato every time Nanami’s nearing with his tongue and his prominent nose- fuck, you loved how the tip of his nose pressed into your clit every time he surged forwards. “Just a bit deeper- oh, your fingers?”

With two of his calloused fingertips slidin’ up and down your vertical slit - accumulating the dewy droplets of slick you were letting out - he smiles. “I may not have superpowers, but something tells me you’re going to like this, Supergirl.”

“Oh- shiiiiiit.” It’s letting out the sloppiest squelch to have Nanami’s fingers easing inside. 

They’re so large- oh, your mouth drops as he’s burgeoning inside. Through your x-ray vision you could see that he’s scissoring inside- stretching aside that velvety channel- letting the doughy tips of his fingers probe inside like two searchlights attempting to pinpoint your most treasured spots. He’s rovering in deeeeeep- and you’re letting your face press into the damp mattress. “You’re enjoying this, Supergirl?”

“I-I am.” You huff. You’re humpin’ up into his pretty face so hard that the bedframe was creaking and moaning. Just as you must have been.

“And is your- hah, favorite Earthling making you feel good—?”

You’re levelling a half-hearted glare at him. “Bold of you to assume- but yes.” His fingers are just so close- “To the right…”

And he’s immediately heeding your every word- meanwhile, his mouth seemed to have felt a little lonely. Because Nanami hastens to latch his kiss-bitten lips around your throbbing clit. “Good. Because I’m just made to make you feel good, my darling. I need this. I need this. M’made for this.” Huffing. “Don’t be afraid to fuck my tongue as hard as you want- don’t be afraid to s-suffocate me, because m’here just to make you—ngh, feel good—”

Pushing up into you.

Pressing himself between your legs even harder.

“I don’t need to breathe- I need you to tell me where that g-spot is.”

Your head’s throwing backwards, thighs trembling around him- you’re soon wrapping your legs around Nanami’s perspired head and locking your ankles around him. Digging his tongue even deeper- he crashes and crashes them against your clit in time with his probin’ fingers. “A little more-”

“How much more?”

“Just about an inch- oh.” You’re squawking out in a way that’d be so embarrassing if it was anytime but now. “And to the left…upwards.”

He notices that you’re almost shying away from his touch with every plap! of his palm hitting the forefront of your cunt. Harder. Faster—even though he may have been a gentleman, Nanami’s fingers were decidedly not. They’re ravenous; managing to curl against the side of your walls, with your direction perfectly locating that one spot you’ve been aching to be touched this entire time. And the human wastes no time pushing against it- you think you’re seeing stars—hey, was that Krypton?

Too occupied to come up with a concrete answer, however, you’re simply basking in the pleasure that Nanami was pouring through your veins.

And he only seems too happy to have your hips hikin’ higher and your pussy pushing up all the way until his nose- with every single thrust he was battering. Your gooey insides are shuddering at the sheer force, you’re feeling a tightness start to formulate at the pit of your stomach. 

Something sore - blissfully so.

“I think…” You gasp. “No I know—” And the thing about being Kryptonian was that it came with immense control over your physiology- which also meant that you could cum on demand. But oh, how much better it felt when it was being drawn out of you by Nanami’s sweet sweet fingers.

Plunging - each time from the rounded tips of his digits and down until those knuckles, reddening at the persistent skin-to-skin contact - towards your g-spot every time. Multiple times a second.

“-Kento, I’m going to cum—”

“So cum f’me, Supergirl-” Nanami spits against your cunt. He sounds ragged- he sounds gone. His tone was a barely-there husk of what it had once been, and his eyes seemed unable to focus on anything but the pretty soakin’ pussy right in front of him. He kept his mouth so fucking full of your throbbing clit as he continued speaking. “Cum f’me…my girl.”

Shit—he’s blushing just saying it. But the effect on you is undeniable - you’re throwing your head into the fluffy pillows and finally letting loose. 

Wrenching on Nanami’s hair. Squeezing his head till he almost suffocates- you’ve got the feeling that he gladly would. Dragging your slick-glazed folds against his face and cumming and cumming.

As your euphoria rips straight through you - Nanami leaves his mouth further ajar and swivels his tongue inside as well. In addition to his fingers, he’s now attempting to squeeze his tongue inside to fuck you silly- to make your dazed peripherals roll to the back of your scalp. “This is what I’m made for.” And you’re unsure whether that was him or the aphrodisiac talking. “This is all I ever wanna do now—mmm—” He moans as syrupy juices stream down either side of his mouth and he’s sucking in your pussy. “My darling, you don’t know how badly I mean it when I say m’made for you. For this pussy.”

You whimper as he perfects his tonguing thrusts to the rhythm of your orgasm. Hitting every single peak. “Sh-shit…it’s becoming sensitive…”

“My darling, I’d rather die than leave this pussy from now onwards.”

“Never expected a gentleman like you to be so filthy.” You huff- rather difficult, considering how much he managed to take your breath away. As he prolongs your high until you’re dizzy—

And then some.

“Mmmm, I’m sensitive.” Fondly; you tug on his golden strands. Nanami lets out a rumble of acknowledgement, but he doesn’t move a single inch - merely grazing- not even properly eating you out anymore, he’s just sloppy grazing his hungry mouth against your sensitive cunt. 

Lapping up the last few dredges of your slick.

Occasionally wishing to feel the clench of your hole- and letting it dip inside—

“Hck!” Tears start to well up behind your eyes. And you have to speak to something deep and carnal within Nanami - otherwise you’re getting the feeling that he’s never going to part his lips from your own drenched ones. “Kento, you can stay here if you want…”

“Mmm-” He eagerly runs his tongue between your velvety folds again.

“-but I was really thinking that we could use my x-ray vision…” That seems to finally pique his interest, and he’s looking up at you. “-for something else. Something bigger, hm?” Pointedly, your eyes dip down.

He knows exactly what you’re talking about.

And in no time, Nanami Kento’s shuffling up your twitching body - still oh-so-sensitive from your previous high. And his hips are closing towards yours, his ruby-red tip is slipping between your legs and sandwiching between your pussylips for a few thrust-thrust-thrusts—“A-are you sure, my darl- oh.”

Before you claw at Nanami’s muscular back and crush him against your body.

Against your hips- your readily awaiting cunt.

Just that sopping, sap-covered tip of his manages to fit inside in that moment - and you’re feeling it throb like he’s always wanted to be here. Filling up the cavern of your cunt and making your toes curl- such a delicious streeeetch—! you’ve never felt before. And Nanami watches as you’re on the verge of shattering just as he already has—and he leans down to press a quick press on the edge of your chin. “M-mmmm.” 

But it’s hard even think let alone fucking speak with your soaking wet cunt wrapped around him like this. His very own taste of heaven.

Nanami’s letting escape a few botched moans- before he decides to preserve whatever is left of his dignity, and bites down on his pathetically wobbling lip. Trying his very best to keep any noise from leaving him as he experimentally moves his hips behind and probes back inwards with his plump, puckered tip. Just the round girth of it openin’ you up even more. “Sh-shiiiiiiit—my darling, am I even…”

You’re looping your arms around him and dragging him even closer. But Nanami’s too far gone to even kiss you properly- and his lips end up sliding around your jawline. “Even what, Kento?”

Bleary eyes damn-near popping out of his skull. Skin flushed ever-redder due to the aphrodisiac or simply just…you. Cock spurting out wad after wad of eager precum—he just couldn’t stop himself.

“Alive…” Nanami rasps out.

And your jaw drops at the question. “Is that…is that a joke, baby?” Although you already knew the answer- Nanami Kento was never the type to just joke.

And just as you’d expected, he’s furiously shaking his head and pumping out a few more overeager semi-thrusts. So overeager, in fact, that he’s ending up plopped out of your wettened cavern- and Nanami almost blows a fuse trying to get himself back in.

“Let me help you with that, Kento.” You giggle. Pushing aside his fumbling fingers, you’re wrapping your own around his incredibly thickened base - enough to make your mouth water.

Pointing the globular top of his shaft towards your cunt, you allow him to push inside once more. Breath hitching. Thighs shaking. Pants erratic as he does so- “Are you alright, baby?” You ask him—this time opening your legs wider to let his furious inches shovel in. “D’you think you can handle it if I use my powers to bring all of you inside?”

“Yes but…no.” Nanami admits. He wears a sheepish smile on his face - almost shy. Which was in direct contrast with the way he’s scrapin’ his right hand down your core and resting it atop your womb. He looks at you with raised brows. “Here?”

You nod. “Right there.” Then you’re wiggling your hips down in order to take him deeper—

But Nanami’s stopping you with a hand at your waist- practically glued onto your skin. He’s firm in his touch though not unkind. And Nanami’s boring deeeeply into your eyes - your very soul - as he’s giving you light, shallow thrusts. Poking himself past that ruthless squeeze of your entrance. “I…hah, I’ll need your superpowers to tell me where I am, my darling. And exactly where you want me.” 

Then Nanami plants you with a particularly hard strike that sends his long cock digging. His sides were decorated with a zig-zagging pattern of veins that massages your delicate insides.

“But as for fitting inside…” His mouth fucking waters at the prospect - and you already know with your senses. The gentleman leans down and spits in your mouth. “-we’re gonna do it the human way, okay?”

“Please-” Your nails start to dig into the shifting muscles of his back. “Please-”

And he’s not doing it the human way—not instantly. Before that; Nanami removes your palms from his shoulders and pins them above your head. Using but a single hand of his.

And you know you could easily overpower him - you just know it - but in this instance it makes something carnal twitch inside you to have the calm, soft-spoken gentleman shatter in this way on your pussy. It wasn’t just the aphrodisiac: he was using one hand to restraint yours- so hard that you feel his nail marks, he was using the other to push your knees up until they hit your tits, he was pulling his cock out until it was juuuust the pretty, pinkish top of his shaft.

And then plunging back in.

As deep as he could go - until he’s feeling the little tightness of your entrance. Then reeling back out to repeat. And repeat.

And repeat.

And repeat.

Nanami Kento was stabbing you with his cock nearly a dozen times a second—and he wasn’t sweet with it- he wasn’t fucking gentle. 

He was utterly pussydrunk and fucking you just like it. “Please, please, please—” Nanami’s attractive baritone hitches at the very end of his sentence, breaking into a million pieces just as he was. “Sh-shit, it’s like the deeper I go…the more I can’t- hngh.”

“Think?” You flutter your lashes up at him.

“Yeah.” He breathes. “That.”

And you can’t help but let out a little giggle—the way his flared tip rubbed your insides was addictive. He was so wiiiiide above his sensitive slit, and that was pushing forcefully into every one of your hidden spots. “You’re so close to my- hck! favorite spot, Kento. Do you remember where that was?” 

“Mmm, my darling- remember?” Nanami looks down at you with crazed eyes. “I can’t even remember my own name right now.”

“Then I’ll guide you.”

Though your arms were pinned to the bed, you’re able to careen your hips up into his. And that ruggedly handsome v-line of his was slowly growing redder at the repeated contact- to which you’re only pushing up even harder. “Just a little deeper- two inches?” You’re using your x-ray vision to map out the perfect route to your g-spot. “And then a little more- fuck, angle your hips a little more to the left.”

“Like this?” He asks. Beautiful hazel eyes almost fluttering shut at the onslaught of sudden squeezes that your cunt was blessing him with. “Fuck, how are you squeezing me even- deeper?”

“My superhuman powers?” You’re joking- joking.

But that doesn’t stop Nanami from asking- “Then does that mean you can…snap my dick off with that pussy, my darling?”

At first you’re in disbelief that such words could have possibly left Nanami Kento’s - the Nanami Kento’s - mouth. And then when it’s finally sunken in, you’re debating whether he was actually serious about it—he looked serious enough. “Ah…” Your lips part. “Kiss me.”

He does.

And as he does, that winding restraint of your legs tugs n’ tugs him ever-closer. Ever-deeper.

That bulbous tip of his was openin’ you up so fucking well—hidden nooks you hadn’t even known existed. And after a few more jerky thrusts, Nanami breaks the kiss with a rather lecherous slurp! and moves to huff against your ear. “I-is it all the way in, my dearest?”

“Shouldn’t you be the one to know that?” You’re chuckling before looking down using your x-ray vision once more.

“Tell me, my darling- tell me.” And Nanami Kento was always rather the stoic man—never combusting, never overreacting. But at this moment, it feels as though the longer he’s not fully stuffed in your cunt, the more and more he’s fucking losing it-

“Well…just a few inches longer until you’re gonna be- hah-” Untangling one of your hands from his, you’re running it down your core. Your womb. “-here.”

And Nanami can’t hurry up enough to pin your hands back on the mattress, replacing it with his own. He fucking moans when he realizes that - if he presses down hard enough, perhaps through your superhuman powers - you can make him feel himself bumpin’ thrusts from the outside. You continue. “But you’re actually pretty close to- ah.”

Just then your words are taking on a trilling tone.

Almost matching his in terms of neediness.

Nanami’s running his lengthy cock so deeeeep inside that he ends up rubbin’ his flared tip along either side of your channel—perfectly massaging that one spot you’ve been yearning for this entire time. It’s like a pretty target then that he’s never failing to hit over and over and over again- until you’re throbbing and raw inside.

And every one of his thrusts end up puncturing that spot. That sweet bundle of nerves that makes his mouth water- you’re shattering around his shaft every time he repeats the motion. “Deeper.” Nanami chokes out. “Deeper- now I just need you to take me even deeper. I don’t just want it- I need it.”

And pressing your legs apart with his strong pelvis- he’s murmuring as he hones in.

That target at the back of your pussy.

That gummy surface that just seemed to be calling to him.

That area at the very bottom that just seemed soaked in his never-ending precum—“I need it. I need it. I need it so fuckin’ badly.” He was slurring on his words by this point, and Nanami noses down the column of your throat. “It’s like every atom inside me is burning up. Not just because of the fuck- aphrodisiac.”

“Not just…?” You ask with widened eyes.

And he’s grinding down on the heavenly spot between your legs - so hard that the scruff of his happy trail massages your clit. And it’s such a primal sensation that you don’t think you’d ever be able to replicate—not even with your hypercontrol. “Not just.” He dips his face into the crook of your neck, hair sticking to your clammy skin. “My darling, your body’s liquor.”

Harder and harder. 

With a few more thorough strokes, Nanami’s finally - finally - bottoming out. 

You feel the moment he empties out those thick, throbbing inches with a rough bang! The velvety end of his tip swipes across your cervix- and you’re shivering at the rope of goey precum he’s leaving behind. “Sh-shiiiiiit.”

“Have I…?” Nanami’s pupils dilate. “Have I…” And he keeps fucking you in merciless thrusts.

You smile, “Why don’t you see for yourself, Kento?” He seriously didn’t realize, yet?

Nanami blinks dazedly a few times- before he’s slowly ducking his head downwards and staring at the place where you two were connected. Where your puffy pussylips were struggling to swallow down his red cock—and his heavy balls were thwack-thwack-thwacking away. And it’s enough to make his mouth water.

“Oh.”

His breath hitches as he sees that lil’ tummy bulge he was fucking into you.

And Nanami falters his hips - for just a split-second - so that he could reach down and give that tummy bulge a kiss—a fucking kiss. Coming back up with the most accomplished smile- “I-I think m’close, my darling.”

“So then cum, Kento.” You’re breaking free of his restraint to throw your arms around him again. “And I’ll-”

“No.” The blond man already knew what you were going to say. Shaking his sweaty head, “I won’t let you make yourself cum using your powers, my dear—this Earthling is going to do it himself.”

So you’re keeping your mouth shut and giving into the pleasure - and on Krypton you may have had to use your physiological control to get yourself off most of the time- but Nanami was hellbent on making you feel better than he already was. He’s slammin’ away into your g-spot. He’s using his now-free hand to roll over your clit.

Again and again and again—

As many times as he needed to in order to push you towards your high - even if it meant rubbin’ his reddened cock raw against the sopping hot insides of your cunt. In next to no time; Nanami has your toes curling at the sheer amount of pleasure shooting up from them.

And you’re babbling away into the grove of his neck, “K-Kento, I’m close…”

“Please-” He sounds very much ruined by how he’s had to push his own orgasm for yours- gladly, at that. “P-please…” A ribbon of spit glides from the corner of his mouth, and Nanami pushes down on your tummy bulge using his chiselled abs. “Cum on my cock, my girl.”

You’re both reaching your highs at the same time - Nanami’s with a few more choked-up groans and the sloppiest thrusts you’ve ever had the pleasure of receiving, and you with a few more replays of his name and the bed frame shattering underneath you. It’s solely from using your super strength to fuck back into Nanami’s cock - something you hadn’t even realized you’d been doing.

Your brain feels completely fried by the crescendo of your high- getting every peak of it smacked! by Nanami’s ruthless hips.

Again and again—he’s pumping out scalding white globs of cum.

It empties out midway down your walls and smears once he’s hittin’ your cervix. “Cum on my- cum on my…oh, fuck.” Nanami’s pupils tremble- “Don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before…”

“Mmm, me neither.” You coo up at him. Your own orgasm was taking over you nerve by nerve—flooding it with white-hot pleasure. Back arching. Knees trembling. It thrums inside of you - and you’re wondering just how potent that aphrodisiac is, because your heartbeat’s almost concerningly fast—

“S’that so?” Nanami slurs. Pressing a chaste peck to your lips as he fucks his cum inside you. “Because I’m not just talking about the sex.”

Oh.

The realization hits you like a freight truck - or maybe a block of Kryptonite. Your heartbeat wasn’t increasing just because of the aphrodisiac. Not at all.

You’re pressing your lips to Nanami’s once more, and you can see yourself doing it over and over and over again.

“Me too.”

And then after a moment, you laugh.

“Kento, we broke the bed.”

.

.

.

SUPERGIRL SAVES 160,000 AT RAINBOW BRIDGE—A TIMELINE OF THE JUSTICE LEAGUE’S NEWEST ADDITION.

EXCLUSIVE: LOCAL JOURNALIST SAVED BY SUPERGIRL (THE COVERPAGE OF THE YEAR?)

SUPERVILLAIN KENJAKU FINALLY ARRESTED! REVEALED TO BE BEHIND RAINBOW BRIDGE SITUATION AND SLANDER CAMPAIGN AGAINST SUPERGIRL…

“I spy with my little eye…” Shoko’s knowing gaze flickers between you and Nanami. “-a smile. Two smiles.”

Nanami’s warm gaze turns to you. “Ah, what’s there not to smile about?”

“Considering I’ve finally cleared up my name.” You respond. And it was true; ever since the highly-publicized double heroism in which you saved both Nanami and managed to prevent the Yurikamome Line accident, the headlines couldn’t get enough of your name. Except this time…it wasn’t a bitter taste on their tongues. 

Were we wrong about Supergirl? Was Kenjaku behind the hate campaign?

(Partially. You don’t doubt that that man had his fingers in every pot and scheme possible, but you don’t doubt that most of it was pure human vitriol. And you hoped Kenjaku continued seething…from Tokyo Island Penitentiary.)

It was sweet.

And you weren’t naive enough to believe that the criticism would stop immediately - or in fact ever - but that was alright now. That was fine. 

When you were you.

And you had Nanami beside you—

He intertwines his hand with yours- and Shoko pretends to gag at the sweet, sweet act. The both of you are shaking your heads at her dramatics; which you know she didn’t mean considering the cover page that she’d been staring at at that very moment.

That second headline.

EXCLUSIVE: LOCAL JOURNALIST SAVED BY SUPERGIRL (THE COVERPAGE OF THE YEAR?)

By Nanami Kento.

Underneath those words were a picture snapped from the night you’d save Nanami for the second time. 

You’re crashing through the ceiling of Kenjaku’s bar. You’re carrying Nanami Kento in a princess carry. You. You. You. Powerful and precise. And the way that Nanami was staring at you- oh, he had stars in his eyes brighter than the night sky in the background. His arms were holding onto you like a lifeline, and you were unfettered as you held him close like a star himself.

It was the very picture of heroism.

But to you, it was also…

“Love.” Shoko whispers. “You’re in love.”

And you’re opening your mouth in response - but you’re spared from answering, as you hear something in the distance—a scream. Downtown Shibuya. There was a mugging in occurrence and the perpetrator seemed to have a weapon.

You’re looking at Nanami and Shoko, and both nod as they recognize the hardened glint in your eye.

They’d come up with some believable excuse for your absence, surely. And if they didn’t…

You’re sweeping a glance at the mundane cubicles to make sure no one was watching- then ducking out of the nearest open window as fast as light. On strong summer winds, you’re flying off to save someone—and underneath that grey coat of yours flapped your iconic suit. You tear it open at the chest to reveal the ‘S’ underneath.

-it didn’t matter, anyway.

You were Supergirl.

A/N. Hehehehehe-

Hope you have a lovely week <3

[fireflynavi]

In the Name of Science | Jake Sully

Avatar Jake x Avatar Reader + Human Jake x Human Reader Word count | 9.3k Warnings | 18+, explicit smut, gun kink, gun riding, reader gets hella freaky for Jake's gun, fingering, oral, p in v

Summary | You love your job. Science fascinates you. But there’s something about the way Sully drives his Avatar with that goddamned gun in his arms that you can’t get enough of.

It's shameful, really.

How quickly the good little scientist dropped her glasses and turned tail since it all began.

Shameful how easily a couple of roguish grins and low-drawl teases from that stupid ex-marine on wheels had your meticulous research neglected—gathering dust in a messy, heaped state on your desk.

Shameful how frequent the lying became as you started slipping off to your link unit for extra "field trips" in the name of science. Your self-appointed bodyguard trailing closely at your heels as you'd slink deeper into the vibrant canopy of Pandora. The tuft of your tail ghosting past his t-shirt, his hot breath teasing your neck.

Shameful how pitifully his name rolls like a desperate prayer from the trembling tongue of your Avatar right now. Your cargo shorts discarded at your boots as he pins you face-first against the rough bark of an ancient tree—the shockingly cold steel of his machine gun barrel prying your thighs apart from behind.

It turns you on to the high fucking heavens seeing that idiot play soldier in his massive suit of blue skin.

