Ah, my apologies. ☆

☆ ━ This heavy rain must be quite an inconvenience for you.

[flwerie]

★ m.list : rules : about me : playlist : incorrect quotes : wattpad : moots : free palestine !

🫧 mat — twenties. black (african). she/her. sfw writer. fluff, fluff & fluff. neuvillette’s cupcake! (previously @/taefaerie)

RECENTS ·˚ ༘ ⋆

anemic!reader headcanons

©︎ FLWERIE 2025. Do not repost, copy, plagiarize, share or translate. All work can be viewed here.

[ohfreshlinen]

𓂃✍︎ 18+ mdni · suguru's retribution

Getō Suguru has one wish the moment he sinks his foot into the shadowy depths of his choice: to rid the world of non-sorcerers. It's the simplest route there is, after all. None of them, sorcerers alike, will have to lift a finger anymore to create a place that they have not even caused to begin with. They will be free.

The contingency of this plan is that once necessary sacrifices are made, peace will come.

But Suguru digresses. And for what, exactly? It has been a year since he left the grounds of Jujutsu High, a year of knowing that his choice had wedged this unfathomable distance between those he truly cares for.

Still, even a year cannot change what has consumed him all this time.

It is an accident to meet you like this. Neither of you has seen each other since his defection, since he left no answer as to where he is going, and trusted Satoru enough to leave a clue as to why he did this — he's doing this.

Yet, here you are. His very own retribution. Standing outside the convenience store, wearing his shirt, which he must have given you a while back, fidgeting with a pack of cigarettes.

A year . . . and he wonders when you pick up Shōko's habit?

And suddenly, all the things he yearns to say resurface. It bubbles in his throat, clawing at him like the curses he ingests and wanting to be spit back out.

Your eyes turn manic. To him, he supposes, it looks like you're searching for any clue as to why, of all people you'd have to see, it has to be him?

Perhaps he thinks the same. Why have you shown your face when a year ago, there was not an ounce of your existence corrupting his own?

Just as instant as he wants to say the words that might have made a god love a human, nothing comes out.

Until you move, then run.

To him.

"Suguru," How long has he realized that he missed the sound of your voice, the way you wrap your hands desperately around him, that if this is the last time you would have done so, you're risking it all? Just for him.

Like an Achilles' heel, he takes you. He pulls you tighter into his arms, breathes in the scent he never forgets, the scent of him on you, and he holds you there. The bane of his existence — willingly in the arms of a murderer.

He feels your shoulders quake as you hold in your cries. And when he shushes you just as he remembers, you do what you always know best: disobey him. And thus, you cry, louder but still below a whisper.

It's a cry that's meant for him, the mourn of what a year has done to you, a year of not knowing what he's been up to, a year of —

"Stay with me for tonight." His voice speaks from beyond the clutches of his control, and for a split second, Suguru is taken aback.

Your body's response, however, is precise before he can choke up his words and take them back. You bury yourself more into his chest.

Suguru stands firmly then; there is more conviction now, and he says again: "Stay. With me."

"I don't — I don't — you might," He knows you don't want to cause trouble, like the good sorcerer that you are. Still . . . here you are, betting on the low chance that this is all right.

"Just for tonight." He insists. You don't even realize that he tucks the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. "One night."

You look up. Suguru thumbs away the pain of your tears as he leans his forehead to yours.

"Okay."

Getō Suguru thought he had one wish the moment he sank himself deeper into his choice: to rid the world of non-sorcerers, create the peace that should have been there since the beginning.

But as he molds you sensually to his shape, hears you plead for more, hears your pleasurable moans escape from that opened mouth of yours that never shuts off, hearing you whisper his name over and over and over again — Suguru is near catatonic when he realizes: he wishes for one more thing.

Just one more. If the gods and the universe can grant him that.

Then he wouldn't have to ask again. Two wishes in a price he most certainly can offer. To have you. To consume you. No. To consume him of you.