And he knows it.

“God damn, doc, you're soaked.”

Jake's wolf-whistle pierces the forest air like a siren as he leans back to take an appreciative look at the sodden cotton of your panties, using the tilt of his huge gun against your thighs like a tool for inspection.

He lets out an amused grunt, as though the evidence of your arousal is highly entertaining to him.

Bastard.

You whip his side with a hard thwack of your impatient tail, and he leans back in, pressing his dumb, cocky smirk against your cheek. The one that transfers so startlingly to his Avatar.

He lets out a low, vibrating chuckle beside your ear. "What's the science on that?"

“Urgh—shut it, smart-ass, and get those fucking fangs on me,” you growl.

You blindly reach back to hook a long, blue finger into the tight slot between his comms strap and the slick skin of his striped throat, giving him a sharp yank down into the crook of your neck.

The close air of Pandora's lush jungle always leaves you both drenched in a thick layer of humidity. Your tactical clothing ruined with dark, heavy sweat stains, your indigo skin tacky and wet.

But you couldn't care less.

If anything, the stifling heat only turns you on more.

You love feeling the smooth, slippery expanse of your massive Na'vi bodies sliding against each other like butter when you fuck.

“So demanding, baby,” Jake chuckles breathily against your neck, the delicate lavender points of his arched ears retreating back to his head.

Jake's never one to hesitate when you boss him around and call him names. He laps that shit up like it's his remedy. A well-trained soldier eager to please.

He pushes his bodyweight into you, pinning you harder against the tree with his gun grazing dangerously close to the spot that's screaming for it between your legs.

It's a magnificent tree—one that deserves more respect than having such devious activity like this inflicted upon it—but the guilt evaporates like steam off your skin the second Jake's mouth hits your neck.

His ivory fangs bear down over your rapid pulse point, the sharp tips dragging in a long, languid line all the way to your shoulder, sending a prickly wave of gooseflesh breaking out across your entire body.

They're predatory fangs that could draw serious blood if he really chose to clamp down, and the thrill of it has you trapping your shaky lip with your own canines as a hot pulse of arousal bleeds into your groin.

“Fucking hell, Sully...” you quiver, your eyes shutting tightly.

Jake twists you around to face him by the waist, his mouth curled back in a smirking snarl at the sight of your flushed face.

“Such a filthy little mouth for a nerd.”

His eyes fall sharply to your bottom lip, preying on the slight tremble of it. He brings his thumb up, brushing the rough pad over to release the swell from it's grip.

You're quick to sweep your tongue out to get a taste of his thumb tip before he can retract it, giving the end a soft, wet dab.

It tastes bitter. Like gun oil and metal.

Fuck. You love his gun.

You take the tip of his thumb between your lips more desperately, heavily moaning your approval—your head bobbing as you give it a series of light, teasing sucks while gazing up at him through your lashes.

Sucking his fingers is a little trick you've discovered that always has him losing his shit.

Even in his most cocksure of moods.

His eyes go dark and hooded, a deep, gravelly groan reverberating in his throat as he watches. He growls a low, breathless "fuck", swooping down to your lips to catch your muffled gasp in his mouth.

As you lose your mind to the slide of Jake's possessive kiss, whining as that spit-wet thumb now makes its way down to roll your nipple into a hard, aching peak beneath your tank top, you're harshly reminded of how you'd fallen so deep into this gritty pit in the first damn place.

Wasting your afternoons to fuck around with Sully in your Avatar instead of working had spiraled into a regular occurrence.

An addiction you couldn't seem to shake. A high you couldn't stop chasing.

To say he'd become a distraction from your research would be a laughable understatement.

You knew he was going to be nothing but trouble from the moment he first rolled into the Avatar compound and introduced himself. Blindsiding you from analyzing the DNA sequencing of a Stingbat with a warm, firm handshake and the sort of charming grin that crawled under your skin and stayed there.

So when it all started snowballing, inevitably—recklessly—you couldn't exactly bring yourself to blame your own damned weakness.

“Just need to get my hands on that one last sample before I compile it,” you'd straight-up lie to Grace whenever she'd ask why you were jumping back into link again when you were supposed to be writing your reports from yesterdays trip.

The very trip you'd spent sprawled out under the spiraling pink fans of Helicoradian plants—writhing in ecstasy with the incredible, heavy tongue of Jake's Avatar embedded deep between your thighs. Lapping you up—hurling you mercilessly into a dimension that easily beat the paradise of Pandora.

“At least eat something when you get back, for God's sake,” Grace would complain, rubbing her temples without a glance up from her monitors. “And make sure Sully's looking after you out there. Last thing I need is losing your expensive as shit Avatar to a damn Thanator.”

He'd roll into your room on silent wheels late in the evenings.

That up-to-no-good grin plastered all over his face as your fingers flew over your laptop keys in a frantic rush to upload your backlog of data.

“Just taking the boss a coffee,” was usually his choice of bluff whenever he bumped into anyone in the tight dormitory corridor.

His offering never did stand a chance of being consumed before going cold. Your glasses discarded on your laptop next to it as you'd find your limbs in a tangle with his beneath the rough sheets of your cramped, metal bunk bed. Making out—hot and heavy—as though playing with each other in your Avatars all afternoon hadn't been enough. Jake's savvy fingers slipping eagerly under the waistband of your pyjama bottoms while yours coursed through the thick, gorgeous waves of his chocolate hair.

Jake's dirty talk is a dangerous game.

But his sweet talk is the real lethal killer.

He'd linger at shoulder some early mornings in the communal lab space, having seemingly nothing better to do with himself.

Openly snooping on your data, his sharp, stubbly jaw resting flush against your shoulder as you'd sit hunched over your desk with your eye pressed tightly to the microscope.

“You know how gorgeous you look while you work?” he'd murmur lazily next to your ear, the vibration of his rugged voice tickling your skin, his lips ghosting the base of your neck like you were supposed to be able to ignore it. “So damn sexy. Inspiring me to go do some more of that hands-on research with you later.”

“Jake, stop. I really need to focus,” you'd protest with a slightly breathless giggle. A light slip of sound that was always your first mistake.

A subtle open door that would fuel Jake's flame—inviting him to drag his warm, open-mouthed kiss up your neck, leaving you right on the ragged edge of caving in your seat until you'd both sharply snap apart at the sound of the lab doors hissing open with Norm waltzing in, whistling to himself in cheerful oblivion.

Norm.

Norm knows.

He has to, from walking in on so many of these frighteningly close calls in the lab.

And from the way the atmosphere hangs heavy with a weight that's not just the humidity when he joins you both out in the field. The two of you harvesting samples together with Sully trailing in your stride—carrying his heavy-duty machine gun in his huge blue hands like it's a sleek, lightweight toy.

There's not a shred of doubt that Norm wonders why your eyes flick back to him so often.

But you can't help it.

You get a kick out of finding Jake looking at you with that lazy, vicious grin playing on his face. His heavy eyes sweeping over your body like it's a piece of prey he's tracking and fully intends to devour once he's pinned it.

But Norm keeps his mouth.

Because he's a good little scientist, like you used to be.

You love your job. Science still fascinates you like it always has.

But there's something about the way Sully drives his Avatar with that goddamned gun in his arms that you just can't get enough of.

You peel his clingy teeth from your lips with effort, your palms colliding against the coarse material of his backpack straps as you shove him back—hard.

Hard enough to make him stumble back over his muddy combat boots with a dorky, lopsided grin creeping up over his face.

His striking feline eyes flick between yours expectantly, the soft green flecks in the citrine of his irises mirroring the lush foliage around you. They're pretty eyes—ones you often find yourself chewing your pen lid over during those long, dragging mornings in the lab.

You straighten up against the tree, levelling your gaze with his.

“Put it in me, Sully.”

Jake loves a direct order. Thrives on it, even.

It has the marine in him lighting up like a spark off a live wire.

His grin turns crooked, his yellow eyes suddenly swimming with barely restrained mischief.

“Yes, ma'am.”

He pushes his rolled shirt sleeve a notch higher up his bicep, the leaves crunching on the soil beneath him as he adjusts his footing to haul the hefty steel beast up.

You admire the power in those striped forearms as he easily guides the tip of the barrel back between your legs, trailing it up your sensitive inner thighs with slow precision until the cold, flat muzzle rests flush again the brewing heat of your panties.

You peer down at the sight, your ears drooping helplessly to your head at the metal touching your throbbing pussy.

A shaky sigh slips past your slips as your knees buckle inward, your thighs pinching at the heavy weapon. “Fuck, yeah. That's what I'm talking about.”

Jake guides the tip in slow, gentle strokes through the wet seam of your folds, using it to spread your own slick up over your aching clit.

“Mm. You like that?”

His voice vibrates in his throat like sexy, low-drawl honey—a sound good enough in itself to get you off—and a hearty moan breaks out of your chest as your pussy pulses in agreement.

You roll your impatient hips over the hard, unyielding edge of it as you lock your hooded eyes onto him. “Mm, fuck. I want it inside me. Put your big, hard gun in my pussy, Sully.”

Jake's eyes snap up like a magnet at your dirty words, landing squarely on your parted mouth.

You can tell it's short-circuited his brain from how his eyelids have gone heavy, from the way they hover half-closed as he slowly blinks.

You grin.

He always looks so fucking adorable when he gets drunk on his own arousal.

He lets out a low huff of air, his ears giving a small flick as he tilts his head with trance-like slowness. His eyes still stuck on your lips.

“Better get those panties down for me then, angel.”

You hook two fingers into the waistband of your briefs, pulling them down with a shimmy of your thighs and letting the sodden piece of material drop onto your heaped cargo shorts at your boots.

Jake's nostrils flare, his pupils gaping wide as his gaze drops to the sight.

“Fuck, mama...”

His long tail sways with weight as he crouches down close, feasting his wide eyes on your bare, blue cunt.

His heavy gun is sidelined, thudding softly into the leaves next to him as his hand approaches your swollen, glinting slit with a mind of it's own.

“She looks hungry,” he chuckles like a distracted child, touching you without a shred of hesitation.

Jake's primal fascination with the body of your Avatar is still raw and all-consuming, even after having played with it enough times to think he'd be used to it by now.

You'd make a dig at him if you weren't already gasping at the delicious pressure of his fingers on your clit.

It sends an electric pulse through you as he glides his fingertips over the bump, down to the slick, arousal-swollen center of your parted folds. His welcome touch releases a hot surge of your pent-up arousal, and Jake's ears twitch and flatten at the loud moans it wrings from your throat.

“God damn... Beggin' for my big gun, aren't you, pretty?” He grins, his glinting teeth flashing.

His tail undulates wildly behind him as he taps your ankle.

“Lift up for me, sweetheart. Let's get these shorts off.”

You lift your feet as he strips them off over your chunky boots, tossing them aside while you sink back against the tree with your legs spread invitingly.

Jake coasts his fingers down your pussy once more, teasing another sharp inhale into your lungs and making your walls flutter, before sliding them underneath to find your entrance.

He dips a fingertip inside. Circling it tantalizingly around your wet, begging hole before adding another, sinking both of the thick, long digits into the hilt in one confident plunge.

Oh fuck. That stretch.

It has you dissolving into a shaky, pinch-browed groan, your head rolling back to the tree as his curled fingers start moving in and out of you with agonizing slowness.

“Yeah... that good, baby?” Jake purrs, watching his gleaming blue fingers disappear and reappear in a hypnotizing rhythm.

“So good,” you whine, your back arching off the tree as you fidget under his fingering. “I need more though, Jake. Your gun. Please.”

When there's no response—none of his usual teasing or quick-witted remarks, you furrow your brows, wondering what the hell he's doing.

“Jake?...”

You roll your head forward from the tree to peer down at him.

He's staring. Frozen. Looking like a starved man who's been lost out in the jungle for days.

His ears have fully folded back in a tight streamline against his head, his irises reduced to razor-thin rings around his blown out, pitch-black pupils.

Fuck sake. Not this again.

He's lost himself.

This happens sometimes, when his face gets too close to your pussy—the tangy scent of your juices and pheromones searing his sensitive nostrils and devouring his rational mind entirely.

It's the cost that comes with fucking in these Na'vi skins. Of inhabiting creatures driven by blood and instincts far sharper than any human's, and even after the many afternoons you've spent fooling around out here together, poor Jake is still very much at the mercy of it.

You rarely scold him for it. After all—you get your own kicks out of seeing him completely disarmed and ravishing your body with an intensity that's just not possible in human form.

But on days like today, when you just want him to stay focused and give you what you asked for... his distraction is an inconvenience.

“Fuck, I... I just need to taste it...” Jake finally stutters, succumbing clumsily to his knees with a heavy thud against the leaves, his tail giving a sharp flick behind him as he leans in.

You open your mouth to object, but it's too late.

He's already there. Nuzzling his flat, broad nose against your mound with a ragged groan. His top lip brushing up and down the hood of your clit as his tongue sweeps out to thirstily lap up the slick arousal that's coating your soft folds.

“JACOB!” you gasp—half moaning it, half scolding—your eyes turning to saucers as your hands fly down to the top of his head.

You don't know if you want to pull him in all the way. Get him to sink that fantastic tongue in until it makes you pop, or push him away, and tell him to stick to the goddamn plan.

Fuck. It's too good for the latter.

You let out a heavy sigh, melting back against the tree with your eyes fluttering. Giving in for a moment to enjoy the sweet, sweet relief his mouth provides for your craving center, while Jake emits a satisfied rumble from deep in his chest.

His big hands hover lightly at your hipbones while he completely loses himself in worshipping the shrine between your legs, his knees splaying out wider against the dirt as he devours you with licks and sucks of perfect rhythm and pressure.

Your legs tremble as he pulls your clit into his mouth, giving the little bead a dab with his tongue before releasing it and repeating. Shifting further under you, trailing the tip of his tongue in a point from the back of your slit to the front before breaking into wide, firm strokes, his sharp teeth grazing your delicate skin.

Sweet fucking Jesus, it's heavenly.

Jake's talent for cunnilingus proved itself the first time he went down on you in human form, in your bunk bed during those early nights of getting intimate.

You hadn't expected much—given past experience with men not always knowing what goes where or really caring to find out—so when you giggled with your knees hitched under the covers as he shimmied himself down between your thighs, his playful blue eyes locked on yours as his tongue started a slow, sensual dance with you... it's safe to say he blew your expectations completely out of the water.

It made you laugh when he told you it was his secret weapon.

But it was true.

Having lost function in his genitals from being paralyzed from the waist down, Jake had to make up for what he lacked between his legs in other ways.

More creative ones.

It was mind-blowing, how he'd build you up so silently. Getting you to the point of writhing and grasping for fistfuls of the bedsheets as your shaking hips lifted to chase his mouth, and only at that point would he do that incomprehensible thing with his thumb—something you'll never truly understand—having you popped over your white-peaked edge in a mere matter of moments.

It was lethal.

Terrifying, actually. Transferring that kind of godly talent to his nine foot feline form.

One with two strong, working legs—and a third one hanging between them.

It was enough to de-throne you at your best.

“Oh, god,” you mewl, your ankles threatening to give way under the hot, mounting pressure that's tightening between your hips. “Jake—please, I want your gun. Don't make me come like this.” You dig your fingers further into the silky strands of hair on top of his head to haul him away quickly before he can get you there—ripping his mouth from its tight seal around your pulsing clit.

He's panting hard as he looks up at you—a complete, undone wreck with his lips obscenely wet with your juices. More dark, messy strands of his disheveled hair have escaped his braid and cling to his sweaty forehead, and he draws himself up confidently, taking your face in both his hands as he leans in to smother your mouth with his in one swift motion.

His tongue pushes into your mouth possessively—delivering the tangy taste of you thats coating it—and he swallows your muffled moan with his own deeper one, pushing you up against the tree with his body flush to yours.

His hasty hands roam over you hungrily, his knees bending as he gropes your ass and tits—pulling you up and pinning you against the bark with short, rhythmic grinds of his hips.

Your stomach tightens as you feel the outline of his rock hard erection pushing into you, throbbing like a heartbeat beneath his cargos.

“Which gun do you want?” he pants breathlessly as he breaks from your mouth, trailing his crude smirk in hot, wet kisses across your jawline and down your neck.

He recoils with a sharp grunt as you suddenly jab a long finger hard into his ribs—a warning that your impatience for his cocky games is running very thin.

“Ow! Fuck. Alright, alright.”

He peels himself off of you with sulking reluctance, swallowing hard to try and control his ragged breathing as he drops back down to a crouch to pick up his gun from the dirt.

“Better give the lady what she wants, then,” he mutters to himself, taking a firm grip on the handle as he draws the weapon back up between your legs—and this time, he keeps his focus locked.

You brace yourself with your hands on the tree either side of you, your heart fluttering fast as Jake works to position the blunt, heavy barrel at the entrance of your pussy.

Once he seems satisfied that all systems are go, his eyes flick up to yours, waiting for permission.

“Ready?”

“Yes! Just fucking put it in already, Jesus,” you growl.

He moves at your command, slowly pushing the cylindrical metal up into you, and it sinks through your slick folds.

The hard, cold width of the barrel stretching you open to fill the craving, empty space inside you.

Your head slams back against the tree, the frustration in your voice from mere seconds ago melting and liquefying into something carnal.

“FUCK, Sully.”

You groan between tight lips as Jake retracts it, before sliding it in further—slipping the steel inside you with the smooth lubricant of your own arousal. The stretch burns like fire, the cool metal already starting to warm from the friction—from your pussy walls squeezing and clenching at it hungrily.

“Oh, Jake. It's so fucking good.”

“Yeah? Tell me how you want it, baby.”

“Faster,” you whine.

Jake picks up the pace immediately. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bunching under the strain of lifting such a heavy-duty weapon and moving it with enough deliberate control to not hurt you.

He hitches a knee up to rest his elbow on as he works, taking some of the weight off his arms as he readjusts his grip on the stock with a grunt, his breathing growing heavy as he pumps the machine gun into you with quick, firm thrusts.

“That fast enough, doc?”

“Mhm! More, Jake, please!” 

Your hips grow reckless, rolling down to meet each of his thrusts at its deepest, and it tightens the ache that’s coiling inside you each time the blunt tip of the barrel strikes hard against a spot of pressure.

A pressure that’s going to be the death of you if it carries on building. 

You clutch your breast through your tank top, tugging and playing with your erect nipple while your other hand flies down to your clit to deliver quick, frantic circles, and the heightening of pleasure it provides has his name erupting from your throat in a loud cry.

“Fuck, baby,”  Jake breathes hoarsely. “You’re gonna make me lose it doing that.” 

He lunges up—too needy to merely watch you writhe in pleasure from a passive crouch beneath you—and leans over to catch your gasping lips, kissing you clumsily as the heavy weapon rocks chaotically between your bodies.

Jake can’t help his unbridled hips as they start to roll blindly against the hard handle of the weapon, an attempt to grind out some relief for the leaking bulge thats cooped up in his cargos. 

It has him spilling a groan into your mouth, his brows pinched together tightly, and it’s not long before the pathetic pleading starts tumbling out of him against your lips. 

“God, let me fuck you with this blue dick, baby, please? I’m so hard. I wanna cum in that sweet pussy so fuckin’ bad.”

“Not yet,” you hiss, clamping your fangs down on his bottom lip.

His twitching hips falter on the metal, and you can tell he’s holding back a whimper.

Your own climax is pulsing like a threat around the unyielding cylinder inside you as you pull away from Jake’s dumb, chasing mouth.

You gaze at him for a moment through heavy lids.

Taking in his flushed, sweat-sheened face. His pretty bioluminescent freckles that faintly pulse with his arousal.

“Load it, Sully.”

Your firm words slice the air like a knife.

The whir of nature from the surrounding expanse of trees dials up sharply, and Jake’s hips instantly freeze.

You glance down at his crotch. Watching as the thick outline of his cock throbs visibly against the sudden stillness of his body.

The hungry thing has already made a mess of his cargos, spilling some of his much needed release in a blooming, damp patch of glowing pre-cum at the tip.

He blinks, barking out a quick, uncertain laugh. 

“What?” 

You hold his gaze. 

“You heard me.”

A soft, nervous chuckle, his ears flattening.

“Come on, sweetheart… That’s too far.” 

"Oh... sorry, Jake," you giggle. A sweet, bubbly sound that catches him off guard, and his ears lift slightly from the sides of his head. "It's just, I was under the impression you weren’t such a pussy.”

The throat strap of his comms shifts with the heavy, nervous bob of his Adam’s apple, his lips hanging parted at the drop of your tone.

Your hand brushes past his as you lean forward and wrap your fingers around the gun grip, deliberately dragging the heavy, charcoal shaft deeper inside you.

“Don’t make me ask again, Sully. Or I might have to tell Grace you’ve been slacking.”

Ok.

You can’t deny it. You took things a little too far, sometimes.

Got a little… wild, out here in the forest. 

Blame it on the foreign composition of Pandora’s atmosphere, or the rash impulses of the Na’vi blood running through your veins.

You’d feel sorry for poor Jake for having to put up with this untamed, gun-crazed kink of yours, except that was never the case at all.

He gets off on the thrill of danger just as much as you do, and although the extent of your requests had undoubtedly grown more… extreme, since your first escapades—Jake hadn’t denied you anything yet. 

He can't resist a challenge thrown his way. 

It’s in his blood, human or not. 

But above all, he can never say no to his favorite, precious little scientist.

He huffs an uneasy laugh as he glances to the side, his brows furrowed with his head cocking slightly as though he’s still trying to wrap it around the order.

It’s hard not to home in on the sweat that glistens on his cheekbones and nose. Or the sharp crunch of leaves under his clunky combat boots as his feet shuffle nervously below you. 

He finally rolls his broad shoulders. A heavy click resonating as he cracks his neck.

“Alright.” 

His throat muscles jump in another rough bob as he takes a wary glance down to where the gun is still buried inside you, and there’s not an ounce of playfulness left in his yellow eyes when they snap back up to meet yours, his husky voice dropping an octave.

“Only for a second, though. Ok?”

You nod quickly. Holding your breath the way you’re holding onto the climax you so desperately want as Jake slowly stabilizes the robust frame of the machine gun.

His tail twitches erratically behind him as he slowly draws his long fingers to rest over the charging handle. 

Your heartbeat pounds against your ribs as they hover there.

And then he takes the plunge.

A quick, sharp inhale—and he racks the bolt.

The heavy, mechanical clack-clack of the weapon cycling sends a sharp vibration straight through the barrel buried inside your pussy, the sound making both of your ears twitch in unison.

Fuck. 

There it is.

Loaded ammunition inside you.

A breathless hush seems to fall over the trees. The only sound the thrum of your pulse like rushing water in your ears as you stare at your own round eyes reflected in the black mirror of Jake's pupils.

And then your pussy pulses in demand. 

You grind. Once. Rolling over the steel that now buzzes with the terrifying weight of a live round chambered right inside you.

And then again—feeling that deep, delicious ache of the weapon pressing at your insides. Digging into your g-spot and shooting a spine-tingling spike of heat straight through you. 

Your body takes control.

Your hips slip into a fast, shallow rhythm, and you resume rubbing quick, rapid circles against your clit. Humping your hand unashamedly like an untamed animal in front of Jake’s dumbfounded stare.

An immense, hot convulsion of pleasure surges through your core and down your legs—your pussy beating and fluttering around his gun—and a throaty moan tears out of you, your eyes going hazy at the edges as you hold Jake's sharp, petrified ones. 

His grip on the gun is like iron, his whole body taut as he tries to stop his hand from trembling violently over the giant body of metal. Terrified that one wrong twitch of his fingers or one violent squeeze of your walls will slip the safety.

“Oh fuck—Jake—keep it inside me, I’m gonna—”

Your plea trails off as your climax creeps up tremendously, forcing the breath still in your lungs. Your hips bob in little rigid shudders over the hazardous toy inside you as you reach the brink, your fingers losing all strength and smushing clumsily against your peaking clit.

It’s a fight to keep your eyes open—your vision turning white and starry—but you can’t miss the sight of Jake watching you help yourself to orgasm over his gun. 

His gorgeous feline features a picture of agonizing torment.

You can tell it’s taking every solid inch of his strength to restrain from tearing the gun away as fast as possible. To chuck it a mile and fuck you himself instead.

But he holds it. Letting you ride it to completion like you asked. His blown out eyes trained between your shaking thighs as your sweet bliss crashes down on you.

Your eyes clamp shut. Your body shuddering as a guttural shriek rips from your lungs, and the back of your head cracks violently against the rough bark behind you.

Waves. All you can feel is waves. Delicious, crashing waves. Tight, heavenly waves that pulse and squeeze at the smooth metal inside you, turning your legs hollow and weightless.

Waves that are suddenly shattered as Jake ruthlessly rips the length of the barrel from your convulsing pussy.

He un-cocks it. Hastily. 

Dropping the deadly thing to the ground from his vice-like grip like it’s something born of the devil.

“Oh my… fuck. Baby—” 

His wired eyes are trained on you, suddenly flaming with gold, his flustered fingers blindly fumbling to unclip the utility belt that suffocates his waist. 

The straps slip from his shoulders, the weight of his backpack hitting the forest floor behind him with a heavy, dead thud.

And then he lunges. 

Trapping your slumped, slack body against the tree. Pouncing on you with a predatory force that might scare you if your brain wasn't so clouded over from ecstasy.

The impact punches a breathless whine out of you, the ridges of bark clawing unforgivingly at your back, and you know it's leaving marks on your poor Avatars back for days.

Jake’s already pinned your wrists above your head, locking them both in the inescapable band of his hand while he clumsily battles the buckle of his belt in the other.

“You scare the goddamn shit out of me with that stuff, you know that?” 

His bellowing voice is reprimanding as he brutally breaks his belt open, yanking his cargos down in one sharp tug that lets his thick, rock-hard erection snap up against his stomach.

“Why you gotta do that to me sweetie, huh?”

You can’t help but let out a chuckle despite the dizzying whirl of adrenaline that's making your head spin, your gaze dropping to the profusely leaking, lavender tip of his cock as it bobs beneath you.

“This doesn’t look that scared to me, soldier…”

He opens his mouth—probably with some witty remark ready to fire back—but it dies in his throat, overruled by his need to sink his throbbing dick inside you before he ruins himself up your front.

His cock really is beautiful like the rest of him, and it suddenly looks infinitely more appealing than cold metal as he spreads your thighs wider with a rough, heavy shove of his knee. 

He bullies his hips in between yours, lining the steaming wet flare of his cock-head against your entrance, and it draws one last lazy, residual orgasmic twitch out of your walls.

There’s many great things about fucking out here, in the vast, echoing expanse of Pandora’s jungle.

One of them being just how much noise you could make. 

Neither of you ever held back from the undignified sounds that would spill from your mouths as you lost your minds over one another. Not without a soul within miles to hear such unearthly resonance.

Unlike the constant threat of being overhead through the paper thin walls of your dorm room back at Hell's Gate, the forest was your perfect, soundproof playground. A place that gave you the ultimate freedom to fuck each other however loudly you desired—an endless opportunity to let loose like feral, savage beasts.

And you both made the most of it.

Jake’s booming, chest-deep “MURRGHH” rattles you to the bones as he lifts you off the ground with his powerful thighs in a single, brutal upward thrust, his buttocks clenched rock-hard as his cock spears you to the hilt. 

The roar is enough to scatter a troop of swinging Prolemuris in the trees nearby, and that delicious, white-hot sting of the sudden penetration has you matching him with a piercing shriek of your own.

He fits your pussy flush like a glove—his Na’vi anatomy tailor-made to ruin you—and the deep, fulfilling ache of the stretch has your toes curling hard inside your boots. 

It’s even better than his loaded machine gun. 

Much better.

Your eyes roll straight into the back of your skull as he single-handedly rearranges your brain chemistry with another deep, sharp thrust, putting words into your mouth that you barely even recognize as your own. 

“Oh my god… Sully, fuck me—NOW!”

Jake doesn’t waste a fucking second. 

He drives into immediate, frantic action—his pelvis rutting up rapidly into yours, his cock slipping in and out of your tight, silky slit with ease.

“Hohh-shit baby, that’s it,” he pants raggedly, the glowing freckles tracking his forehead flaring fiercely through the messy strands of his hair, lighting up with his spiking pulse—his eyes rolling back for a split second. “Fuck, you feel like heaven. So wet for me angel. So fuckin’ good for me.”

He hooks the hand that isn't pinning your wrists into the hem of his grey sweat-stained t-shirt with a grunt, wrenching the unwanted fabric up and out of the way in a jagged line. 

It reveals the intricate strings of bioluminescence that drape down his toned stomach, trailing in bright streams to the solid V-line of his lower abdomen that funnels directly to the base of his pounding cock.

Jesus fucking Christ. 

The sight of Jake’s naked Avatar never failed to completely destroy all of your inhibitions.

The combination of the sheer, muscular anatomy with the majestic prettiness of it is simply mind boggling, and you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to wrap your little scientific brain around how such a god-forsaken thing grew in a lab when it looks like it should have fallen straight from the skies. 

It leaves you weak to the very core every time you see it, and even in the desperate, deep throes of being pounded and crushed by him, you can’t help but take a moment to simply stare at the stunning sight of his torso.

Your poor eyes are ripped away as he jerks your own vest up over your breasts.

“Mm, yeah. Nice little tits, aren’t they, doc?” Jake hisses, pulling his t-shirt up higher so he can press his broad chest right against yours. The friction of his slick, bare skin rubbing your nipples into stiff peaks.

He drops your wrists from their shackle above your head only to hoist one of your legs up and over his shoulder with a rough hand, making you gasp, while the fingers of his other wrap tightly around your erect nipple to give it a tight, bruising squeeze.

“Takin' my cock like such a good little scientist.”

He slams up into you, pinching his lip between his teeth with the effort as he funnels his glazed, fuck-drunk eyes into yours, and you splutter out a choked cry as the new angle has his cock-head ramming deeper into your cervix.

The mix of pain and pleasure is intoxicating, and it has a string of undignified, strangled curses spewing from your mouth. The unadulterated, filthy kind you could never be caught dead releasing within the rigid confines of Hell’s Gate.

Not unless you wanted to lose your damn job.

“Such a tight little cunt,” Jake wheezes through gritted, bared teeth, his tail wrapping in a tight coil around his muscular thigh to steady himself, and you know he’s on the brink from the garbled filth that starts pouring out of him. 

“Dirty little slut, ain’tcha? Bad gal. Lettin’ me fuck you senseless like this when you should be working. Mad lil scientist. Crazy little—”

He barks out a breathless, hysterical chuckle— sounding borderline insane—before faltering with a soft, whiney crack in his voice. 

“Oh fuck, mama—”

You adored the mouthy trash talk that would spew from Jake right when he was about to explode into smithereens.

But the sound you practically worshipped during the heated throes was his whimpering.

There was something so utterly exhilarating about hearing a rugged, capable man like Jake make such a vulnerable little noise at the power your body held over him that never failed to have your panties dripping.

You’d been hooked ever since you first heard it escape him one afternoon, while you had his thick, twitching shaft buried deep in your throat, the muscles of his striped thighs trembling and bunching underneath you from the suck of your mouth.

It seemed to only come out when he was hovering at the edge of complete ruin, his inhibitions completely obliterated over the loud, pulsating thrum of his own sexual pleasure. 

It was shameful to admit it, but it became your personal mission to actively coax this gorgeous sound out of Jake for your own pleasure. 

Whether that meant rubbing the strangely hyper-sensitive spot under his tail that seemed to push him over the brink a bit too quickly, or pulling your mouth away to lick lazily at the leaking slit of his cock right when he was about to cum. Tormenting him while the tip oozed and begged for more, his head rolling back as he let out a sexy, chest-heaving whimper.

It gave you something to play in your head while you fingered yourself on nights when he wasn’t sharing your bunk bed with you. 

But best of all... it gave you something to tease him with. 

Ammunition to rein him in whenever he’d start getting too cocky for his own damn good.

You loved having that needy little noise to pull out of your pocket whenever he got a bit too big for his boots.

It kept that soldier in line. 

Jake’s hands slam onto the tree either side of your head, his fingers clawing into the ridges of bark as he clamps his teeth down hard on his bottom lip. 

It's a cute effort to stifle the pathetic whimper that’s begging to burst from his throat right next to your ear. You admire it.

But unfortunately for him, his neck is exposed. 

The perfect weak spot right next to your lips.

You dig your teeth hard into the slick flesh as you roll your hips up into each of his punishing thrusts. The heavy, rhythmic smash of his pelvic bone against yours making your walls clamp around his cock in a relentless chokehold.

It wheedles that sweet, sweet whimper right out of his lungs, spilling a ladle of heat directly into the bowl of your belly.

“Argh, fuck, bad girl.” Jake’s face contorts into a pretty mask of agony from your sharp bite and pure, unadulterated ecstasy from your fluttering walls. “Gonna make me cum.” 

His thrusts turn jerky. Quick and chaotic, his cock swelling against the constraint of your slick teasing walls. The length pulsates in steady, rhythmic throbs, nudging at the deep pit of your insides as though giving a warning of the incoming explosion.

“Mm, do it, make mama proud and shove me full of your glowing cum, soldier,” you moan, cupping either side of his face between your hands.

You pull his ear to your lips. Slipping in a quiet, devastating whisper. 

“I want you to fill me up like your bullets would.” 

It’s enough to have Jake tumbling over his wall of white-hot bliss like a weak fool.

“Oh fuck, doc,” he grinds out, his voice seething out between his teeth as his screwed-up face rolls to the heavens for mercy, his ears clamped flat against his skull as he slams home, and you can feel his knees buckling under you. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—”

His orgasm has him stiffening up. His quivering hips pinning you in a tight hold against the tree as the release starts leaking out into you—hot and wet and throbbing against the enticing clench of your walls, before erupting violently. 

“JAKE!” Your eyes slam shut in a tight squeeze as the sweet rhythm of his ejaculation sends your pussy into a frantic dance. 

Thick waves of his hot cum floods your center, pulsing like lava against your soft insides as a thunderous roar ruptures from his lungs, forcing your sensitive ears down to your head.

Your hands scramble at his shoulders for fistfuls of his utility shirt as you desperately rush to catch his high—grinding on him in a frenzy until his seed spills out down your ass and thighs.

Jake yelps, his hands quaking on the tree from overstimulation as you bounce hard against him until you finally come—erupting into a garbled, sore-throated wail. Writhing and whining—weakly tugging and shoving at his shoulders until every last nerve in your body is shattered. Over-sensitized, numb and utterly spent.

You go limp. 

Your head flops back as Jake’s falls down like a dead weight onto your shoulder. Panting with his massive, sweaty frame draped over you, holding you up against the tree as he trembles from head to toe. 

Jesus. 

If you ever needed a reminder of why you’d started abandoning your work for this shit…

This right here was your evidence.

You both slouch there. Panting like sweaty horses after a race.

You finally roll your dizzy head to the side, and you wonder if Jake’s fingers have melded to the bark from the way he’s still clutching onto the tree on either side of you.

It’s impressive. How he’s remained standing this whole time without buckling at the knees entirely.

“Jake..." you giggle breathlessly. "How… how’re you still standing?”

His laughter is faintly delirious as it bounces jaggedly against your chest, and he draws his head up off of your shoulder, taking an exhausted, half-lidded look at you.

His facial features are completely heavy. Loose and relaxed compared to just moments ago. 

“Putting these damn legs to use the right way,” he grins.

You laugh, grinning back as you take his cheeks between your palms and drag his sweaty forehead in to rest against your own.

“Made you cum hard, didn’t it? I know you like that gun shit. Don’t try and hide it.”

His hiss of laughter tickles your lips as it escapes him, his jaw jutting to the side with his tongue in his cheek as he looks down.

A wordless answer. 

He peels his sticky front from you, and your eyes follow his gaze to the gooey state that’s now sat between you. Your blue skin glints with a mixture of sweat and cum, the subtle bioluminescent hue of Jake’s seed glowing around your thighs and pussy.

He whistles, his face turning slappably smug. 

“Dang, doc. Look at the mess you’ve made.”

Your mouth falls open in disbelief.

“My mess?”

Jake chooses to ignore your comment. Instead trailing his lazy, smirking gaze up the length of your body. 

“Better get you all cleaned up and back in your little lab coat before Grace starts wondering where you are, hm?”

You bark out an incredulous laugh. “God, I’d slap that look straight off those blue cheeks if you weren’t so fucking pretty.”

“Aw, baby.” He flashes his fangs in a full-blown, wolfish grin. “You think I’m pretty, huh?” 

He leans in to kiss you, but you stop him in his tracks, pressing a firm finger against his puckered lips.

“And because you have extra brownie points for…”

You pause, watching his ears prick forward.

“…pleasing me, today.”

Jake chuckles cooly. But the flick of his tail tuft behind him gives him away.

“Really fucking pleasing me.” Your lips roll up into a wicked grin. “You wanna sleep in my bunk tonight?”

His brows fly up.

“Jesus, sweetheart, this not enough for you?”

“No,” you laugh, tracing a fingertip over the trail of white dots down his nose. “I mean, just... sleep with me. For the night.” Your fingers trace lower, running over both of his lips, making them catch with the drag. “You look really fucking cute when you make my bed in the morning.”

Jake grins like an idiot.

His gaze falls to your lips, the playfulness in his eyes turning warm and sincere as you let him lean in to deliver a light peck to your lips. “Yeah. I’d love that.” 

You give a little giggle, glancing down. 

The discomfort of the mess between you and the sudden apparent sting from the bark on your back makes you want to get moving. 

“Come on, Sully. Get your soft cock out of me and pull your damn trousers up. Better clean up this mess of mine before getting back.”

The air conditioning that circulates your room feels chilly against your skin later that night. Hell’s Gate seeming noticeably colder and more clinical. 

It always feels this way after being out there. After growing accustomed to your Avatar’s larger veins and the temperate climate of the beautiful forest.

But snuggling beneath the covers with Jake’s comforting arm thrown around you warms you from the inside out, and you wiggle down further, cocooning yourself in him with your leg draped over his.

Jake’s arms are one of his proudest assets. A place where he can wear the strength from years of wheeling his own bodyweight around. They feel big and comforting as they envelop you, even when his human body is smaller and more vulnerable than his nine foot tall blue version.

It’s pitch black save for the dim glow of a nearby floodlight outside, providing just enough light through the small window for your eyes to adjust to the swirls of opaque tattoos entwining his arm.

You trace the sharp outlines with your nail idly, feeling a light tug of nerves in the pit of your stomach.

“Hey, Jake?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he mutters.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “You know… for all that stuff with the gun today. I don’t know what comes over me, I’m just…” You break off, your fingers plucking anxiously at the material of the tank top over his chest. “Everything feels so different out there… You know?”

Jake shifts, and you feel him craning his neck to look at you in the dark.

He brings his other arm across his chest, finding your chin with his thumb and forefinger and tilting your face up towards his.

“Hey. No need for apologies, baby.” He leans down to kiss you with lips softer than earlier.

“I get it. I mean...” he chuckles quietly. “Look at me. I’m the idiot who actually let it happen. I’m just as dumb and hooked on that crazy stuff as you are.”

You chuckle back. “I know. It’s just… to ask for something like that. I can’t believe how insane I really am sometimes.”

“Yeah… me neither.”

You suck in a sudden, quiet breath.

You see the faint pale outline of his playful smirk, his voice a husky whisper. “We’re both insane. And I fucking love it.”

His lips meet yours again, and you can’t help but break into a slow smile against his mouth. It alleviates some of the lingering nerves that swirl in your belly.

But as Jake settles back onto the pillow, shifting his arm underneath his head with a content exhale through his nose, you find yourself chewing at your lower lip.

There’s something else you’d been meaning to ask him tonight.

Something that sends your pulse spiking whenever you consider plucking up the courage to say it out loud.

You try to keep your finger as idle as possible as you trace over his chest.

You decide to just go for it.

It’s probably as good a time as any—lying here in the pitch black so he can’t see how fucking hard you're blushing.

“Jake...”

“Mm?”

“I’ve been… err… thinking. About something,” you mumble.

His head shifts again.

“Yeah? What’s that, love?”

“Well, it’s…” you clear your throat softly. “Sort of a... Well, I mean… I wanted to know if you’d be interested, first, so I thought I’d ask…”

“Oh, Jesus,” he chuckles blithely. “Not sure if I’m quite ready after today’s excitement.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “It’s not anything like that.”

“No?” He squeezes your hip impatiently before bringing his hand up to your hair, raking his fingers in light, gentle strokes through the strands. “What is it then, baby? What’s got that smart tongue of yours in a twist.”

“Well… you know how I love getting to see you drive your Avatar, when I’m like this. With my own eyes.”

Jake’s fingers slow down in your hair, almost stilling completely.

He’s deathly silent, so you hurry on. Sucking on your teeth before releasing a string of words in a tumbling hot flurry.

“I just wondered if maybe you’d wanna get in link and we’d fuck around while I’m still a human or something.”

You scrunch your eyes shut, your nose crinkled up in a cringe.

You realize your whole body has gone tense, waiting for his reaction, until his fingers slowly resume their steady strokes through your hair.

The thrum of the air conditioning unit hums loudly at the edge of the room, and you feel the heavy weight of the grin in Jake’s tone when he finally speaks. 

“Ah… You want it really big, huh?”

You let out an embarrassed laugh, your face on fire.

“I mean, I think it could be… good. From a research standpoint. You know?”

Jake laughs darkly. “Oh yeah? That right?”

He rolls into you, squeezing your ass tightly as he kisses you again.

This time it's deeper, the scratchy stubble on his jaw grazing your chin as it moves powerfully against yours, and you giggle, trying to keep the kiss light despite the sudden heat flooding straight through your core.

Meeting Jake out there when you were both driving your Avatars had your blood pumping, sure.

But on those rare occasions you got to see him swagger over to you all blue, towering over you while you were trapped in your human skin…

Well. That was an entirely different game that had your knees on the verge of caving under your weight.

He always seemed extra teasing and playful when you were smaller than him. Crouching down to your level to prod you with his big, blue fingers—flashing you Cheshire grins, ones that seemed far wider and sharper than when you were in your own Avatar.

It was impossible to hold any command over him when he was peering down from five feet above you, and he clearly got a kick out of seeing you get in a fluster over it.

Grace was never fond of him bringing his Avatar into the lab without good reason. And equally there was rarely a good reason for you to be out in the field in an exo-pack, either. 

It would be a sensitive minefield to navigate.

But...

You have an idea.

And that idea is seeming more attractive by the second from the haziness of currently being locked in Jake’s all-consuming kiss.

“So,” you pull back from his mouth to breathe. “What do you think?”

“I think I can’t say no to this beautiful, smart woman in my arms,” he rumbles, leaning down to press his pandering lips into your neck instead.

“Hey.” Your voice comes out firmer as you push him back by his forehead. “Don’t get all mushy on me like that when I’m talking about you jamming your godly Na'vi cock in my human pussy.”

“There she is,” he chuckles low and devilishly, pulling himself back up level with your face, his breath tickling your lips.

“Mm… Getting to feel my Avatar’s dick in this tight little thing?”

You gasp as he slides a heavy, warm palm over your pyjama bottoms, slotting his lightly curled fingers into the sensitive gap between your thighs.

“I’d love nothing more, sweetie.” 

He kisses you again, slowly. The soft, slick sound of your lips sliding together in the dark sending a fresh spike of heat straight between your legs under the pressure of his massaging fingers.

“I think something can be arranged,” Jake murmurs.

[tuckedawaywithbay]

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: your toxic ex isn’t over you , is jealous when you have a guy near you ( even if it’s family) and wants you back .

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃ℊ𝓈: ex bf!Rafe X F!reader

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃ℊ𝓈 :one shot , slight manipulation, jealous! Rafe , stalking ( lmk if I missed anything! )

The first thing that tipped you off was the likes.

Not one.

Not five.

Thirty-seven.

Rafe Cameron had spent half the night scrolling through your Instagram.

Pictures from last week.