Let it be known that he is yours for every command you wish to say. If you had told him to give you the world, he would have done so in the blink of an eye. If you tell him to give his heart to you, he would've plunged his own hands straight through the cavity of his bones, grasped his heart, and pulled it for you.

Just one more.

"Suguru, please," You look up at his eyes, raw hunger manifesting from your gaze.

You kiss him fervently, tracing the shape of his eyes, the concave of his collarbones, the roughness of his stomach, and everywhere you can reach with your hands.

"Please,"

That did it. Whatever animalistic tendencies he has kept have finally broken through, pounding on you mercilessly. He cushions your head against the headboard as the bed creaks and breaks from the force.

Just one more wish.

You lay bare for him to do what he pleases. And you wish it. You demand it.

"I've missed you." He confesses, marking your neck, the underside of your breasts, on your left hipbone, as he knows your right is more ticklish, and finally marking you last at the hollow insides of your thighs, where your musky scent is strong.

"I've missed you, too." You echo, too lucid from all the pleasures coming through.

"I've missed the way you sound," he sucks your skin, "the way you writhe to me," he noses himself next to your cunt, "I've missed this smell the most."

Then he indulges. If this is the only night he has with you, so be it. He will make sure that till the break of dawn, he will cherish you the way he has always longed for.

"Ah — fuuuuuuck!" You grip the headboard above your head, trying not to clamp your legs to trap him in place.

"I miss your scent, my love." He repeats with a heated growl. Suguru places his nose right into where it smells strongest and inhales.

A year ago, Suguru knew that you would have slapped him away, kicked him in embarrassment. You could have muttered that you aren't too clean yet, give yourself a moment to do so before he does something vulgar like this.

But it's a year too late. A year too long. And both of you have come to take this one desperate night and sum it all up. Because, as you and Suguru know, tomorrow will be different.

Shakily, you lower your hands to the folds of your sex and open them wider. His eyes take it all in, the inner parts that he never really looked into, with a startled breath. He watches your face, rid of no shame. Then his eyes fall back into what you're opening: a Pandora's box waiting for him to take. The smell of you hits much harder, as if this is his aphrodisiac to claim.

Immaculate.

You really have changed, have you?

His fingers begin caressing, and you respond with the twitch of your legs.

"Suguru," You beg.

"Hmm?"

"Please, take me. Sugu . . . "

"Anything for you," Suguru drawls.

He returns his head to your sloppy cunt, feasting until he feels you shake, until he tastes you come inside his mouth. He continues for another one, and you give it. By now, you are too overstimulated to control yourself.

This isn't enough. So, another stripped lick to your pearl, watching your reaction. When he finds a certain spot where you react at your best, he aims there perfectly.

"Sugu — fuck!"

On your third release, he looks up. "I'm going to move you a bit."

You nod dumbly.

He gently holds your ankles and draws you nearer, never forgetting to litter kisses across your body.

"Be good for me." He says.

He opens your legs wider. You are swollen. Your clit is bruised and erect from the teasing his tongue and fingers have done to it. Your pretty, little cunt syncs with every inhale and exhale you do, so pink and fluidly ready for him. Suguru is astounded.

"Suguru," you start whining. He doesn't miss the way your pussy expands a little when you pry it open again for him. It's slick with your own cum, flowing out of you with so much ease.

He leans forward and licks it clean. You whimper.

And at last, he positions and pushes himself in. Suguru nearly collapses with a heady moan because he never forgets the way you shape yourself for him, always the one who adjusts. The way you just absorb him, eat him. This is the kind of curse he would've willingly consumed indefinitely.

This is his Limitless.

Just one more wish.

You tilt your body back, sucking him further in. Today, you're impossibly tight, even from all the lubrication he has done for you. But you're too persistent. You are devouring him quickly, hopelessly devoting your entire soul; he needs it as badly as you do.

He could've come right there.

"That's it." He gently coaxes, voice hoarse from this indisputable feeling. "Take me in."