Pictures from six months ago.

Even a blurry photo from almost two years back.

You stared at your screen.

“What is wrong with him?”

As if summoned by the thought, another notification appeared.

rafe.cameron viewed your story.

Thirty seconds later:

rafe.cameron viewed your story again.

You laughed.

Then your phone buzzed.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Who was that guy?

You frowned.

You:

What guy?

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

The one in your story.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

The one standing next to you.

You looked back at the photo.

It was literally your cousin.

You:

Why do you care?

Three dots.

Then:

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Answer the question.

You rolled your eyes and tossed your phone aside.

When you checked again twenty minutes later, there were eight more messages.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Seriously?

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

You’re not answering me now?

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Guess that’s what we’re doing.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Fine.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Whatever.

A minute later:

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

I’m not whatever.

You couldn’t help laughing.

He was unbelievable.

The next morning, you posted another photo.

Within sixty seconds, Rafe liked it.

Then came the comment.

“Cute.”

A second later it disappeared.

Deleted.

Then your DMs lit up.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Forget the comment.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Actually don’t.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

You looked good.

You ignored him.

A mistake.

Because Rafe Cameron hated being ignored.

By evening he’d posted three stories.

Every single one obviously directed at you.

Gym photos.

Boat photos.

Pictures with his friends.

Trying way too hard to look like he wasn’t thinking about you.

The problem was you knew him.

And when Rafe tried not to care, he cared the most.

A few days later you uploaded a picture at a beach bonfire.

There were people in the background.

One of them happened to be a guy.

Your phone rang.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️.

You declined it.

Immediately another call came through.

Declined.

Then another.

And another.

Finally:

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Who is he?

You sighed.

You:

You’re actually insane.

His reply came so fast it was almost concerning.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

No.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

I’m serious.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Who is he?

You:

None of your business.

You could practically feel his anger through the screen.

The typing bubble kept appearing and disappearing.

Like he was rewriting every response.

Finally:

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

You know what?

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Forget it.

Ten seconds later:

⚠️PROBELM⚠️:

I can’t forget it.

Another message.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

I hate seeing you with other people.

Then another.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

I hate that you look happy.

Your eyebrows shot up.

Before you could respond, another text arrived.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Not because I don’t want you happy.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Because you’re happy without me.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then:

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

You moved on way too fast.

You:

We’re not together anymore.

A long pause.

Then the message that made your stomach twist.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

That’s the problem.

You stared at the screen.

The typing bubble appeared again.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

I thought I’d get over you.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

I thought eventually I’d stop checking your page.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Stop looking at your stories.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

Stop wondering who you’re with.

Another pause.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

But every time I see your face, I get angry.

⚠️PROBLEM⚠️:

And every time I don’t see your face, it’s worse.

For once, there was no arrogance.

No fake confidence.

Just obsession.

The kind Rafe hated admitting to.

Because deep down he knew it wasn’t normal.

Yet every night he still found himself scrolling through your profile at two in the morning.

Checking who liked your photos.

Checking who followed you.

Looking for signs that somebody else had taken his place.

And every time he found nothing, he felt relieved.

Every time he found something, he felt furious.

And the worst part?

He still couldn’t bring himself to block you.

Because losing you once had nearly driven him crazy.

Watching you move on might be worse.

𝒜𝓊𝓇𝓉𝒽ℴ𝓇𝓈 𝓃ℴ𝓉ℯ :

I really hope you guys enjoy! I feel like my writing has improved a lot ! And I’m so grateful you liked my pervious fanfics !

I’m kinda having a writers block ! So any requests are appreciated 💘

[milkysea-02]

Lost Footage

R. Sukuna x (fem) reader

Synopsis: A hidden passage behind an abandoned mall leads Sukuna and his friends into a place that shouldn't exist. Endless hallways, impossible rooms, and something lurking in the darkness turns what should have been a simple exploration into something far more unsettling.

Cw: Backrooms au, found footage, modern au, characters are in their early 20's which is why they're making dumb decisions, liminal space horror, unsettling atmosphere, horror elements, smut (f), fate unknown

Toji sat on the interior of a small tent he had set up inside one of the empty stores. One hand reached into the package of cookies while his other hovered around the mousepad, making some adjustments to the video he had recently recorded. 

Ever since he was a little kid, Toji had been fascinated by abandoned buildings. Exploring them always filled him with excitement and wonder, captivated by the mysteries they carried. Every abandoned place had a story. Most of the time the answer was obvious: a failed business, financial troubles, owners who could no longer keep the doors open. Other times there was no explanation at all, only rumors and unanswered questions left behind to rot alongside the walls. Those were always his favorites. 

Abandoned places possessed a strange allure, a magnetic pull that attracted both the curious and the reckless. There was something exhilarating about stepping into a place that time had forgotten, walking through corridors where no one was supposed to be. Dust settled where crowds once gathered, silence lingered where voices had once echoed, and every shadow felt as though it was hiding something just out of sight.

What always excited him most, however, was the feeling at the back of his mind that despite being alone, he wasn't truly alone; and sometimes that feeling turned out to be right. During several expeditions, he had encountered homeless people living inside the buildings. Usually, he would apologize for disturbing them while filming and simply edit that part out later to respect their privacy. Other times he'd ended up sprinting for his life when they decided they didn't appreciate unexpected visitors.

Regardless, he wasn't about to abandon his hobby because of a few bad experiences.

Currently, he was in an abandoned underground mall from the 90’s that he had read about online. The article hadn't specified exactly why the mall had shut down. It only mentioned that an incident had occurred one day, forcing the entire complex to close permanently. The entrances had been sealed off long ago, hidden behind fences and warning signs, but Toji knew exactly where to look for openings forgotten by the public.

Luckily, he had discovered an abandoned warehouse only six minutes away from the mall. The warehouse had been locked down as well, but after years of neglect the chains securing the entrance had become heavily oxidized. 

For someone like Toji, that wasn't much of a challenge. The back of his truck was filled with tools for situations exactly like this. All he had needed was a steel strapping cutter to cut away the rusted metal. 

Inside the warehouse, he discovered a narrow tunnel leading in the direction of the mall. The opening was partially hidden behind stacked debris and old structural supports, as if it had been intentionally forgotten rather than simply abandoned. Judging by its structure and the faint remnants of industrial markings along the walls, it appeared to be an old cargo route once used by employees to transport merchandise directly into the underground facility, long before the place was sealed off.

Toji hopped back inside his truck and drove through the tunnel. Darkness swallowed everything beyond the reach of his headlights. Concrete walls stretched endlessly on either side, stained by decades of moisture and neglect. The deeper he drove, the quieter the world became. Even the distant sounds from outside disappeared entirely, leaving only the low hum of the engine accompanying him through the darkness.

Eventually, the tunnel finally opened into a section of the mall.

Inside, the first thing Toji did was look for the control room—luckily he was able to locate it quickly. The metal door groaned loudly as he pushed it open, the sound echoing through the empty building. A stale smell immediately greeted him; a mixture of dust, mildew, and old electrical wiring that had sat untouched for decades. Rows of dark monitors lined the walls. Most were covered in a thick layer of dust. Once he spotted the electrical panel, he began flipping switches one by one. A few fluorescent lights flickered awake somewhere inside the building, bathing the corridors in a cold bluish-white glow reminiscent of daylight. Others remained dead no matter how many times he tried, leaving large sections of the mall drowned in darkness. 

The silence that followed felt heavier than it had been seconds ago.

Walking to the center of the complex, Toji stopped and stared. The mall contained four levels. The top floor—where he had entered and located the control room—overlooked the third and second levels below. Then there was the first. Even from above, the final floor looked wrong. Dark stagnant water covered nearly half of it, stretching across the abandoned storefronts like an underground lake. The surface remained still, broken only by the occasional drip falling from the ceiling far below. Years without circulation had transformed the water into a breeding ground for mold, algae, and bacteria. The smell drifted upwards through the open center of the mall in damp waves, carrying the scent of rot, mildew, and decaying concrete. The water reflected the surviving cold lights overhead. 

After settling inside an abandoned store and setting up his tent, he made sure he had everything he needed before recording.

The mall was far too large to fit into a single twenty-minute video, so he had already decided to divide the exploration into multiple parts. He could practically see the title already. “I Explored a Completely Abandoned Underground Mall (You Won't Believe What I Found)” or something equally ridiculous. Even if he didn't discover anything particularly exciting, there was no harm in making the title more dramatic. More views meant more revenue, and YouTube happened to be his primary source of income.

Toji grabbed another cookie while making the final adjustments to the video. Just as he finished saving the file, his phone rang. It was honestly a miracle he still had signal in a place like this. Only a single bar remained, and he suspected even that would disappear the moment he ventured deeper into the building.

Pulling out his phone, he checked the notification. A message from his girlfriend. She was asking how things were going and how much longer he planned to stay.

Toji immediately snapped a selfie, flashing a peace sign towards the camera.

Toji: Finished exploring the first top floors. Going to check out the second one next so I might head back soon. Still debating whether I want to explore the last floor though. The whole thing is flooded with dirty water up to my ankles, but I could probably just wear some rain boots.

Almost immediately, another message appeared.

Wifey: Be safe.

Wifey: I love you.

Toji smiled at the message, the corners of his lips lifting. He sent back a bunch of heart emojis, followed by a thumbs-up, before slipping the phone back into his pocket. 

Time to get back to work.

For a moment he remained sitting at the entrance of the tent, finishing the last cookie from the package. His gaze wandered across the dark store he had chosen as his temporary camp. Sleeping inside an abandoned mall probably wasn't the smartest thing he had ever done, but it certainly wasn't the dumbest either. Compared to some of the places he had explored before, this was practically luxury.

The underground mall remained silent around him. No footsteps echoed through the corridors. No distant conversations. No sounds of traffic from outside. Just the occasional drip of water somewhere on the lower floors and the faint hum of the lights he had managed to bring back to life. The silence was strange, but Toji had grown used to it after years of exploring forgotten places.

Letting out a small sigh, he stretched his arms above his head until his shoulders popped. The mall was massive. Much bigger than he originally expected. Even after spending hours wandering through it, he still felt as if entire sections were waiting to be discovered.

After finishing the last cookie, Toji pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the camera resting besides his backpack. The battery was still good, the memory card had plenty of storage left and he still had more than enough daylight left outside if he decided to head back later.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself.

Leaving the tent behind, Toji walked down the stairs and returned to the same exact spot where he had left off the previous video, which was inside the second floor of a Sears. The upper floor he had already covered, and now he was in the middle floor; unfortunately, he couldn't go any further down yet because it was also covered in dirty water.

He pointed the camera at the store, turning on the light to have some source of brightness. The beam immediately cut through the darkness, illuminating rows of abandoned shelves and display stands that had remained untouched for decades. Dust coated almost every surface in a thick gray layer, disturbed only by the occasional footprint he had left behind during his earlier walkthrough. A few ceiling panels hung precariously above him while others had already collapsed onto the floor below, leaving piles of debris scattered throughout the department store.

Toji adjusted the camera settings one last time before pressing record. A small red light appeared. Instantly his posture changed, the tired explorer disappeared and the content creator took over.

“Okay guys, welcome back to part 3 of my exploring abandoned buildings series, and as you can see we're still at the underground mall where we last left off.” he carried the camera around as he walked through. The flashlight attached to the camera swept across empty aisles and abandoned displays as he slowly moved deeper into the store. “Unfortunately, there isn't much in this Sears store, just the ceiling tiles that have fallen off over time and cracks on the floor. There's also those mannequin stands that were left behind still wearing clothes.”

Toji pointed at a mannequin wearing a red shirt and overalls on top of it.

The mannequin stood completely still near a collapsed clothing section, its plastic face covered in a thin layer of dust. One of its arms had fallen off at some point and now rested on the floor besides it.

“Not really my style, so I'll just leave him be.” he waved goodbye to the mannequin.

For a few seconds he kept the camera focused on it, then he lowered it.

“Actually never mind, looking at him for too long is kind of creepy.” Toji immediately turned away.

The mall remained silent. There were no sounds, no movements, there was nothing. Only the faint echo of his own footsteps bouncing across the empty building.

He continued exploring the structure with the camera recorder in hand, making small silly commentary whenever possible to keep viewers entertained and not leave them alone with the same uncomfortable silence he was experiencing. Later he'd add some soft background music so the video felt more alive than the mall itself.

The deeper he went into the second floor, the more surprised he became.

Unlike the first levels, which had already been heavily vandalized by time and previous trespassers, many of the stores here still contained merchandise. Not much, but enough. Enough to make the place feel less abandoned and more like everyone had suddenly gotten up and left one day without warning.

There was the Sears store, of course, but there was also a RadioShack that still had some old electronics left behind. Old desktop computers sat covered beneath layers of dust. Shelves contained outdated accessories, tangled cables, and forgotten gadgets that probably hadn't been touched since the place closed. He'd definitely come back later for some of those antiques and store them inside his backpack after he finished recording this part.

Then there was a Claire's store too. Toji paused near the entrance and pointed the camera toward a display rack.

“Guys, look at this.” the camera zoomed in. Hanging from one of the hooks was a small TY plushie keychain. Dust covered its fur, but otherwise it looked perfectly intact. “Maybe I'll get this for my girlfriend.” 

He gently picked it up. The toy was surprisingly well preserved; no stains, no missing eyes, no tears, just years worth of lint but that could be cleaned off. “Yeah, this one's definitely coming home with me.”

A few stores later he discovered a Hot Topic. The old familiar scribbly red logo immediately caught his attention.

“Oh hell yeah.” Toji laughed.

Unlike the modern stores people saw nowadays, this one still contained older merchandise; and it was the good stuff. A black-and-white striped jumper. A Skelanimals Y2K Kit the Cat tote bag. A vintage Ruby Gloom Leave Me Alone hoodie. Band shirts. Belts. Accessories. All frozen in time. His truck was going to be filled with all sorts of crap after he finished this series. There were simply too many items left behind. Too many forgotten treasures. Too many things he couldn't just leave here to rot. These things deserved to be appreciated. Do you know how expensive it is to buy something that was manufactured in the 90's nowadays? And here Toji was, standing in the middle of what felt like a treasure chest, free to take whatever he wanted.

Continuing down the hallways, he occasionally pointed the camera towards the railings overlooking the lower levels. The view from above made the mall look even bigger. Rows upon rows of storefronts stretched into darkness. Some sections remained illuminated by the lights he had activated earlier while others disappeared completely into blackness. 

He had to watch where he stepped. Broken glass covered sections of the floor. Pieces of fallen ceiling littered the walkways. Rotting building materials crumbled beneath his boots. Every step produced a crunch that echoed throughout the abandoned structure. Graffiti covered the walls. Dark stains marked the floors. Mold spread across corners and ceilings in strange patterns. Dead decorative plants remained trapped inside oversized pots, their brittle branches threatening to disintegrate at the slightest touch.

It was beautiful in a strange way. Everything was abandoned, forgotten. Yet somehow preserved, as if time itself had stopped moving within these walls.

For a moment Toji stopped talking. Stopped filming. Stopped joking. Instead he simply looked around. Places like this were the reason he loved urban exploration. Not because they were scary or dangerous, but because they felt like memories made physical. Little snapshots of history left behind for someone else to discover years later. As if he had traveled back in time.

After 20 minutes passed, Toji ended the video.

“Alright guys, that will be all for this part. If you enjoyed this, make sure to keep up with part 4 and perhaps part 5.” he pointed the camera down to the first floor. “Eheheh, I'm still deciding whether to explore the last floor or not, but regardless, if you liked this video make sure to like, comment and subscribe. See you soon in the next video.”

Toji clicked stop on the record button and lowered the camera. The cheerful smile he had been wearing for the audience immediately disappeared. The silence returned. He simply stood there staring at the dark hallways stretching beyond the reach of the lights. It always felt strange whenever he finished recording. One second he was talking nonstop for hundreds of viewers and the next he was completely alone again. There were no comments, no music, no audience. Just him and an abandoned mall buried beneath the earth.

Toji glanced at the camera screen, quickly checking that everything had recorded properly. Twenty-two minutes. Not bad. He could probably stretch this place into another two or three more videos if he explored the flooded floor as well. Assuming he actually decided to go down there.

His eyes drifted to the lower level. Even from up here, he could see the stagnant water reflecting the ceiling lights. The surface barely moved. The smell, however, definitely reached him. Years of mold growing. Rotting debris. Water with no circulation. It looked disgusting. Maybe he should return another day with proper waterproof equipment, or maybe he should listen to his girlfriend and stop doing dumb things for once.

“Yeah right.” Toji snorted. That wasn't happening.

Shaking his head, he adjusted the strap of his camera and began making his way to the stairs that led back to where his tent was on the upper floor. Behind him sat an abandoned Blockbuster. The iconic blue and yellow sign was faded from age but still recognizable. Rows of empty shelves could be seen through the broken glass entrance.

For a second Toji considered going inside. Then again, he'd already spent hours recording. His stomach was beginning to complain. The cookies alone weren’t enough. The tent was warm. And he still needed to edit today's footage.

Blockbuster could wait.

He continued down the corridor. His footsteps echoed softly through the empty mall. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Broken glass shifted beneath his boots. A loose ceiling panel swayed gently overhead. The farther he walked, the fewer working lights there seemed to be. The darkness gradually thickened around him.

Toji shoved one hand into his pocket and let out a yawn. Maybe he had been here longer than he thought. He couldn't even remember what time it was outside anymore. Without windows or sunlight, time felt strange underground. Hours blended together. One hallway looked almost identical to the next, maybe that was why he immediately noticed it. There was a strange faint glow.

Toji stopped walking. His eyes narrowed. “...Huh?” 

The glow was coming from the wall.

At first he thought it was a reflection. Maybe the lightning bouncing off a polished surface. But the more he stared at it, the less sense that explanation made. The light wasn't moving. It wasn't flickering. It was just... there. A thin sliver of pale cutting through the darkness.

Weird. 

Toji frowned. He had memorized the layout of the mall from the blueprint map he had found earlier and according to it there shouldn't be anything behind this wall. Maybe it was the light reflecting on it, or perhaps his eyes were simply tired. After all, he had been inside this place for hours. 

Still, curiosity slowly began creeping into the back of his mind. The same curiosity that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count.

Toji took a few steps closer. The glow became brighter and brighter. Now he could see exactly where it was coming from, a crack; a very thin crack running vertically across the wall. A crack that absolutely should not have been there.

Toji approached it carefully. 

The light spilling through was unlike anything else in the mall. It wasn't like the cool daylight  lights. It wasn't white either. It almost looked… artificial. 

He leaned closer. There was nothing; no voices, no machinery, no footsteps, not even the distant hum of electricity.

“Hello?” Toji called out, his voice echoed through the corridor.

No response came back. 

Toji swallowed.

Now that he was standing this close, he could clearly see the light pouring through the crack. There was definitely something on the other side. Something that wasn't supposed to exist according to every map he had found; and that bothered him, because abandoned buildings followed rules. Maybe not legal and safe rules, but they followed logic. There was always an explanation. A hidden room. A forgotten hallway. An old maintenance area. Something. But this? This made absolutely no sense.

Curious despite the growing unease in his chest, Toji lifted his hand and clenched it into a fist. The logical thing to do would be to knock on the wall. If there was a hollow space behind it then he'd hear the echo immediately. Maybe there really was another section of the mall hidden away from the blueprints. It wouldn't be the first time old documentation was incomplete. Buildings this large often had maintenance corridors, storage rooms or forgotten expansions that never appeared on public records. The more he thought about it, the more reasonable explanations he found. A hidden room. A sealed-off hallway. A forgotten employee area. Anything made more sense than whatever his imagination was currently suggesting.

Swallowing hard, Toji stepped closer until he was standing directly in front of the crack. Up close the wall looked completely normal. If not for the strange glow leaking through the thin opening, there would have been nothing remarkable about it. Yet despite that, his heart continued pounding against his ribs. Something about this felt wrong. Not dangerous necessarily, just wrong; like looking at a puzzle piece that didn't belong to the same set.

“You're overthinking it,” Toji muttered to himself, letting out a nervous laugh that sounded strangely loud within the empty corridor. 

Taking one final breath, Toji raised his fist and moved forward. He expected his knuckles to touch the concrete. Instead, they kept going. His entire hand passed through the wall.

For a split second, his brain completely failed to process what had happened. The wall rippled around his wrist like disturbed water before becoming solid again. Toji stared blankly at the spot where his hand had vanished, then reality caught up with him.

“What the fuck?!” he stumbled backwards so fast that his feet tangled with each other. The camera nearly slipped from his hands as he crashed onto the floor. His heart hammered violently against his chest while every muscle in his body tensed. 

For several seconds he simply sat there staring at the wall. Nothing happened. The crack continued glowing softly. The wall remained completely still.

Toji wiped the sweat from his forehead and forced himself to take a few deep breaths. Okay. Okay. He definitely did not imagine that. There was absolutely no way. His hand had gone through the wall. Not bounced off it. Not pushed through some hidden door. Gone through it as if the concrete wasn't even there. 

The realization made his stomach twist. 

For a brief moment he considered leaving. Forget the recording. Forget the mysterious light. Just grab his stuff, drive home and pretend he never found this place. Yet even as the thought crossed his mind he already knew it wasn't going to happen. If he left now, he'd spend the rest of his life wondering what was on the other side.

Slowly, Toji pushed himself back onto his feet, pressing the camera recorder tightly against his chest. His palms felt clammy. His breathing still hadn't completely settled. Despite that, he found himself stepping forward again; one step, then another and another. Eventually he was standing directly in front of the wall once more.

“Okay…” he breathed out shakily. “You're okay.” he ran a hand through his hair. “You know you're not crazy. You saw your own hand go through the wall.” the words sounded ridiculous the moment they left his mouth, yet they were true.

Questions immediately began racing through his mind. What was on the other side? Was there a way back? What if he got stuck? What if this led somewhere else entirely? Another building? Another city? Another country? Hell, what if it wasn't even on Earth? The possibilities were so absurd that under different circumstances he would've laughed.

“Calm yourself Toji, you're alright.” he spoke the words aloud for reassurance. But being the adventurer that he was, curiosity inevitably won. It always did. The same curiosity that had driven him into abandoned buildings ever since he was a child refused to let him walk away now.

“You can do this. You can…”

Closing his eyes, Toji took a deep breath and tightened his grip around the camera. If he was really doing this, then he wanted proof. Nobody would believe him otherwise. 

Slowly he stepped inside. The moment his body touched the wall he felt resistance for only a fraction of a second before it gave way. It felt almost like walking through a thin veil hanging in the air. A cold sensation brushed across his skin. The air shifted around him. His ears popped. Then it was over.

Toji slowly released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and opened his eyes.

The first thing he noticed was the color yellow. Every surface around him was covered in faded yellow wallpaper stretching farther than it should have. The second thing he noticed was the sound. A constant buzzing filled the air, low and unending, coming from the fluorescent lamps  mounted across the ceiling. The noise seemed to softly vibrate through the room. That’s when Toji realized something. The mall was gone. Completely gone. There were only yellow walls. Yellow carpet. Yellow hallways stretching into the distance.

For the first time since entering the underground mall, genuine fear crawled up Toji's spine.

“Sooo, what was it that you wanted to show us?” Satoru asked, yawning as he relaxed comfortably in the passenger seat of Toji’s truck while everyone else was pressed together like canned sardines in the back.

“You’ll see when we get there.” Toji replied flatly, keeping his eyes focused on the road ahead.

“For you to finally text us, it must be something veeerry important.”

“I text you guys, just not in the groupchat.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“When?”

“I text Sukuna like every other day.” Toji admitted.

Satoru dramatically raised his arms into the air. “You text him but not me?” he scoffed. “I’m offended.”

“You’re annoying.”

Yuki, who was squeezed next to you, let out a chuckle.

“Why are you even here Yuki? You’re not even in the groupchat.” Satoru snapped back, feeling a bit humiliated from Toji’s words.

“Choso invited me.” her smile widened as she looked over at Choso, who was squeezed to her other side.

The truck continued down the road while everyone carried on with their usual banter. Between Satoru's constant complaints, Suguru occasionally adding fuel to the fire, and Yuki laughing whenever someone got annoyed, the drive felt normal despite the mystery surrounding whatever Toji wanted to show everyone. Every now and then the truck bounced from a pothole in the road, causing everyone who sat in the back to groan in annoyance as shoulders bumped together again. At this point nobody even bothered apologizing anymore, there simply wasn't enough room.

Eventually the vehicle began slowing down. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as Toji pulled into an empty clearing before finally bringing the truck to a stop.

“Alright, everyone pipe down. We’re here.” Toji announced while stopping the car and hopping off.

As soon as he opened the back door, almost everyone tumbled outside.

One by one everyone climbed out from the back seats, stretching stiff muscles and relaxing their bodies after being seated in uncomfortable positions for so long. Several joints popped, few complaints immediately followed, meanwhile Satoru was already standing outside with a bright smile on his lips, clearly enjoying the fact everyone else had suffered while he sat comfortably in the front seat the entire trip.

According to what Sukuna had told you, Toji texted the groupchat because he had found something “extraordinary,” something nobody had ever seen before, but for whatever reason he insisted everyone be there in person instead of simply explaining it through messages. With nothing else to do, Sukuna accepted and asked if you wanted to go with him. You had agreed almost immediately. Exploring an abandoned building had always been one of those experiences sitting quietly on your bucket list. It was something you had thought about doing before, but never actually committed to. Of course, imagining yourself exploring abandoned places and actually doing it were two very different things.

Still, with everyone else hopping on board, it made you feel safer if anything were to happen. Not that your boyfriend wasn’t strong enough to protect you—far from it actually, but having more people tag along made the whole thing feel less intimidating. Besides, the men would all probably end up doing their own thing while you and Yuki stuck together. It happened every time the group went out. The guys always ended up in one corner talking about some sports match, video game, or whatever random topic had their attention that week, while you and your girl friends  managed to talk about literally everything else in existence.

Toji walked to the back of his truck and unpacked a duffle bag before quickly typing something into his phone. “Alright, everyone stay close and follow me. I set up a small tent in one of the stores so we’ll go there first before proceeding to the thing I actually wanted to show you.”

The group naturally split into pairs as they followed behind him. Toji led from the front while Choso and Yuki walked together behind him. Satoru and Suguru stayed side by side, casually engaging in chatter about something neither of them seemed particularly invested in. Meanwhile you held onto Sukuna’s forearm, staying close to him.

The moment you stepped inside, your grip around Sukuna tightened slightly. A chill immediately ran down your spine. Sure, you had wanted to explore an abandoned place before, but wanting to do it and actually doing it were completely different experiences. The air felt stale. Dust lingered in the atmosphere. Every footstep echoed softly throughout the enormous structure. Shadows stretched across corners where the light struggled to reach. The place still felt unsettling.

A quiet voice in the back of your mind whispered that this was probably a bad idea. That maybe you should've stayed home. That maybe some places were abandoned for a reason. You tried your best to ignore those thoughts. Taking a slow breath, you forced yourself to calm down. You didn't want doubts winning before the exploration had even begun, and even so, it was already too late to back out now. The only way home was in Toji’s truck, and you highly doubted he wanted to waste gasoline driving one person all the way back just because they were nervous.

“This way.” Toji turned around for a second, pointing towards a small store tucked away inside the mall before continuing.

The group followed.

“Sooooo, you’re going to tell us what this is about now?” Satoru asked, stretching his arms above his head as he walked. His voice echoed faintly throughout the empty structure.

“In a second.” Toji replied.

Reaching the small store he had been using as a temporary camp, Toji dropped the duffle bag onto the floor and crouched besides it. The store itself looked no different from the others you had passed on the way in. Empty shelves stood abandoned against the walls, dust covered nearly every surface, and part of the ceiling had collapsed near the back, leaving broken tiles scattered across the ground. In the corner sat a small tent, looking strangely out of place amongst the decay surrounding it.

Toji unzipped a duffle bag he had brought with him from the truck. Inside were several water bottles, a granola bar, an apple, a banana, chocolate chip cookies, and a bag of Doritos. There was also a flashlight, a small pocket knife, a compass, extra batteries, and a few other supplies neatly packed away.

“You’re taking us to a battlefield, Toji?” Sukuna snickered after seeing the contents inside the bag.

Toji let out a tired sigh, already regretting bringing his friends here. Ignoring the comment, he continued organizing the contents, checking his camera batteries before placing them inside the bag and closing the zipper.

“I found something strange on the second floor while exploring.” he finally revealed.

Immediately everyone's attention shifted to him.

“What did you find?” Choso asked while holding hands with Yuki.

“Well...” Toji reached down and unfolded one of the blueprint maps he had left nearby. Kneeling on the dusty floor, he spread it open and pointed towards a specific section with his finger. “According to these maps, there shouldn’t be anything behind this section of the mall.”

Everyone leaned slightly closer. The blueprints looked old and worn from how much Toji had been handling them. Various sections had been circled in pen while other areas contained small handwritten notes.

Toji tapped the location again. “But while I was exploring that hallway, I saw a glowing light coming from a crack in the wall.”

“Great, so you saw a lamp shining into another room that wasn’t on the layout map. Is that why you insisted on us coming along?” Satoru laughed teasingly, clearly hoping to get a reaction out of him.

“This is why no one likes you, Satoru.”

“Ouch.” Yuki grinned.

“Not true! Suguru, Shoko and Utahime all love me.” Satoru defended himself.

“Ehhh, debatable on that last one.”

A few chuckles spread through the group. Toji merely shook his head. His friends were all complete idiots.

Part of him wanted to explain everything right then and there. To tell them about the wall, the portal, the strange yellow room on the other side, but the moment he imagined their reactions, he immediately decided against it. If somebody had told him they walked through a wall and ended up in some impossible room hidden behind reality itself, he probably wouldn't have believed them either.

Without another word, Toji folded the blueprint back up and stood. “Come on.”

Everyone followed after him again as he guided the group deeper into the mall. The more you ventured inside, the quieter everything became. Footsteps echoed through the abandoned corridors. The occasional crunch of broken glass sounded beneath someone's shoe. As everyone walked, you found yourself looking around more carefully. The place felt even bigger. Perhaps it was because there were more people with you, allowing you to pay attention to things other than your own nervousness. Storefronts stretched endlessly along both sides of the hallways. Faded advertisements still hung from walls. Mannequins stood motionless inside display windows. Abandoned decorations remained exactly where they had been left years ago.

“Be careful not to slip.” Toji called over his shoulder while leading everyone to the staircase. “That water is dangerous and has a lot of microorganisms. One of them I read about can cause serious injuries to the brain.” then he glanced back at Satoru. “Not that it would matter much in your case, but still, be careful.”

“You truly hate me!” Satoru dramatically placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be wounded.

“Only a little.”

Satoru gasped. “See? This is workplace harassment.”

“You don't even work for me.”

The group continued climbing the stairs. One floor then another. Each level seemed more creepy than the last. The smell of stagnant water became stronger the lower you went. It lingered in the air alongside everything else, creating an unpleasant combination that made you wrinkle your nose. 

Eventually everyone reached down to the second floor. Toji slowed to a stop. One by one everyone looked ahead. And there it was, a thin crack running through the wall. Bright light spilled from the other side.

Nobody said anything at first. The corridor had gone quiet. Even Satoru wasn't making jokes anymore.

“...Wooowww...” Yuki gasped softly as she slowly stepped closer to investigate.

Almost immediately, Choso's hand tightened around hers. He gently pulled her back before she could get too close. He wasn't particularly fond of the idea of her touching something strange, especially in an underground building with almost no signal and no signs of civilization nearby.

Everyone stood there staring at the crack in the wall. The light continued shining through the narrow opening, bright and unwavering. It wasn't flickering like the lights throughout the mall, nor did it resemble sunlight. It was simply there, lightening the darkness around it with an almost unnatural glow. You found yourself staring at it too. The closer you looked, the stranger it seemed. According to the blueprints there shouldn't have been anything behind that wall, yet the evidence was right in front of you. A crack on the wall, a light behind it. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, something about it felt wrong.

Suddenly you understood why Toji had insisted everyone come see it in person. No amount of explaining would've convinced you. You had to see it with your own eyes.

“Curious about this I placed my hand on the wall to knock, you know, an echo on the walls to give me confirmation that there was something else on the other side and not just my mind playing tricks...” Toji explained.

“Yes, Toji?” you asked, still holding on to Sukuna’s hand.

Toji took a moment before continuing. His eyes drifted towards the glowing crack before lowering to the floor. He seemed hesitant, almost unsure of how to explain what had happened without sounding completely insane. The silence stretched for several seconds before Toji finally spoke again. 

“Well... then this happened...” Toji stepped closer to the wall before taking another step and disappearing.

A breath caught in your throat.

One moment Toji was standing here in front of the whole group. The next he was gone. Not hidden behind something. Not turning a corner. Gone completely, as though the wall had swallowed him whole.

“What the hell?!”

“Where did he go????”

“Toji!”

“Toji, can you hear us?!”

“Get back here!”

Everyone shouted at the same time, voices overlapping throughout the corridor and each other. Panic immediately spread through the group as all eyes locked onto the wall. Your heart began pounding inside your chest. There was no way. That wasn't possible. Walls didn't just eat people, yet you had seen it happen with your own eyes.

“What do we do?” Yuki asked, looking at Choso for answers.

Unfortunately, Choso looked just as lost as everyone else. His hand tightened around hers while he stared at the wall, searching for some logical explanation that simply wasn't there.

For several long seconds nobody moved. 

Then Suguru let out a heavy breath through his nose. “Fuck it, I'm going in.”

Before anyone could stop him, Suguru stepped forward. He approached the wall without hesitation, stopped directly in front of it, and walked straight through. Just like Toji, he disappeared too.

“Suguru! Wait for me!” the words had barely left Satoru's mouth before he immediately ran after him. True to form, he didn't stop to think, didn't ask questions, and didn't consider the possibility that this could be dangerous. He simply charged after his best friend and vanished through the wall as well.

“These idiots...” Sukuna grunted, dragging a hand across his face. “Toji too.”

You remained frozen where you stood, staring at the spot where three people had disappeared. It felt unreal, like a magic trick somebody forgot to explain. Your brain kept trying to convince itself there had to be a rational answer somewhere, but every possibility fell apart the second you remembered what you had just witnessed.

“What now?” you asked quietly, taking a small step backwards. “Should we go in...?” your eyes shifted to Sukuna.

For the first time since you two started dating, he looked genuinely uncertain.

“Uh... I mean...” Sukuna scratched the back of his neck. “Do you want to?”

You looked back at the wall. The crack continued glowing softly, completely indifferent to the panic it had caused. 

You looked back at Sukuna again. “To be quite honest... not really,” you admitted with a nervous laugh. “I didn't expect my first time exploring abandoned places to turn out like this.” the words felt ridiculous coming out of your mouth because of course you weren't comfortable. Three people had just walked through a wall and vanished. “But what other choice do we have? We all came in Toji’s car, and he’s the only one with the keys, so it's not like we have much of a choice...”

Sukuna pressed a hand hard against his temple as realization slowly settled over him. Unfortunately, you were right.

“That fucking loser...” he groaned.

Walking home wasn't exactly an option. Not from here at least.

He let out a long sigh before looking back at you. “Just uh… let me know whenever you feel ready. We'll both go through it together.” his hand tightened around yours, enough to reassure you. A silent promise that whatever happened next, he wasn't letting you go through it alone. 

Besides you, Choso cleared his throat. “Why don't we just wait for them to come back?” he suggested.

“And if they don't?” Yuki asked, her voice noticeably quieter than before.

Immediately Choso fell silent. His mouth opened slightly before closing again, because he didn't have an answer. None of them did.

The corridor went quiet once more as everyone stared at the glowing crack in the wall. On one side was the abandoned mall. On the other was something completely unknown, something impossible. The thought of stepping through that wall without knowing what waited on the other side was foolish, yet the longer you stood there, the more thoughts began creeping into your mind.

What if it wasn't dangerous? What if whatever was on the other side wasn't bad at all? Maybe you were overthinking it. Maybe this was simply another hidden part of the mall. Maybe Toji was playing some elaborate prank. Maybe there was a projector involved. Some kind of special effect. After all, Toji did run a YouTube channel. He recorded videos, edited footage, and spent most of his free time learning new technology. Perhaps this was just another one of his ridiculous ideas to get views online. Then again… even for Toji, this felt extreme.

You shook your head and pushed those thoughts aside. None of it explained how three grown men had just vanished through a solid wall.

Taking a deep breath, you squeezed Sukuna’s hand. “Okay...” you said quietly. “I think I'm ready.”

“You sure?” Sukuna asked, studying your face carefully as if trying to figure out whether you were forcing yourself to do this.

You bit the inside of your cheek and glanced back to the wall. The strange light continued pouring from the crack, illuminating part of the corridor around it. Standing this close, it almost felt as if it were inviting you in. Every instinct in your body told you to turn around and leave, yet another part of you—the same part that had agreed to come exploring in the first place—wanted answers.

“I think so...” you admitted.

“Alright then.”

The both of you turned to face the wall. Sukuna gave the mall a long look before tightening his grip on your hand. Behind you, Choso rubbed his face while Yuki continued staring at the crack with a mixture of fascination and concern.

“Fiiiine,” Choso groaned. “We’re going too.”

Yuki smiled nervously beside him. “Thank the gods, because there is absolutely no way I’m standing here alone.”

“You weren't going to.”

“I know, but saying it out loud makes me feel better.”

You looked over at Sukuna one last time. “Together?”

“Together.”

The two of you stepped closer to the wall. The closer you got, the stranger it looked. The crack itself wasn't particularly large, yet the light coming from it seemed far brighter than what should've been possible. It spilled across the floor and walls around it.

Your heart hammered inside your chest. This was insane. Completely insane. People weren't supposed to walk through walls.

The moment you reached the crack, Sukuna gave your hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Ready?”

“No.”

“Good answer.”

Despite the fears, a small laugh escaped you. 

Before you could change your mind, both of you stepped inside. The sensation was impossible to describe. It felt cold and warm at the same time. Smooth yet rough. It felt as though your entire body had become weightless. The sounds of the mall disappeared. The air around you shifted. Time itself seemed to slow down until everything became strangely distant.

Then it was over.

The ground felt solid beneath your feet once again.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I-is it safe?” you asked, refusing to open them. “Are we okay?” your grip around Sukuna’s hand tightened.

From somewhere nearby, you heard voices.

“Satoru, stay still. How did you even manage to do this?” Suguru sounded exasperated.

“I just wanted to grab those headphones!”

A short laugh escaped Sukuna. “Yeah, we’re okay. You can open your eyes now.”

Slowly, you did. The first thing that greeted you was the light, a neutral white light. You blinked several times before your eyes adjusted. Yellow. Everything was yellow. The walls. The carpet. The endless hallways stretching beyond the room. The place looked like some strange office building frozen in time.

In the middle of the room sat a mountain of recording equipment: cameras, microphones, headphones, tripods, memory cards, light stands, cables tangled together in massive knots, and right on top of that pile was Satoru.

“Get me out of here!” he complained. 

Several cords had somehow wrapped themselves around his legs while he desperately held onto a pair of headphones. Suguru stood next to him trying to untangle the mess while simultaneously questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. In the corner of the room, Toji was adjusting his camera settings as if none of this was unusual.

“Where are we?” you asked quietly, still holding onto Sukuna as you slowly observed the room around you.

Behind you, Choso and Yuki stepped through the wall as well. The moment Yuki opened her eyes her jaw practically dropped. 

“Woooooooow!” she gasped. “Toji, where are we?!?”

Even Choso looked stunned. His eyes moved across the yellow walls and endless hallways, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. 

Everyone looked amazed, baffled. No words could properly describe the feeling. Nothing about this place made sense. It felt real. The carpet beneath your feet was real. The buzzing lights overhead were real. The stale air filling your lungs was real. 

Suguru ultimately succeeded in releasing Satoru from the cords. Satoru joyfully raised the headphones right away.

“I hope these work when we get back.”

“Dumbass,” Suguru muttered.

In the corner, Toji finally finished adjusting his camera. A small red light blinked on, indicating that it was recording. Of course he was recording.

“Alright.” Toji cleared his throat. “I did walk around for a bit, but not much. Follow me.”

The group slowly gathered together. Nobody seemed particularly eager to wander off alone. Not in a place like this.

As everyone followed behind, a strange uneasiness settled over you. The room was silent aside from the constant buzzing of the fluorescent lamps overhead. No air conditioning. No distant voices. It reminded you of standing inside an empty building after closing hours, except worse. The air was strangely still. Not oppressive. Not heavy. Almost as if something was missing from it.

As Toji led everyone towards one of the hallways, your eyes drifted to a sign hanging from the wall.

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

The sign looked old, worn, and oddly out of place. Authorized personnel, you thought. Personnel for what exactly? Who would even work somewhere like this? You wondered if this place had once been part of the mall. Maybe some forgotten section hidden behind the walls. Maybe a store that had closed long before everything else.

“Authorized personnel only...” Choso read aloud. “Seems this is our cue to turn back now.”

“Nonsense!” Satoru immediately protested. “We just got here. We have to investigate this place.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea...” Choso replied.

Toji stopped walking then turned around to face everyone. “Okay.” his expression became more serious. “From this point on we're continuing further inside. If anyone wants to turn back, do it now.”

Nobody answered. 

You found yourself instinctively moving a little closer to Sukuna.

Suguru and Satoru seemed completely unconcerned. If anything, they looked eager to continue. Satoru's eyes kept wandering down the hallway as if he expected to find something exciting around the next corner. Suguru wasn't much different. While he appeared calmer, there wasn't any sign that he planned on turning back.

On the other side, Choso looked significantly less enthusiastic. His arm remained around Yuki's shoulders while his eyes studied the hallway ahead. The place clearly bothered him too. The problem was that curiosity always outweighed fear.

"What do you want to do?" Sukuna asked quietly, leaning closer so only you could hear.

You hesitated. The sensible answer was obvious. Turn around, go back through the wall, and pretend none of this ever happened. Yet when you imagined leaving now, a different feeling settled in your chest; regret, because if you left, you would never know what this place was. You would spend the rest of your life wondering what existed beyond these hallways.

“I don't know…” you admitted honestly. “I don't feel too sure about this place, but…” your eyes drifted towards the corridor. “I'm intrigued.”

Sukuna nodded. “I feel the same… I think I want to stay too. But I'm not leaving you here alone.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. 

You looked down at the carpet beneath your feet. Every part of your brain was screaming at you to turn around. Yet your feet refused to move. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was stubbornness. Or maybe seeing everyone else standing here made the decision easier. Whatever the reason, you eventually sighed. 

“We should stay.”

“You sure?”

You bit your lip. Not really, but you nodded anyway. “I think so.”

“Alright then.”

The two of you looked back at Toji.

Across the room, Choso let out an exaggerated groan. “Fiiiiine.” he threw one hand into the air. “We're staying too.”

Yuki immediately brightened up. “Really?”

“No.” Choso deadpanned. “I was planning on leaving you here.”

Yuki smacked his arm.

Satoru laughed. “Excellent decision. I knew you guys would come around.”

“You say that like you didn't sprint through a mystery wall after Suguru without thinking.” Sukuna said.

“I thought about it.”

“No, you didn't.”

“I thought about it very quickly.”

“That's not how thinking works.”

Meanwhile, Toji had already turned the camera back to himself. The red recording light continued blinking. Part of you wondered how he could still be focused on filming at a time like this. Then again this was probably the biggest discovery of his entire career. Millions of people explored abandoned buildings. Nobody discovered impossible worlds hidden inside walls.

“Okay…” Toji spoke into the camera. “We don't know where we are. I found this weird light inside the abandoned underground mall. When I approached it, it led me here.” he slowly turned the camera at the group.

Satoru immediately waved. “Hi mom.”

“You think your mom is watching this?” Suguru asked.

“She definitely will after this.”

Ignoring them, Toji continued. “Me and my friends are going to see what's back here. Hopefully something interesting.”