For the rest of the night, his movements become languid and passionately slow. He curves you to positions you never thought you could, but you do them anyway. When your legs have grown tired, you can feel him massage them back and forth. When your back can't arch further, he presses you onto the mattress, and he takes over. When you feel your tears coming once more, he kisses them away, as a lover does.

And when the sun comes, since it decides that it is no longer in both of your favor, he can only trace his hand around the shape of your face.

He calls your name through the silence that blankets you. You barely react. He doesn't want you to. It makes things easier later on.

While you're tucked in his arms, he offers himself one last selfish deed, and he kisses you.

It's the kind of kiss that mortal humans give to gods who know they won't spend an eternity with them — only in this instance, neither of you is sure who gets to be the god and the human in this tragic story.

And so he kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Because what else is there to do?

"Don't come looking for me," he whispers damagingly, watching you sleep through what's left of your time with him. "Please."

© ohfreshlinen — all rights reserved. do not modify, edit, steal, feed into ai or plagiarize my content.

[evfers]

His hands are big…

You’ve seen his hands multiple times, they’re so big.

When he touches you, you can’t help but feel your heart race. He’ll giggle when he notices and keeps playfully teasing. But when he’s playing with your pussy he’s gentle. And when he’s rubbing your clit he’ll make you cry.

He likes to hold your skin back while making you cry. He’ll have you trembling for hours sobbing in his arms. If you’ve never had an orgasm he’ll make you comfortable and take it slow, he’ll softly help you use your words when you want something. And if you want his hands rubbing on you..

“Mmh! Socloseee!” You cry out. Your laying on your back in his bed with your ankles and wrists tied together in the air. He’s sitting in front of you and leaning on top of you, between your legs. “Mmmh…I know you are baby.” He says, with his thumb rubbing your clit harshly. “Ah-aaaahhh!” You cry harder. He speeds up his pace a little. “Let it all out.” His voice so gentle. You roll your eyes in the back of your head and squirt all over his hand and cry. “There it is..” he looks down at your wet cunt. “All that wet stuff dripping all because of me?” He looks back up at you through his lustrous eyes. You only tear up more. “Poor baby so shy.” He’s so mean. He puts his fingers inside your cunt and starts fingering you, your hole making macaroni like sounds.

“Such a cute thing..”

“Mmmh!! N-no more!” You didn’t want him to stop. This is too good.

“Oh you’re going to be so used tonight.”

⋆.𐙚 ̊ 𝑎/𝑛: I’ve been having weird stomach issues 💔

───♡─────────────

ꉂ (′̤ॢ∀ ू‵̤๑))ˉ̞̭♡ 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡: @cuntphoric-main @zukobendsme @cuntphoric @nonamedreams @lilithkleia @levisfatjuicycock @sapph22 @manonism @insanjity @cypresseddd @stqrgumi @lemonzie @angelicwhispersofsin @sugusplaything @dearkuna @izuruverse @serpenttine @daflex @animewhoreswrld @yoonsucks @iloveyachisomuchaaa

───♡─────────────

[heartkaji]

ⵌ PLAYING HOUSE! ft. g. suguru

…YOU LET ME CALL YOU BABY BUT I CAN’T CALL U MINE ?

sum. when geto is partnered up with you for a ‘fake family’ project, it gives him the perfect excuse to touch you as he pleases. but when you continue to laugh him off, can his frat brothers help him make you see him as boyfriend and not ‘bestie’?

cast : nerdjo (‘toru’ gojo) + frat! jjk men (‘sigma chi’) : fratjo (‘sato’ gojo) ◞ geto ◞ toji ◞ sukuna ◞ nanami 𓏲 gallery here !

HUSBAND TACTICS #1: TAKE THE LEAP!

taught by: sato gojo

“you’re partners with y/n?! that’s your sign to lock in, man. stop playing safe and take the fucking leap.”

ΣΧ

“i think we should name the baby ‘nagito komaeda.’”

“i think you’ve lost your damn mind.”

in the common room of the sigma chi frathouse, geto suguru has his legs spread lazily & his back against the old couch. he’s scrolling through his phone with bleary eyes as sato & sukuna debate a name for their project’s fake baby. sato gojo is scribbling names in red on the whiteboard. ryomen sukuna is taking up half the space on the living room couch.

“sukuna the second,” sukuna says with a gulp of his cola. he sets the can down with a thud & crosses his feet over the wooden coffee table, leaning back into suguru’s space. “it’s the only respectable option. suguru, what do you think?”

geto suguru thinks that sukuna hasn’t showered today.

he also thinks his privacy screen is his greatest investment. ryomen sukuna has his cheek smushed against suguru’s shoulder and his brown eyes blinking up at him, but he doesn’t notice that geto is scrolling through your instagram posts, staring at pictures where you look too pretty to be real with a tight jaw & stifled heartbeat. sukuna flicks his temple. “helloo. earth to suguru?”

suguru’s silver piercings are glistening in the heat. he blinks once, twice—memorizes the photo on his screen where you’re grinning while hugging a plush bear bigger than your head—& clicks his phone off with a sigh. his head rolls back in defeat.

“y/n is my project partner.”

the room goes silent.

gojo sato freezes against the whiteboard, marker still in hand. sukuna has leaned away from suguru, eyes wide, as if suguru has just admitted to not showering this morning. the two boys stare at suguru. then at each other, then back to suguru again.

“ouuuu shii,” they drawl simultaneously.

“please don’t start this nonsense…”

“suguru, this is huge!” sato lets his marker fall to the floor, and runs to crouch in front of geto, elbows on suguru’s knees. “think about it, man. you and the girl of your dreams. partnered up to play husband n’ wife and take care of a plastic baby.”

suguru bites his cheek, neck hot. “it’s just a project.”

“no, it’s an opportunity,” sukuna corrects. “this is the girl who calls you bestie even when you look at her like you wanna eat her alive.” he snaps his fingers. “this is your chance, idiot. to show her you’re husband material. you have an excuse to call her wifey, for fuck’s sake.”

suguru’s phone is tight in his palm. his thumb is still tracing the line of your smile in the image he was staring at before he clicked his phone off.

“she thinks i’m her friend,” suguru murmurs, voice half-gone as he slips his phone into his pocket. “she’s comfortable with me. i’m not gonna ruin that by acting like a feral dog.”

“you’re already feral, idiot. y’think i didn’t see you staring at her IG photos like a creep?”

geto blinks. “how did you—“

“not important!” sato interrupts, slapping suguru’s thigh. he rests his chin on suguru’s knee, blue eyes glimmering in the light. “what’s important is, you have an opportunity. she’s already comfortable with you—you just have to take it further. call her sweetheart. baby. wife. see if she doesn’t stop you. take the leap, suguru.”

“take the leap,” sukuna grins.

take the leap. but the leap is a jump with no safety net. geto suguru knows what’s at stake. he knows if he ever let himself get too greedy—too carried away—he risks losing the friday mornings spent at the library with your head against his shoulder while you pretend to read from a book. he risks your voice calling his name across campus, and the way you hug his arm when you haven’t seen him in days, and the way you tug the piercing on his lip with a playful smile when you want his attention. geto suguru knows better than to risk it. he knows not to take the leap.

but he nods, lips tight as he reaches for his car keys on the table. “i’ll take the leap.”

“let’s go, daddy geto!” sato roars, dapping sukuna up. the boys watch with stupid grins as geto shoves things in his pockets. geto glances at the time: 5PM. “i’m going to her place now, we agreed to meet up.”

sukuna clutches his heart, then waves. “go get your wifey, asshole.”

suguru doesn’t look back. it’s time to fucking leap.

# SHOW TIME !

“suguruu, stop acting responsible and come cuddle me.”

ah, you’re such a fucking bother.

it’s sometime after six and geto suguru is in your bedroom with his shirt tossed somewhere on the floor and his silver chain cold against his chest. he’s putting together the plastic baby crib in preparation for the project’s official start on monday, and trying very fucking hard to ignore the fact that you’re all sprawled out on your bed behind him: hair fanned out, pillow to your chest, and whining his name because who are you if not a tease?