The moment he finished speaking, he stepped beyond the warning sign. The rest of the group exchanged uncertain glances before following after him.

As soon as you crossed beyond the sign, a strange feeling settled in your stomach. Nothing changed. The walls remained yellow. The lights continued to softly buzz. The carpet felt exactly the same beneath your shoes. But something felt as though you had crossed an invisible line, like the sign had been more than a warning.

The place was huuuge, endless,  no matter where you went there was just another opening taking you somewhere else. Every room seemed connected to another, every corridor opening into two more, every turn revealing another section of yellow walls and buzzing lights. It almost felt as if the place was constantly unfolding in front of you. No matter how long you walked, there was always something beyond the next room waiting to be discovered.

At first there was nothing, just big rooms that would echo the footsteps or noises someone made. The group kept quiet, looking at everything in bewilderment and baffled by what they were seeing. Every now and then someone would stop to stare at a wall for a little longer than necessary or glance down a corridor stretching into the distance. The place didn't feel real. It felt like a dream someone had forgotten to wake up from.

At some point, Satoru—as usual—began some meaningless chat, making stupid remarks and occasionally getting a response. The sound of conversation helped. It made the endless rooms feel a little less empty, a little less unsettling. Even if half of what came out of Satoru's mouth was nonsense, it was still better than listening to nothing.

A few corridors connecting the rooms were completely dark, but thankfully the rooms from both ends and Toji's camera flashlight shined inside. Even so, every time the group crossed one of those darker hallways, you found yourself walking a little faster without realizing it. The darkness felt different here. Not threatening exactly, but unnatural. 

As the group went deeper and deeper, stranger things started appearing.

There was furniture, but it was all wrong: a table was halfway finished, chairs didn't have their legs, lamps were going through the walls, a desk was stuck on the ceiling, everything was just wrong. It felt like someone had tried to photocopy a room and the image came out distorted. A copy of a copy that kept degrading each time it was reproduced. The longer you looked at those objects, the more uncomfortable they became. Everything looked familiar enough for your brain to recognize it, but wrong enough to make you wish you hadn't looked so closely.

The entrances got weird over time too. At first they were just long empty entrances, but then they got odder. A small square on the center of the wall took you somewhere else. A really slim rectangle led to another corridor. There were rooms completely dark. A piano stuck on the floor. A car that had crashed into one of the walls, dark smoke dust around it. Based on the model of the car, it must've happened years ago. Yet there was no sign of the driver. No belongings. No indication that anyone had ever been there.

“Hellooooo? Is anyone here???” Satoru stretched out his voice, the noise vibrating and resonating throughout the rooms.

As the group went deeper and deeper, more things started appearing. In some places, there were cameras on the doorways with cardboard cutouts of a caveman saying hello in multiple languages. Drawings started appearing on the walls, usually point marks or arrows leading the way. Toji, acting as the group's leader, followed them without much hesitation.

The place felt endless, like a maze. It reminded you of a labyrinth but without the Minotaur... well, at least you hadn't seen one yet. Hopefully things stayed that way too.

Over time, as you continued exploring with the group, your anxieties began calming down. The longer you were here, the more your mind started forgetting the idea that there was something else lurking somewhere within these endless rooms. Perhaps this was proof that once you faced your fears, things became less scary. And they did. What had once felt overwhelming now felt strangely familiar. The yellow walls no longer made your stomach twist. The constant buzzing slowly faded into the background. You were more at peace now, even cracking jokes with Satoru and Yuki every once in a while.

“All these empty rooms, they could build apartments here.” Yuki joked as she looked around one of the larger spaces.

“Would you move in?” you asked her.

“Hmmm...” Yuki thought about it for a second, placing a finger against her chin. “I think I would, though they seriously need to change the lighting and wallpaper. All this yellow is not it. Reminds me of piss.”

You and Satoru immediately burst out laughing. Even Suguru let out a low chuckle. Only Sukuna, Toji, and Choso remained quiet.

“Heyyy, brighten up.” Satoru reached over and shook Choso's shoulder.

“Satoru... let go.”

“What? I'm not doing anything.”

“We need to stay focused.”

“You're too tensed up dude, chill. Nothing is going to happen.”

“You don't know that.” 

“If it did, it would've happened already.”

Choso grunted. His response felt different; not annoyed but tired. Over the last hour, he had slowly spoken less and less. While everyone else occasionally got distracted by the bizarre things around them, Choso remained alert. Constantly looking around. Constantly checking hallways. Constantly making sure Yuki remained nearby. The deeper they ventured into the place, the less comfortable he seemed.

From the front Toji called out, “Can you guys keep it quiet? I'm still recording.”

Satoru looked at him and immediately let go of Choso's shoulder, raising both hands. “Alright, alright, sorry...” he whispered before adding under his breath, “party pooper...”

Toji ignored him.

On the walls even more signs started appearing, and Toji seemed far too invested to stop following them. Every new arrow felt like a clue. Every new marking felt like evidence that someone else had been here. He continued leading the group through more and more rooms, the camera constantly rolling as he documented everything. Random holes had started appearing in the floors too, forcing everyone to watch where they stepped.

Eventually the arrows led everyone to a wall covered in scribbles.

The moment you saw it, the atmosphere changed. Unlike the previous markings, these weren't simple arrows or directions. They felt desperate. Messages had been written all over the wallpaper using different colors and different handwriting.

the sound doesn't stop

it knows your fears

it hears me

it hears me

it hears me

God closed its eyes

There were handprints pressed against portions of the wall. A strange smiling face had been drawn near the center, its expression somehow making your skin crawl despite how simple it looked. Near the top—far too high for an average person to comfortably reach—someone had drawn a window with trees and a bright sun outside.

Beneath it another message had been written: if you see it don't move, don't scream, don't breathe. Stay still

You felt your stomach tighten.

At both ends of the wall were more arrows.

The arrow on the right read: Habitable Zone

The arrow on the left read: The End

“Huuuh...” Toji slowly recorded everything on the wall, taking his time documenting every message and drawing. “Habitable Zone or The End...” he muttered. “Well, I imagine The End is just the end of this.”

Nobody said. The lights continued buzzing, but louder now. 

Choso finally spoke. “Can't we go through the other side?” he asked, looking around. “We've explored enough and I don't want to take my chances pushing this further. We should all go back. I'm tired, and I'm sure it's pretty late by now.”

“What?” Yuki looked over at him. “You want to go already?”

“Yes...” Choso answered. “I think we should all return.”

“No way dude, this is all too fun and mysterious.” Satoru immediately blurted out.

“Yeah Choso...” Yuki agreed. “We just got here. No way you're tired already. Besides, this is all too cool to quit now.”

Choso exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yuki.” his voice sounded more serious this time, more commanding. “We've been here for more than an hour. There's nothing to see, and to be honest, I don't like being here.” his eyes briefly wandered around the room. “I know you're excited and all, but I don't feel comfortable being here. Honestly, I'd appreciate it if you didn't disagree with me on this one and just came back.”

“Choso.” Yuki scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You say that every time I’m out with your friends. You always want to leave before everyone else.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.” Yuki crossed her arms. “I didn’t say anything sooner because I didn’t want to start an argument, but it feels like you’re being too overprotective. We’re fine. Nothing is going to happen.” she gestured towards you. “She is here too, and I barely get to hang out with her because we’ve all been so busy lately. Can’t you please do this for me once?”

Choso stared at her. “You don’t understand.” 

“No, you don’t understand.” Yuki immediately shot back. The frustration in her voice caught everyone off guard. “Every single time we go somewhere you act like something terrible is about to happen.”

“Because something could happen.”

“But it hasn’t.”

“Yet.” the answer came instantly. Even Choso himself seemed surprised by how harsh he sounded.

Yuki stared at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means look around, Yuki.” Choso spread his arms. “We walked through a wall. We’re in some place nobody understands. We have no clue where we are. We don’t know how big this place is. We don’t know if there’s something else here with us.”

“Exactly.” Yuki replied. “We don’t know. We don’t know anything. Which is why I want to keep exploring.”

Choso let out a disbelieving laugh. “Exploring?”

“Yes.”

“You’re treating this like some vacation.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

The argument was escalating now. You could feel it. Neither of them were really listening anymore.

“You know what?” Yuki stepped closer. “I’m tired of you acting like I can’t make decisions for myself.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It is.”

“No it isn’t.”

“You literally just asked me to leave because you don’t like being here.”

“Because I’m worried!” the words came out louder than intended. 

The entire room fell silent; even Satoru stopped smiling. Toji lowered the camera. 

Choso closed his eyes, immediately regretting it, but the words were already out. “I’m worried.” he repeated more quietly. “I’ve been worried since we walked through that wall.”

Yuki’s expression softened slightly, only for a second, then she looked away. “Choso...”

“No.” he shook his head. “I’m serious.” his hand moved through his hair. He looked exhausted. Not physically, but emotionally. “I don’t like this place.” his eyes wandered toward the hallway labeled The End, then to the one labeled Habitable Zone, then back to Yuki. “Every room looks the same. We don’t know where we are. We don’t know where we’re going. We don’t know if we can even find our way back.”

The lights continued humming.

“Maybe I’m overreacting.” Choso admitted. “Maybe I am.”

Yuki remained quiet.

“But I don’t want to keep doing this.”

Yuki looked down at the floor, then back up at him. “And I don’t want to leave.”

Choso’s shoulders dropped. For several seconds neither moved. Neither spoke. The two simply stared at each other. Then Choso slowly let go of her hand.

“Fine.” the word sounded defeated. “Do whatever you want.”

“Choso—”

“No.” he shook his head. “I’m not your father. You’re old enough to do whatever you want.” he turned and began walking away. Towards The End. Away from the argument. Away from the room. Away from the buzzing lights that never seemed to stop.

Yuki watched him leave. Something flickered across her face. Regret. Hurt. Frustration. You couldn’t tell. She turned around too. “Fine,” and started walking in the opposite direction.

“Uhhh guys...” you mumbled. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to split up.”

Neither of them listened. They just kept walking. Further and further away. Disappearing into separate hallways.

“Orrr you can just ignore me.”

The rest of the group remained standing there. 

Satoru looked at the corridor Choso disappeared into. Suguru looked at Yuki. Then both looked at each other.

Suguru massaged his forehead. “Satoru, go get Choso and convince him to come back. I’ll go get Yuki and do the same.”

Satoru groaned dramatically. “Alriiiighttt... didn’t think I’d end up playing babysitter in an interdimensional piss maze.”

Despite the argument, a short laugh escaped Suguru. “Just go.”

Satoru saluted. “Yes, sir.”

The two immediately headed in opposite directions, chasing after the couple before they managed to get too far. And just like that, the group became even smaller.

“Of course this had to happen.” Sukuna muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The room felt much larger than before. Only moments ago there had been seven people standing together. The conversations, the jokes, the occasional complaints from Satoru had made the place feel almost normal. Not safe exactly, but manageable. Now half the group had disappeared down separate hallways.

“Toji?” you looked over at him. “Are you, uhhh... going to get them?”

Toji didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the wall of messages. The camera stayed raised, recording it. His gaze moved across the arrows, the warnings, the scribbled notes left behind by people who had apparently been here before.

“Toji?” you repeated.

“Huh?”

Your voice seemed to snap him out of whatever thought process he had fallen into.

He looked over his shoulder. “Oh.” he blinked. “Nah.”

“Nah?”

“They’re all grown adults.” he shrugged. “They can take care of themselves.”

You stared at him. That answer wasn't reassuring at all. 

“But—”

“I imagine they'll come back here eventually.” Toji adjusted the camera settings while speaking. “So I'll just continue exploring for a bit before they get back.”

“You seriously don't care?”

“Ehhh...” Toji tilted his hand side to side. “Not really.”

Your jaw dropped slightly.

“Like I said, they're adults. My main focus here is getting footage, not looking after them.”

“Okayyy...”

Part of you wasn't sure whether to admire his confidence or be horrified by it. Maybe both.

Sukuna leaned closer to you. “You know they're usually not like this.” he whispered.

You immediately whispered back. “No kidding?”

Normally, Choso and Yuki were practically attached at the hip. Sure, they disagreed sometimes, but never enough to storm off in opposite directions. Suguru and Satoru definitely weren't the type to wander away from each other either. Something about this place seemed to amplify everything. Every irritation, every doubt, every uncomfortable thought, like the rooms quietly took whatever was already inside your head and turned the volume up.

“Anyways,” Sukuna continued, straightening up. “We should stay close to Toji.”

“Yeah....”

You looked down the hallway where Yuki had disappeared, then to the one Choso had taken. Neither of them were visible anymore. The corridors swallowed people surprisingly fast. One minute somebody was standing there. The next they were gone behind a corner.

A strange chill ran through you. For the first time since arriving, the size of this place truly began sinking in. If someone got lost here… how would you even find them? The thought lingered in the back of your mind as Toji started walking without waiting for anyone, without even checking whether the rest of the group was following. He simply picked a direction and kept moving.

Toji paced a few steps ahead of you and Sukuna, keeping some distance while still recording everything else with his camera.

Honestly, you were starting to regret tagging along. Sure, at first the idea had been exciting and you had completely lost your mind when he walked through the wall, but after spending all this time wandering around with nothing particularly interesting happening, it was starting to become boring. The rooms had felt mysterious at first, every hallway making your imagination run wild with possibilities, but after hours of walking through endless yellow rooms and identical corridors, the novelty was beginning to wear off.

You yawned. “I’m hungry.”

Sukuna chuckled softly. “Yeah, same here.”

You continued walking besides him, your footsteps muffled by the carpet beneath your feet. “You know, I’m starting to regret coming along.”

Sukuna dramatically gasped. “Are you saying I’m boring company?”

You giggled. “Well, it’s not you. I like spending time with you, it’s just that this is boring. We haven’t seen anything interesting, and after a while it gets old seeing basically the same rooms over and over again.” you reached over and held onto his hand.

“I get it.” Sukuna nodded. “Normally we’d find something interesting, but this has just been the same rooms with weird doorways and half-finished furniture.”

“You think Toji remembers how to get back?” you asked, glancing briefly at the front before looking back at him.

Sukuna scratched his ear before replying. “Probably not.”

“Figures. We should’ve left a trail or something.”

“Mhhm.” Sukuna nodded in agreement.

The two of you continued walking behind Toji. The cameraman seemed completely absorbed in whatever he was recording. Every now and then he'd stop to film a doorway, a strange piece of furniture, or one of the countless arrows painted across the walls before continuing onward.

“Hey?”

“Yeah?”

“You think the others are fine? I hope Choso and Yuki make up because it’ll be awkward if they break up. You know, us being friends with both. It always feels like you're forced to choose between one or the other.”

Sukuna snorted. “I get it, but they'll probably be okay. It’s not the first time they've argued before, and when they make up they act like it's their first time falling in love.”

“To be fair, they act like that all the time.” a small smile tugged at your lips. “But seriously, I don't think it was a good idea to split up. Whatever. At least Satoru and Suguru are with them and Toji's not alone.”

“Agreed.”

The conversation died down. At first you didn't notice what had changed. Everything around you looked exactly the same, yet something here in this room felt different. The hairs along your arms slowly stood up. Your stomach tightened. The air had grown colder. Not dramatically colder. Just enough for you to notice, enough for your body to notice before your mind did. Your breathing suddenly felt heavier. The uneasy feeling you had experienced when first entering the wall came rushing back stronger than before.

“You feel that too?” you stopped walking, tightening your grip around Sukuna’s hand.

“Yes...” Sukuna immediately stopped as well. His eyes scanned the surrounding rooms, the entrances, corners, dark hallways, every possible direction. It wasn't panic. It was caution.

Ahead of you, Toji paid no attention to either of you. He remained completely absorbed in recording, almost captivated by whatever thoughts were running through his head. You wondered how the camera was still running, but knowing Toji he probably had enough spare batteries stored away to survive the apocalypse.

The three of you continued walking. The temperature seemed to drop another degree. The lights buzzed louder. The silence felt ominous. Toji walked inside a dark corridor. Without warning he took a sharp turn around the corner. The moment he did, his entire body froze. His posture straightened instantly. The camera lowered. For a second he simply stared.

“What the hell?!” his voice echoed through the hallway, then he ran straight into the darkness.

You and Sukuna looked at each other confused and alarmed.

“What?”

“Hey Toji, wait up!”

Neither of you received a response.

You and Sukuna ran after him. By the time you reached the entrance of the dark corridor, Toji was already gone. Only the sound of his footsteps remained, fading somewhere deeper within the maze.

“Let’s go check it out.” Sukuna said. “We can’t lose him.”

You nodded.

The two of you hurried down the hallway. The darkness swallowed the corridor between the pools of light at either end. Your footsteps echoed as you followed the direction Toji had gone, turning the corner and entering the next room he wasn't there. 

This new room was enormous. Much larger than the previous ones. Several entrances branched off in different directions, each one leading somewhere else. You and Sukuna stopped in the middle, looking around and listening for Toji, but nothing came.

“Fuck!” Sukuna cursed. “Where the fuck could he have gone?”

“Toji?” you called out. “Where are you?” your voice echoed down one of the tunnels.

No answer came back, only silence.

“Great.” Sukuna sighed.

“What do we do now?”

Sukuna stood there for a minute, thinking. “We should probably look for him. As much as I want to, we can’t just abandon him.”

You huffed. “So where do we go from here?”

The both of you slowly turned, studying each entrance. Trying to decide. Trying to guess. Trying to find some clue.

“Through here.” Sukuna finally pointed to one of the openings.

“Are you sure?”

“No.” he immediately admitted. “But what other choice do we have? We can’t just stay here.”

“Okay...” you slowly inhaled and exhaled.

“Come,”

The two of you walked towards the passageway on the left, stopping briefly at the entrance. For a moment neither of you moved, silently contemplating the decision before finally stepping through. Almost immediately the temperature returned to normal, or at least as normal as it could be in a place like this. The tension in your shoulders eased slightly. The feeling of being watched faded.

You exchanged a look with Sukuna. “I hope we find him.”

“I hope so too.”

Just as every other hallway this one seemed to lead to more pointless rooms. The two of you continued wandering through the maze. Occasionally there would be a random hole in either the ceiling or the floor leading to even more pointless rooms beyond. Every turn was similar to the last. Every corridor seemed to stretch forever before opening into another room that looked the same. Unfortunately, neither of you had been able to find Toji.

At first you had been hopeful. Every new room made you think maybe he would be standing around the corner recording something weird for his channel. Every distant shadow made you wonder if it was him. But after spending who knows how long walking through endless hallways, you were finally forced to admit the truth. He was lost.

“This was such a terrible idea.” you grunted, facepalming yourself.

Sukuna snorted. “You're only realizing that now?”

“Yes.”

Your legs kept moving, taking yet another turn. The conversation died off again as the two of you wandered through another corridor. The lights buzzed faintly overhead. The carpet muffled your footsteps. Everything felt strangely still, which at this point became normal.

Both of you stopped in a new room, but this one was different. Well, not completely different. It still had the same yellow wallpaper and the same unsettling atmosphere. Yet it was undeniably different. The room was slightly larger than the others. A row of pendant lamps hung from the ceiling, each spaced evenly apart. Bright red signs screamed 'EVERYTHING 50% OFF!' from different corners of the room. There were different types of tables: coffee tables, console tables, round tables and dining tables. There were couches: vintage camelbacks, ottomans, recliners, sofas and armchairs. Beyond them sat complete bedroom displays with different bed frames, nightstands and dressers arranged neatly together. It looked like an actual place, a setting.

“Wait...” your voice came out softer. “Is this supposed to be a furniture store?”

“Ikea?” Sukuna said.

You gently smacked his chest. “Not the time for jokes.”

“I wasn't joking.” 

He looked completely serious. You rolled your eyes.

“Even so, why would this be here?”

Sukuna shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno.”

You both slowly began circling the room, staying close to each other while investigating. You peeked inside drawers. Opened cabinet doors. Checked behind furniture displays. Part of you hoped there would be something useful here. A clue. A note. Anything that could explain where you were or where Toji had disappeared to. Unfortunately, the furniture store seemed just as abandoned as everything else. He was such an idiot for running off like that.

“You know what this whole place makes me feel like?” Sukuna suddenly said.

You glanced over at him. “What?”

“It makes me feel like I'm this forty year old guy stuck in a shitty job after my wife kicked me out of the house and I never got to accomplish my dreams.”

You immediately laughed.

Sukuna made a very dramatic face, closing his eyes, furrowing his eyebrows while somehow still grinning. One fist rose into the air, clenched tightly as if he were starring in some low-budget drama.

Slowly opened his eyes again. “You wouldn't kick me out of our house, right?”

The two of you didn't even have a house yet. You just lived together in a small apartment your father had let you borrow while the two of you scraped together enough money for a place of your own. Having only recently graduated from college and started your lives together, things had been challenging at times, but so far you had managed.

“Hmmm.... I don't know.” you placed a finger against your cheek, pretending to think about it. “If you start acting like an asshole to me, I would.”

“Well then, I'll be sure to be careful.”

“Good boy.” you patted his head.

Sukuna rolled his eyes and put on an annoyed expression, but after spending so many years together you already knew he was only putting on a show. The truth was that he loved when you coddled and praised him, but only when alone. If you were ever to do this in front of his friends you were sure he’d kill you and them. 

The two of you simply wandered around the store together; opening more drawers, testing recliners, making fun of ugly furniture designs. It was oddly normal. Almost enough to make you forget you were trapped in an interdimensional maze hidden behind reality.

Sukuna's expression slowly shifted into a devilish grin. That immediately made you suspicious.

“Since we're lost and Toji is not around...” he reached into his pocket. “I have a wonderful idea.” he pulled out his phone.

“Which is?” you narrowed your eyes.

Sukuna slowly approached you, placing one hand on your lower back and pulling you closer until the two of you were face-to-face.

“Well, we're alone and there's tons of mattresses laying around.” he gestured to the bedroom displays with his free hand. “I think you can figure out the rest.” his grin widened. He looked far too pleased with himself.

“Seriously? Now?”

“Why not?”

You shook your head. “We're lost in a nightmare.”

“Exactly.”

“That is not helping your argument.”

“It is from my perspective.” he laughed. “Think about it. Nobody’s around, so it’s not like they’re going to notice. Besides, imagine the views we’ll get if we fuck in a place like this.”

You looked around at the strange space surrounding you. It would be like the two of you were having sex in a furniture store, but something about this place wasn’t right.

You bit your lip, thinking it over before eventually giving in. “Okay... just make sure you crop out our faces when you upload it.”

Sukuna walked over to one of the bedroom sets, clicking record on his phone and placing it on top of a dresser to capture both of you as well as the weird-looking background.

“Of course. I always blur out our faces when I upload.” he started taking off his shirt, unbuckling his belt and pulling down his pants.

You laid on the bed, taking off your clothes as well and getting ready into position. “You even have signal on that thing? Mine wasn’t working earlier.”

“Nah, but after we get out of here I’ll upload it to our shared account. You know, surprisingly, Twitter pays well.”

“Makes sense. People are horny over there.”

You spread out on the bed, shifting to the side with your legs apart. From over your shoulder, you could already see the outline of his erection pressing against the fabric of his boxers. It suddenly became very obvious why he had suggested the idea in the first place. The man had been hard this entire time.

A soft giggle escaped you.

Sukuna leaned over your body, leaving kisses across your face as he immediately got to work, gently pressing his fingers against your clothed womanhood.

A soft sigh escaped you. Neither of you seemed concerned about the endless maze. 

Your hand found its way to his dick, slowly stroking him as he continued kissing your cheek and jaw.

The familiar intimacy eased some of the tension that had settled into your body over the past few hours. Being trapped should have felt terrifying, but with him close, it became easier to forget.

Moving across the bed, you came face-to-face with his hardened cock. A smile found its way to your lips as your hand wrapped around his shaft, tapping it gently against your lips before bringing it in your mouth. Slow, steady motions followed as your head bobbed around him, savoring the salty taste of his precum. A deep breath filled your lungs before taking him fully, his tip reaching the back of your throat while your lips brushed lightly against his darkened pink pubes.

“Hmmmphh…” you moaned around him, the vibrations making him shudder as his hand tightened around the back of your head.

Looking up, you watched his jaw hang open as he breathed deeply, eyes squeezed shut while he gently guided your head back towards him each time you pulled away. Fighting the urge to gag, you focused on steadying your breathing against the feeling of him fully sheathed in your mouth.

“Fuuuck…” he groaned, opening his eyes slowly to look down at you.

Without breaking eye contact, you slowly pulled away from him. His hand remained resting on your head but made no move to pull you back. Instead, his gaze sharpened, something darker settling behind it.

Suddenly your hips were in his hands. 

With a firm grip, he turned you around until your face was buried in the pillows before dropping to his knees and tugging your panties down. Strong hands settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place as he dragged his tongue across your slit. A bite of your lip did little to muffle the sounds escaping you. Fingers tightened around the pillow instead, knuckles slowly turning white against the fabric. Sukuna pressed the tip of his wet muscle on your clit, flicking your bud rapidly before sliding it back to your entrance. The juices spilled onto his mouth as he continued savoring them, like a thirsty man who hadn’t had water in over twenty-four hours. Sukuna continued. You bit your lip, trying—and miserably failing—to quiet down the moans. Your hands clutched the pillow tightly.

Without a warning Sukuna pulled away. You turned your head to look at him, a smirk pressed on his face.

He pumped his dick three times before guiding himself inside you. 

A sharp breath caught in your throat. Your eyes widened at the familiar intrusion as he slowly filled you, every inch making your body tense before gradually giving way. Not that you weren't used to Sukuna, but every time he pushed inside it still sent a sudden shock through you, that brief moment of adjustment making your fingers tighten against the sheets.

“Ohh, baby….” you moaned, pressing yourself harder into the pillows while shifting your thighs upward, spreading them further to give him more room. 

Maybe it was because the place felt so empty. Maybe it was because everything around felt artificial. Whatever the reason, the need to be close suddenly felt stronger than usual. 

Too impatient to give either of you much time to think, Sukuna immediately set a steady rhythm of thrusts. A low groan escaped him as one hand remained anchored on your lower back, keeping you close while the other traveled upwards to unclasp your bra. The garment slipped away seconds later, his touch lingering before that same hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there as if he couldn't bear to put any distance between the two of you. 

Sukuna kept thrusting, his pace slowly losing whatever restraint he had before, each movement growing rougher and more desperate than the last.

Unable to stay pressed against the pillows any longer, you pushed yourself upright until your back rested against his chest. One hand found its way to his neck before tangling into his hair, holding on for support as the uneven rhythm of your breaths mixed together.

“You feel good…”

Sukuna was pounding into you when he abruptly pushed your body forward, the force making him slip out and leaving you feeling suddenly empty. He climbed onto the bed sideways, his legs facing the phone’s camera.

Immediately, you knew what to do. 

You moved over, spreading your legs on either side of him as you sat on top. From the vanity mirror, you could see both yourself and him beneath you. 

Settling into a steady rhythm, you found your pace. The knot in your stomach tightened little by little, each movement making it harder to focus on anything else. Around you, the lights continued their low flickering, the cold air of the furniture store contrasting sharply with the heat building between your bodies. Both of your noises mixed together, uneven breaths and quiet sounds filling the otherwise empty room. It made it easier to forget where you were.

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” Sukuna groaned. His hands snaked over to your breasts, fondling them. He had once jokingly called them his “personal stress balls,” though judging by the way he looked at you now, there was nothing particularly humorous about it.

A shaky laugh almost escaped you before it dissolved into another breathless sound.

The longer it went on, the more restraint seemed to leave him.

“Babe…” you whined, pressing your nails on his pectorals, leaving tiny scratches that would fade by morning. “I’m going to cum soon…”

Something flashed across his face at the confession. His grip tightened. He pulled away again, forcing a frustrated sound from your throat before guiding you onto your back. In one swift motion, he lifted your hips and repositioned himself, wasting little time before pulling you close again. Sukuna groaned loudly, any remaining restraint disappearing as his pace became increasingly relentless.

“I’m about to—” you cried out, the words breaking apart before you could even finish them.

“Cum with me.” he whispered into your ear, his voice rough and husky.

The request sounded less like an order and more like a plea. Something in his tone sent a shiver through you.

His grip tightened instinctively, holding you closer as if putting distance between the two of you was physically impossible. Every uneven breath, every sound, every desperate movement seemed to blur together until there was nothing left beyond the overwhelming need for each other.

The two of you came apart at the same time.

For several seconds neither of you could do anything except breathe. Both breaths came uneven and ragged. Sukuna practically collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest pressing against your back as he struggled to catch his breath, his forehead resting briefly against your shoulder.

He placed a kiss on your cheek, sweat still dripping down his forehead.

“You stink.” you murmured against the pillows.

“Like you smell any better.”

The two of you chuckled at the meaningless exchange.

Sukuna painfully moved off you and sat besides you, his back pressed on the headboard. “Wish I had a cig right now.” 

“You think this place has showers? I could go for one right now.” 

Sukuna sighed, getting off the bed and tossing your clothes back to you before grabbing his own and pulling them on. “Here, put these on before the others come. And no, I don't think so. Well, I haven't seen any, but if I did I'm definitely thinking about doing a part two for this.” 

He grabbed the phone from the top of the dresser, clicking the red button to stop the recording before walking back over to the bed. “Uhhh, I'll edit it later.”

Opening the gallery, he gave the video a quick review before making any major changes, like blurring out both your faces.

“Okay...” you lazily reached across the bed, grabbing your clothes and painfully pulling them back on. “You know, next time you don't have to be so rough.”

He paused the video and looked up, giving you a warm smile. “Sorry, angel.” he resumed the footage.

You cuddled against his side and closed your eyes, enjoying the chance to rest. For the first time in hours, neither of you were walking. Neither of you were searching. Neither of you were worrying about endless hallways or where the others had gone off to. 

The buzzing lights in the background seemed to grow louder and louder. 

Sukuna went quiet for a second, then asked, “Wait... what is that...?” his voice was softer now, kinda confused.

You opened one eye.

Sukuna brought the phone closer to his face and increased the brightness. “Hey babe, do you see this thing?” he shook your shoulder and flipped the screen to you.

Blinking away your exhaustion, you squinted at the footage. “No...? Is there supposed to be something?”

Sukuna frowned. His finger tapped a specific spot on the screen. “Right here in the corner. Doesn't the background look weird to you?”

You looked again, harder this time. The footage showed a dark hallway splitting into three directions: forward, left, and right. There was nothing unusual, at least nothing you could see.

“No. I don't see anything. What do you see?”

His expression slowly shifted. Curiosity. Confusion. Concern. Without answering, he stood up from the bed.

“Ryo?”

With his phone in hand, he began walking towards that same darkened corner visible in the recording. His figure disappeared into the shadows.

“Babe, come back here. There's nothing over there.” you lazily waved a hand, your face still pressed against the cheap cotton sheets.

No answer came. For a few seconds everything was silent. Then suddenly a loud terrifying scream. The sound echoed throughout the furniture store. 

Every hair on your body stood upright. A wave of nausea rolled through your stomach.

“Sukuna!” you sat upright immediately. The right part of your brain fought to take control. It was probably a joke, a prank. It wouldn't have been the first time your boyfriend decided to mess with you after sex.

“Ryomen, come back here!”

Nothing, only the noise of the ceiling lamps now becoming louder than before. 

The furniture store remained perfectly still. Tentatively, you climbed off the bed slowly. Each step felt heavier than the last as you approached the same darkened corner he had disappeared into. The shadows grew larger.

“Ryo, stop that. This isn't funny.” your voice came out smaller than intended. Your heart pounded violently against your ribs.

As you reached the doorway, your steps faltered, stopping before it. You tried your best to peer through the darkness, trying to find him, trying to hear something, anything, but there was nothing there. 

“Ryo... please come back. This isn't funny...” the bedsheet remained clutched tightly around your body as though it could somehow protect you.

Taking a shaky breath, you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself, trying your best to feel brave and step into the hallway. The darkness swallowed you almost immediately.

“Ryo... where are you?” your voice echoed into the corridor.

Still no answer from him.

From somewhere behind you a sound. A horrible screeching noise. Getting closer. The movements were fast, too fast. 

Your heart stopped. Spinning around, you caught a glimpse of something illuminated by the distant lights of the furniture store. It was a tall dark shape. Its limbs seemed to bend in ways they shouldn't. And it was charging directly at you.

You opened your mouth and screamed. The thing lunged, and everything went dark.

Dividers by: @\somebitchprobably-graphicdump

Note: Ngl I feel like this was a sloppy work, but tbh it's so hot out here I can barely do anything besides be in the pool. Myb guys u_u

[tteokdoroki]

aali speaking of meeting yuuji during the summer: at my pho place there are like 10 single people that eat there by themselves and the owner is always trying to set us up with each other :sob: anyways. sumemrtime yuuji and u end up really hitting it off

✩꒱ hot girl summer — ft. yuuji itadori .ᐟ

🏁 ꒰ ✩ suggestive ⋆ mdni ⋆ characters are adults. yuuji itadori & fem!reader. summer flings, flirting, confident reader, beach boy yuuji !! -> your summer plans of take out pho and otome games and love island are put on hold when a scheming restaurant owner decides to play matchmaker.

my head is literally spinninggggg oh my god!!!

sobs imagine ordering pho on the hottest day of summer so far, there are electric fans buzzing throughout the restaurant— chirping in between pockets of conversation as you wait for your food to arrive. it lands on the counter with a thunk! and you blink up from your phone where you’ve been checking the temperatures for your walk home — sheepish.

“uh… i ordered to go?”

“not today,” the old lady who knows you so well — who has your order memorised and charged you less on your bad days — shakes her head firmly. “eat in today. come sit.”

“but i have places to be —!” you nearly whine because all you want to do is go home, but you’re already wrapping your wired headphones around your phone and tucking it into the back pocket of your shorts.

she pushes your tray further along the island, hobbling along at a surprising pace for someone much older than you. “no you don’t. you’re going home to play your sad little boyfriend games and your sad little dating shows.” her tone as she directs you isn’t scathing but still firm, reminiscent of your elder relatives back home. “you’ve not no air con. sit. eat. the food is hot.”

for a moment, your mouth opens and closes — agape with shock. because it’s not just any dating show it’s love island … the hottest show of the summer! hot boys and hot girls and a love you can only dream of. any retort you had planned dies on your tongue as you clamber into the squeaky high top chair, red leather peeling and clinging to the backs of your thighs because of sweat. you sit. you eat. and then:

a laugh.

in search of the voice your head turns slightly — catching plumes of pink hair against golden skin, a boy with big Sony headphones wrapped around his neck and his shirt bunched up by his collarbones too. he’s laughing. at you!

and he’s hot. the kind of hot that feels hard to come by these days, he’s relaxed in nature, stylish from what you can tell — you count two ear piercings on the first look and two silvery ones on his chest if you ogle further — he dresses like the kind of boys you’d see on your screen in 2003. not to mention, the angle of his jaw is defined and sharp enough that it could cut if your finger dragged across its edge. you feel like he could be fun, something to tide you over until the easy breeze of september comes.

“somethin’ funny, pretty boy?” deciding to chance it, like one would when they decide to slip from the shade into the summer sun, you clear your throat and reach out to beach boy beside you.

yuuji looks up from his own steaming bowl of pho, grin loose on his lips that are lined with a gentle rouge from the spice. “you think ‘m pretty?”

“as much as you think i’m funny.” you snap your wooden chopsticks in two, rubbing them against each other. “i’m funny, right?”

he’s like a puppy, spine straightening at full alert in the same way a puppy would when offered a treat. “super, soo funny,” the pink haired boy grins, your stomach curls in on itself with want. he’s so fucking cute. “whatcha got there?”

“the special!” a shuffle of your seat and you’re near, sneakers kicking his under the table, knees close to touching. chopsticks swirl in your bowl and fresh coriander seeps into the heat of the air. who would have thought pho could be an aphrodisiac. “it’s the—”

“best thing on the menu, right?” yuuji laughs again and finishes for you — pressing his body closer into your little bubble. the boy smells like beach waves and sea air, he looks like your next catch. “my name’s—”

that old lady comes shuffling back as if she’s part of the conversation, an expert pulling her strings, which is working by the way. if you’d had any less decency you’d be walking him back to your apartment and keeping him there until you’re slick with a different kind of heat.

“his name is yuuji itadori. he comes here everyday. same time. he needs a girlfriend.” the old lady nonchalantly pushes a bottle of chilli sauce towards yuuji. “tired of seeing him in my shop.”

“gee thanks! i bring you good business!”

to bring him back to your conversation, you smile softly and slip your hands over his knees — playfully, feeling his skin burn under your touch. “you on the market, yuuji?”

“for you? any day,” attention returns to you, but he takes a long slurp of his noodles too. melting chocolate brown eyes traversing down your frame in an obvious manner. for once you understand what it feels like to be desired a tall glass of water. yuuji watches the twitch of your thighs as you cross your legs, beads of sweat that run down your tank top as you eat alongside him. “i like funny girls. pretty too.”

“so now i’m the pretty one?”

“the prettiest girl,” he checks you out once more, raw lips between his teeth whilst he ponders his next question. “you got a boyfriend?”

“shit, maybe i’m about to,” it slips out before you can stop it, that giddy giggle you get when you think you’ve met your soulmate in a stranger passing by. “he’s kinda cute. got pho on his face.”

“wipe it off for me?” yuuji leans in and you lick your thumb, swiping the corner of his mouth where sauce lies. “i want your number. be free on saturday for me please, i’m taking you out. you can’t say no.”

someone in the kitchen makes a sound of elation, the chatter in the restaurant ceases inquisitively but you’re too busy nodding a long with dream boat yuuji to care. you put your number in his phone and he texts you a time for your date so that you have his contact too.

“saturday, don’t be late.”

consider hot single girl summer cancelled.

end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © TTEOKDOROKI 2020-26. all fanfics & layouts belong to me. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai, or recommend elsewhere.

[eirasera]

Haunted by grief and unresolved obsession, you chase whispers of Geto Suguru to a cursed temple deep in the woods — not to stop him, but to see him again. To feel something again.

warnings - pre established consent, oral sex, rough sex, bondage, breeding kink, degradation kink, worship kink , toxic dynamic , emotional manipulation + mentions of murder (its geto duh)

there's aftercare uhhhh + post defection geto x f!reader , reader down bad (no bc same it's geto our pretty princess) , mdni + art by @/ectology on twitter

Your hands trembled the moment Yaga finished speaking. Another massacre. Another act of senseless violence tied to his name.

Geto Suguru.

You barely heard the rest of the room. The words melted into white noise, drowned beneath the surge of something heavy and suffocating. The weight of his name wrapped around your chest like iron chains—dragging you down into memory, into longing, into something darker than grief.

He had changed. God, he had changed so much. Whatever humanity had once flickered behind those sharp eyes and lazy smiles had twisted into something monstrous. That quiet confidence, once noble, had decayed into something cold and commanding. The allure he carried now wasn’t the kind that stirred hearts. It was the kind that devoured them.

You couldn’t help it; every spare moment, every breath not bound to duty, you spent chasing rumors. Each cursed site, each haunted village, every mangled whisper in the shadows—if it bore even the faintest scent of him, you followed. You didn’t care what anyone at Jujutsu Tech thought. It hadn’t felt like home since he left. Since the corridors stopped echoing with his low voice, his soft laughter, his presence always lingering just behind you like heat before a storm.

You missed him. You loved him. And worse—you needed him. Even if he was a murderer. Even if he was irredeemable. Even if he looked at you now and saw nothing but weakness to exploit. Even if finding him meant your death.

Because some sick, haunted part of you still believed there was something left inside him. Or maybe you just wanted to get close enough to burn in the fire he'd become.

So when a whisper in the rain led you deep into the forest, to a rotting temple heavy with cursed energy, you didn’t think twice.

The air itself buzzed—thick, oppressive, knowing. You stepped past the shattered gate on shaking legs, a blade strapped to your hip, and his name caught like a fever behind your teeth.

And then—

“I wondered when you’d come crawling back.”

The voice cut through the air like silk drawn over glass. Smooth. Deep. Cold.

You turned. There he stood. Older. Sharper. His beauty no longer soft — it had been carved into something terrifying. Something regal. Magnetic. Alluring. His hair had grown longer, half pulled into a messy bun. Loose black robes draped off his shoulders, revealing the taut, effortless strength beneath.

The smile he wore was slow, cruel, and didn’t touch his eyes—those ink-dark eyes that drank in every part of you like a curse taking root.

“Still chasing curses?” he murmured, voice like smoke. “Or have you come to offer yourself up to one?”

He walked past you slowly — unbothered, untouchable — and seated himself on what could only be called a throne. A raised platform of worn stone draped in black cloth and talismans, surrounded by lingering traces of death and cursed energy like incense in the air. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned his cheek into his hand, eyes fixed on you with idle amusement.

You stood frozen, heart pounding, soul fraying. youshouldvedrawnyourweaponyoushouldvespoken. You should’ve run.

But you didn’t. Because deep down, you already knew. Yes, you would offer yourself, even if it meant your ruin, even if it meant your end.

And he knew it too.

His smile curled just slightly. “I killed a monk this morning. Thought of you after.”

You swallowed hard, nails digging into your palms. “Why?” you managed to whisper.

Suguru tilted his head lazily, eyes narrowing just a touch. “Because the look in his eyes… right before the end? It reminded me of yours. That mixture of fear and devotion.” His gaze dragged over you, slow and dissecting. “It’s intoxicating.”

Silence crackled between you. And then his voice dropped, quieter, more intimate—like a noose tightening around your neck.

“So tell me, Jujutsu Tech Sorcerer… are you here to try and stop me?”

He let the question hang there like a trap. Or an invitation. Because you both knew the answer wasn’t about justice. It never had been. It was about him. Always him.

“I…” Your voice cracked in your throat. Your hands trembled, cold sweat forming on your palms as your eyes darted anywhere but him.

He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. He already knew everything the second your cursed energy entered the forest. He’d felt it the way a predator feels the breath of prey in the dark — familiar, trembling, his.

You reached for your weapon out of instinct, fingers brushing the hilt—pathetic, you thought. Your hand faltered, clenching and unclenching in useless hesitation. Your heartbeat pounded against your ribs like a caged animal.

“I don’t know…” you whispered, voice so small it was almost swallowed by the oppressive silence.

That slow, amused hum he gave in response almost didn’t sound human.

Geto leaned forward, elbow on his knee, chin resting in the cradle of his hand. His eyes were half-lidded, sharp with mock affection, glittering with something far more dangerous.

“You don’t know,” he echoed softly. “But you came all this way… trembling like that… blade at your side, heart in your throat.”

He paused, then laughed under his breath.

“And you still don’t know?”

You flinched when his cursed energy curled, just faintly — subtle, precise, like a hand around your throat. Not choking. Not yet. Just reminding you it was there.

“What were you hoping to find here?” he asked, tone like velvet dragged over broken glass. “Redemption? Closure? Or were you just desperate to see what I’ve become?”

He tilted his head.

“No, wait,” he murmured, voice dipping lower. “I think I already know. You came because some part of you missed how it felt… standing too close to something dangerous. Didn’t you?”

Your breath caught.

He smiled—slow and cold and correct. “Don’t look so ashamed,” he added, his voice nearly coaxing now, like he was speaking to a frightened animal. “You’re not the first who’s tried to justify obsession with virtue. But you?” He chuckled again, crueler this time. “You didn’t come to stop me. You came to belong to me again.”

The worst part? it sounded right. It felt right.

Even now, something in your chest pulsed at his words — raw, exposed, yearning.

Geto’s gaze softened by a sliver, just enough to unsteady you.

“You don’t need to be afraid of that,” he said. “You were always good at pretending you hated this part of me. But I saw it… even then. You wanted to be near the rot. To taste it. You just didn’t have the courage.”

He stood slowly—unfolding from his throne like a god descending, every movement deliberate. When he stepped toward you, you didn’t back away.

His presence swallowed everything. The cursed air, the tension in your spine, even the faint flicker of fight left in you.

He stopped just in front of you, gaze locked on yours.

“So let me ask again,” he whispered, his voice curling around you like smoke. “Why are you here?”

And this time, you had no answer.

Or maybe…You were just afraid to say the real one out loud.

You sucked in a breath. Forced yourself to square your shoulders, even as they threatened to shake under the weight of him. You had come this far. You weren’t going to fall to your knees just because he looked at you like that.

“I didn’t come to belong to you,” you said, voice tight, cracking around the edges but still standing. “I came to understand.”

He stared at you for a long, silent beat. Then he laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t cruel, not exactly. It was worse than that—knowing. He stepped in closer, the air shifting with him, his cursed energy brushing along your skin like a cold wind. You stood your ground, but your body betrayed you—shivering under the weight of it.

“Understand?” he repeated, like he was tasting the word. “You still think there’s something to understand? That there’s some tragic little reason buried in all of this you can stomach, just so it doesn’t break your heart to know who I really am?”

He leaned in, and your breath hitched when his face drew close to yours—not touching, just near enough for his voice to wrap around your throat.

“You don’t want to understand me,” he whispered. “You want to save me. Just like you always did. Just like everyone else who was too weak to let go.”

“I’m not weak,” you bit out. The words were soft, but the desperation beneath them screamed.

He smiled again. It was softer this time, almost pitying.

“No?” he murmured tilting his head slightly, eyes like a fox, tracing the lines of your face, the conflict playing out behind your eyes. “Then draw your blade. Kill me. Isn’t that what they trained you to do? Isn’t that what everyone at Jujutsu Tech would want from you?”

Your fingers twitched toward your weapon again, but you didn’t draw it.

Couldn’t. And he saw it.

“See?” he whispered. “You are mine. You never stopped being. You didn’t come here to kill me, or stop me. You came here because your world made no sense without me in it.”

Your heart pounded. You opened your mouth to speak, to deny it, to scream something righteous and clean and true—

But nothing came out.

Because deep down, you didn’t know if he was wrong.

Geto reached up slowly—watching you the entire time, giving you every chance to move, to flinch, to stop him—and brushed the back of his fingers against your jaw. Gentle. Reverent. Possessive.

“You don’t have to keep lying to yourself,” he said softly. “Not here. Not with me.”

You should’ve stepped back. You should’ve knocked his hand away. You should’ve done something, but you didn’t. Because his touch was familiar. Because your skin remembered him. Because every part of you ached with the time you spent pretending you had moved on.

“I missed you,” you whispered. The words slipped out like a wound tearing open all over again.

Something flickered in his eyes—brief, subtle. You might’ve imagined it. Might’ve wanted to imagine it.

He leaned closer, “I know,” he breathed. “I felt it… every time you chased after me like a phantom. Every time your cursed energy brushed mine from miles away. You called for me even when you didn’t know it.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to deny it. To scream. To shake him and drag the old Suguru out of the corpse he’d become.

But what good would it do?

He wasn’t hiding from you. He was inviting you, “You still think you're strong enough to resist me?” he asked, voice low, intimate. “You think there’s a version of this where you walk away untouched?”

You shook your head—not as an answer, but as a desperate attempt to keep your head above water, “I don’t know what I think anymore.”

He smiled, “Good,” he whispered, stepping even closer, now close enough for his breath to ghost across your skin. “Because thinking won’t help you here. Only wanting will.”

His hand moved to your throat—not tightening, just resting there, a reminder. His thumb brushed your pulse.

“And you want, don’t you?”

It wasn’t fair. The way he spoke. The way he looked at you. The way your body betrayed you in a thousand ways you couldn't control.

You squeezed your eyes shut, tried to pull away from it, tried to hold onto some last shred of defiance.

Your admission—small, broken, but real—hung between you like a spell finally cast.

"Yes."

And Suguru's smile... shifted. Gone was the cold amusement, the mocking tilt of his mouth. What replaced it was darker — hungrier. Like hearing you finally give in unlocked something feral behind his eyes.

He leaned in slowly, deliberately, and you felt the warmth of his breath as he whispered, almost lovingly—

“Say it again.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry under his fingers still resting on your neck. Your knees felt weak—maybe from his cursed energy curling tighter around you, maybe from your own shame twisting into want.

“Yes,” you breathed. “I want—”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t have to.

His mouth was on you the next second.

Hot, slow, inevitable. His lips pressed against yours with a force that wasn’t rushed—it was controlled, possessive. A kiss that tasted like a punishment you’d earned, like a secret finally dragged into the light.

You gasped into it, hands trembling as they reached for him—out of need, out of instinct. He caught your wrists before you could touch him, pulling back just enough to speak, his voice a murmur against your lips.

“No.” he paused before adding, “You don’t get to take. You get to receive.”

Then his mouth claimed yours again — harder this time. One hand slipped into your hair, tilting your head just where he wanted it, while the other pressed to the small of your back, dragging you flush against him.

You felt the weight of him. The restraint. The control.

You barely had a second to breathe before his lips trailed lower, kissing along your jaw, down your throat — biting, licking, marking. You shivered, head tipping back as he scraped his teeth against your pulse.

“Do you know how many nights I thought about this?” he murmured into your skin. “You... on your knees. On your back. Ruined.”

His hand slid lower, slow as sin, curling around your waist and yanking you tighter to him until you felt the hardness pressing against you. He rutted just once — subtle, purposeful — and you gasped.

He smiled against your neck.

“Still pretending you’re here for answers?” he breathed, voice thick with lust. “You came to surrender.”

And you had.

Your entire body screamed for it now — your body pulsing with need, the ache between your legs impossible to ignore.

You were unraveling fast.

And he hadn’t even undressed you yet.

You didn’t remember how you got on your knees.

One moment you were standing in the ruined temple, body trembling, brain screaming run, and the next — your knees hit the cold floor, and Geto Suguru was looking down at you like a god deciding what part of you to ruin first.

"Open your mouth,” he said simply, cock already hard and flushed and heavy in his fist.

And like some cursed reflex, you did—lips parted, tongue out, starved. He guided the tip of his cock to your mouth, brushing it over your lips, smearing precum across them like he was painting you in filth.

“Look at that,” he murmured. “Already drooling, and I haven’t even fucked your throat yet."

Then he pushed in.

Slow, but deep.

You choked immediately—his cock was thick, fattened by need and stretched taut with veins, and he didn’t stop until your lips were wrapped around the base and your nose was buried in the coarse hair at his groin.

Your throat spasmed. Your eyes watered. He held you there, one hand fisted tight in your hair, his hips twitching gently.

“Mm, yeah. That’s better. You remember how to take me.”

“Fuck, this mouth… made for worship.”

He began to move—slow at first, letting you adjust, then rougher, fucking your throat with deliberate, devastating strokes. Each time he bottomed out, your nose slammed into his pubic bone. You gagged around him, spit flooding your mouth and pouring from the corners of your lips in thick, glistening strings.

“That’s right,” he growled, jaw tight, eyes dark with lust. “Fucking choke on it.”

Your vision blurred from the sting in your throat, but your body didn’t care. Your cunt clenched around nothing, soaking your underwear, dripping down your thighs. You were so fucking wet, just from choking on his cock, from the growl in his throat, from how fucking mean he sounded.

He pulled out with a loud, sticky pop, strings of saliva clinging to his cock in long ropes.

“Strip. All of it. Let me see what’s mine.”

You scrambled to do so, fingers fumbling with buttons and bindings until you were bare—sweaty, breathless, flushed, shaking. He took his time, gaze dragging down your naked body like a curse being cast.

“Fucking perfect,” he murmured. “this pussy’s what I want.”

Then cursed energy snapped through the air.

You barely had time to flinch before it gripped you — tight, absolute, divine to his throne. Cursed energy threads coiled around your limbs, humming with his power. You gasped as they yanked your arms behind you, your wrists forced together and lashed to the back legs of the throne, high enough to arch your chest forward. Your ankles were pulled wide apart, each one secured to the outer edges of the carved footrest beneath his seat, forcing your legs open in a helpless, vulnerable sprawl.

You were splayed — kneeling on the seat of the throne itself, bent forward at the hips with your ass lifted and cunt completely exposed, your face pressed against the cold armrest, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. The bindings left no room for movement. You couldn’t even close your thighs, not even if you screamed.

“Look at this little fuckhole,” he murmured from behind, his voice hot against your skin as he stepped between your spread legs. His cock slapped wetly against your soaked folds, smearing your slick from clit to hole. “You're this wet just from sucking dick?”

You whimpered.

“Fucking perfect,” he said—and slammed into you.

“Aah—f-fuck—!” You screamed, back arching, bound limbs thrashing. He was huge, stretching you wide, splitting you open around his cock until it felt like you couldn’t take it, like you’d tear if he moved even once more.

“Tight little pussy,” he grunted. “Still greedy. Still mine.”

He didn’t give you time to breathe. He started fucking you immediately — deep, brutal, unrelenting strokes that made your tits bounce, made your ass slap against his thighs with wet, obscene lewd smacks. Your pussy squelched with every thrust, soaked and fluttering around him, unable to keep up with the sheer force of it.

“You come here acting like you want answers,” he growled, one hand on your throat now. “But what you really want is to get fucking bred. Used. Filled up."

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Y-you’re not,” you gasped. “You’re not—I want it."

He laughed, cruel and low, and his grip tightened around your throat. “Say it. Say you’re my whore. Say this pussy was made to take my cock.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m your whore,” you cried, voice broken, sobbing through pleasure. “My pussy’s yours, just for you, please—please keep fucking me—”

He did.

He fucked you so deep you could feel him in your guts, slamming into your cervix with every thrust, cursed energy coiling around your body like a noose, keeping you open, helpless, dripping.

Your clit rubbed against his pubic bone with every brutal snap of his hips, your orgasm building fast, your cunt clenching desperately.

“You gonna come already?” he sneered. “Fucking pathetic. That easy for me to ruin you?”

“Yes—yes, please, I need to come—”

“Not yet.”

You screamed when he froze your orgasm in place with cursed energy. It hurt—a white-hot ache blooming in your core as your body tried and failed to release. Your thighs shook violently, your pussy spasming uselessly around his cock.

“You don’t come until I say so. You’re just a fucktoy right now. A hole for me to fill.”

He spat in your mouth. You swallowed it.

Your body convulsed, tears streaming down your face, and still, he didn’t stop. He fucked you harder, faster, meaner, gritting his teeth as your cunt kept squeezing and sucking at him.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled. “Gonna fill this filthy little womb up. Gonna fucking breed you, ruin you, knock you up so you never forget who owns you.”

“Beg for it.”

“Please, Suguru—fuck—please come inside me—please—”

“Now you can come.”

And your orgasm exploded.

It hit you like a curse being shattered, like lightning tearing down your spine. Your pussy clenched violently around his cock, milking him, gushing slick and heat all over him. You screamed—loud, wrecked, raw—his name as he groaned deep in his throat and finally buried himself to the hilt.

He came with a low, guttural growl — hot, thick ropes of cum spilling into your cunt, flooding you, leaking out around his cock in creamy drips. He didn’t pull out. He stayed buried, grinding his hips just to push it all deeper.

“There it is,” he murmured against your ear, cock twitching inside your soaked cunt. “Fucking bred. Just like you wanted.”

Your body went limp in the bindings. Cum dripping down your thighs. Throat raw. Skin flushed. Mind gone.

And then—his fingers slid over your swollen clit again.

“We’re not done,” he said softly. “You don’t get to rest. Not until I’ve filled this cunt a few more times.”

“You wanted to be mine.”

“Now you’ll learn what it costs.”

But when you opened your mouth—Your body was still twitching.

Used. Wrecked. Cum leaking from your overstretched hole in slow, thick globs. Your thighs trembled from how hard he’d held them open. Your chest rose in uneven breaths, throat sore, skin flushed and damp with sweat.

And Geto didn’t say a word at first.

He just pulled out slowly—so slowly—watching your cum-filled pussy flutter around nothing, watching his seed spill out in creamy streams. He caught it with his fingers and pushed it right back in, lazily fucking it deeper into you.

“You’ll hold it,” he said, voice low and final. “Don’t waste a drop.”

You moaned weakly.

He finally released the cursed bindings with a flick of his wrist. You collapsed into a heap, arms useless, legs shaking, tears drying on your cheeks. You didn’t even have the strength to look at him.

But he moved beside you anyway, and pulled your limp body into his lap. And then—softness.

A cloth, damp and warm, wiped between your legs. He cleaned you slowly. Carefully. Tender, even when his touch was rough minutes before. He traced the angry bite marks he’d left on your inner thigh with his thumb. Rubbed slow circles into the bruises blooming around your hips.

“You break easy now,” he murmured, like it was a compliment. “Like a thing that belongs to someone.”

You blinked up at him through haze. Your voice was barely a whisper.

“Why are you… being nice?”

That earned a quiet chuckle from him. It wasn’t cruel. Not quite. But it was still sharp around the edges.

“You think this is kindness?” he asked. “You gave yourself to me. Every piece. So now it’s mine to ruin. Mine to care for. That’s not kindness.”

He lifted your chin with two fingers, tilting your gaze to meet his.

“You don’t walk away from this. You don’t get to come back to me and pretend it was a mistake. This—”

He leaned in, thumb tracing the raw swell of your lips. “—was a vow.”

You swallowed hard, heat curling through your chest, your belly, your wrecked cunt.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, reverent, terrifying in how real it felt.

“Rest now. I’ll take care of you. You’ll need your strength. I’m not done showing you what it means to be mine.”

It didn’t stay a secret for long.

Your sudden disappearance sent whispers echoing through the halls of Jujutsu Tech. First it was worry. Then speculation. Then dread. The trail of cursed remnants you used to chase were now left behind like a signature — intentionally. Your cursed energy warped, bloomed darker. And those who were sharp enough, those who had once known you best, began to see.

You hadn’t been taken. You had joined him, it was your choice.

No one said it out loud — not at first. But they all knew. You had gone to find Geto Suguru, and you hadn’t returned.

You made it !!! good job pooks

[cherrytreeworks]

Unleashed

Synopsis. Suguru Geto isn’t one to let a girl flirt with him at a bar, let alone allow himself to be taken home by her. When he sees you at the bar however, he allows himself to be intrigued by you, especially once he notices your cursed energy that you seem blissfully unaware of. Will he allow himself to be enchanted by you? Will he convince you to join his little master plan? Or will it all come crumbling down when you realize the handsome stranger that the bar is actually a monster?

Pairings. Suguru Geto x Reader

Content. MDNI. Post Defection!Suguru x Fem!Sorcerer!Reader. Wrote this high, have literally never written fanfic before, planning to make a series, eventual smut, toxic relationship with unnamed ex, alcohol involved, Suguru Geto is hard to read, Reader just wants some dick to get over her ex and will ignore every red flag to get there, Suguru Geto gets obsessive, Suguru Geto helps Reader unlock her cursed technique, Reader is definitely morally grey, Suguru Geto is manipulative.

WC. 1.6k

Chapter 1

It’s been a long time since you felt this free. The music in the bar is loud, you’re god knows how many shots deep at this point as you dance to the rhythm of the music, feeling it in your soul. A week ago you were at home in the states eating your feelings after your boyfriend of six years broke up with you out of seemingly nowhere. He just couldn’t handle how lucky you were. It was always one thing after another, acing a test everyone else failed, graduating early because you just so happened to take just enough college classes in high school, landing a high-paying job right out of college, getting every promotion, every good travel opportunity while your ex was still working the same dead-end job at the mall. You made him feel inadequate, like he was a loser. You never meant to, it’s just that whenever you want something, it just happens. You explain to everyone that you don’t know how it happens, that you must just have a lot of good karma built up, but you know deep down that’s a lie. You’ve felt it ever since you were a kid, that strong pull of energy, how every time you get your way you feel drained and if you get your way too many times in one day, the luck eventually runs out until tomorrow. You can sense that you might just be the one pulling the strings, I mean… that’s quite literally how you got to Japan.

***

Your local radio show was hosting a contest, the 100th caller gets a free trip to Japan. You quickly dialed the number waiting just a moment as you do your little ritual that has always brought you luck. You close your eyes and focus on your own energy, your aura of sorts. You imagine your energy flowing out of you and into the phone, willing it to make sure you are the 100th caller. Once you open your eyes, you press the call button and wait.

The radio show win was the last straw for your boyfriend. You excitedly bounced through the door of your shared apartment holding a ticket to an all expenses paid vacation to Tokyo for one. Your boyfriend who was having an okay day deflated right before your eyes. You thought he was upset that he couldn’t come with you but before you can even get the words out that you’ll pay for him he’s already on his feet and speaking to you.

“I can’t do this anymore.” He says with pure annoyance as he runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t keep seeing you get all this good shit when you’ve never done anything to deserve it.” His tone is cold and unforgiving, like you committed a horrible sin. Your lip quivers and you can feel your face get hot but he doesn’t stop. “I’ve spent my whole damn life working for everything I’ve ever had and it’s still nothing compared to what’s practically handed to your spoiled ass.” He points a mean finger in your face as tears finally start to spill from your eyes. “Now you’re fucking crying.” He mocks you. “can’t even fucking believe the hardest thing you’ve had to deal with is being broken up with. Spoiled fucking brat.” He mumbles almost to himself.

“Y-you know that’s n-not true.” You choke out in between sobs. He just chuckles coldly at you and moves to collect his things from the apartment.

“I’ll come back for the rest of my shit when you’re gone on your little trip.” And with that he’s out the door, slamming it harshly, leaving you to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart and come to terms with your new reality.

***

You’d be lying if you said it didn’t still hurt, but it’s hard to care when you can just will everything else into going great for you. The trip has been amazing so far, especially right now. Drunk and happy at an exclusive club you lucked your way into.

The heat of the bar warms your scantily dressed body just enough to be comfortable as you dance your way over to the bar for your nth shot of the night. You settle into a seat next to some gorgeous man with long hair and wait for the bartender to walk over. The man next to you looks completely out of place here, wearing long robes that you assume to be traditional clothing. Maybe he’s here to meet someone or something. You don’t care, you’re just appreciating the view until you can get some more alcohol in your system.

The man seems to feel your gaze as he turns to face you. You don’t notice the whirlwind of emotions that fly across his face, disgust to intrigue to calm. All you notice is the charismatic little smile dancing on his face as he asks you your name. You give it to him, what’s the harm in flirting with one stranger.

“Suguru Geto.” His smile is almost inviting as he reaches out his hand for you to shake. You take it and feel his warm calloused fingers as you delicately shake his hand. He on the other hand freezes for just a moment as he takes in your cursed energy, it's strong and trained, but he’s not familiar with who you are so you can’t be with the school and the higher ups. You don’t seem weary of him so you definitely aren’t with jujutsu society. A million possibilities flash through his mind. You’re obviously a foreigner, maybe you never got any training, you would have to be at least slightly aware of your technique, right?

You break him out of his thoughts by asking him what he wants to drink. He turns and sees the bartender standing in front of you both. He orders his drink and tells the bartender to put both drinks on his tab. 

“Thank you, you really didn’t have to.” You smile at him, a faint blush on your cheeks, partly from the alcohol, and partly from the kindness of this very handsome stranger. Yes a lot of good things happen to you just because you want them to, but you’ve never been able to use it on people. ‘With every great ability comes some kind of limit I guess’ you think to yourself.

“I can’t let this beautifully intriguing woman in front of me pay for her own drinks now can I?” He hums, leaning ever so slightly closer to you. ‘Devastatingly handsome and charismatic… dangerous,’ you think to yourself.

“Intriguing? Out of the two of us you’re definitely the most intriguing.” You practically purred, looking him up and down. “Wouldn’t expect a guy like you to be hanging out in a place like this.” You motion to his attire. He cocks an eyebrow and lets out a little chuckle.

“Yeah? And what kind of guy do you think I am darling?” He leans in, letting ‘darling’ roll off of his tongue in a devastatingly seductive manner. Usually, he wouldn’t have even spared you a second glance, he’s too focused on his mission to waste time flirting with a monkey but he could tell there was something different about you even before he felt your cursed energy. You almost commanded the space you were in, seemingly without even realizing it. It’s enough mystery and potential power to get a man like him very interested in whatever is going on with you. 

“I think you are much too refined and fancy for a place like this.” You drunkenly lean in closer to him, whispering like it's a secret. He smirks at your comment and takes a sip of his drink that the bartender just so happened to deliver at the perfect time. “What’s with the robes anyway?” you inquire, trying and failing to touch the material of his sleeves. Being drunk is hard sometimes. He lets out a low laugh at you hand grasping and nothing and reaches out, gently grabbing your hand and placing it on his upper arm to feel the material. It's soft and seemingly expensive and the more you feel up and down his arm, the more you realize that this man is absolutely jacked. You don’t let your growing attraction to this man be shown just yet… gotta make them work for it and all.

“I’m the leader of an organization, we specialize in helping rid individuals of their… curses.” He gazes deeply in your eyes as he speaks, looking for any sign of recognition. He finds none, which only seems to deepen his curiosity in you. A sorcerer that doesn’t know what curses are… how unusual. You tilt your head slightly, unable to comprehend what he means in your drunken state; but that’s the least of your worries right now, you are not thinking with your upstairs brain, especially with your hand still touching his defined bicep.

“That’s sweet… that you help people.” you purr, sliding your hand down to his forearm. He laughs genuinely, like he’s in the know of something you aren’t. You don’t question it, men like to try and be mysterious and if playing into his ego gets him in your bed tonight… you’ll let him keep his secrets. You notice that it’s getting very late and the bars will be closing soon, if you’re planning on getting this handsome stranger on top of you, you’re going to have to make a move soon. You take the shot that has been on the bar waiting for you, an effort to hype yourself up a little more before you ask, “We should get out of here.” You hum in his ear. He looks slightly taken aback, he’s not used to women being so… forward. You’ve intrigued him too much for him to say no though. He closes out his tab and stands up, offering you his arm. You gladly accept, wrapping your fingers around his bicep once again as he gracefully leads you both out of the bar.