“you’re such a bad husband,” you mumble wistfully. “leaving your wife all alone on her bed like this…”

god.

geto’s throat bobs. there’s blood in his throat but his eyes skim the instructions with hazy focus. lord knows he wants nothing more than to press you into the covers and kiss you till you’re laughing his name and you can’t fucking breathe, but he knows the minute he pads over there you’ll laugh in his face.

his mouth dries.

“someone has to build the crib, angel,” he murmurs. it comes out lower than he intended, but whatever—it came out regardless. pet name number one, okay. “unless you want our fake baby sleeping on the rug?”

“i want my fake husband,” you hug your pillow tighter, and geto can hear the pout in your voice. your eyes are still on the ceiling, and geto doesn’t miss the fact that you don’t comment on the pet name. perhaps you didn’t hear it. perhaps you just don’t care. “and the baby is plastic,” you grumble. “it doesn’t care if it sleeps on a mattress or a floor.”

he hums. “bet it doesn’t complain as much either.”

“hey!” you gasp, chucking your pillow at him with a laugh. geto’s lip twitches in a smile. he rubs the back of his head, sweeping away the black strands falling in his face. he turns to glance at you, and then he wishes he didn’t, because you’re staring back at him with the brightest eyes he’s ever seen.

he bites his cheek. and then he pads over to you.

you watch, starry eyed, as geto lets the instruction manual glide to the floor. he presses a knee into the mattress, leg swinging over your thighs, bed dipping underneath his weight. his hair tickles your jaw and his chain dangles in front of you and geto suguru smells like dogwood and something too warm to have a name.

you blink up at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he murmurs. “you look cute like this.”

he shouldn’t say that, he knows he shouldn’t, but you’re already curling your hand around his necklace and letting your thighs squeeze underneath him. and geto’s eyes rake down your body—just once, just a little, because he knows better than to leap that fucking far. so he bites his lip.

“i always look cute..” you mumble, lashes fluttering and voice fading underneath him.

“mm, but you look extra cute today,” he mutters, “like a real life mommy.”

you tug his necklace, grin cheeky. “geto suguru. are you trying to seduce me?”

“no,” he murmurs, and his voice is too low and the words come too fast. “i’m being a good husband. taking care of my wife’s needs before she even asks.”

he’s still propped up over you, bare pecs heaving & chain glinting too close to your face. the heat of his body pricks at your skin. you tug him closer by the chain: “and what needs do i have?”

“attention,” he murmurs, thumb grazing your cheek. “you've been whining since I got here. wanted me to stop working. wanted me to come cuddle you.”

“i was only joking..” you mumble, slightly shy. and geto wishes you wouldn’t say that. wishes he didn’t know that already.

but he’s a patient man. and how can he be upset when you look so pretty underneath him?

“i know,” he murmurs, voice warm, half-lidded eyes boring into yours. “i’m sorry. am i making you uncomfortable?”

he says he’s sorry but his thumb still grazes your cheek, because he can’t not. you lean into him reflexively, and then you blink.

“what—? no, no. it’s just—“ your brows furrow, and you frown in that way that makes geto want to kiss it off. “it’s just… you’re so good at this, geto!”

his thumb pauses over your cheek. “what?”

“this husband thing!” you grin up at him, cheeks flushed. “you made me feel all hot and funny inside. your future wife is gonna be so lucky.”

geto blinks. you keep going.

“you were so hot,” you cup his cheek with a palm, and geto’s jaw is slack. “and you’re so responsible setting up the baby stuff. whoever you date and marry is gonna be so lucky. in a way this is perfect practice, isn’t it?”

his jaw tightens. “yeah, practice.”

he doesn’t say you’re the only girl he’s ever wanted, the only girl he’ll ever want, that last summer when you fell asleep on his couch with his hoodie on your shoulders he thought about you with his last name; or that every time you swat his chest and laugh away his efforts his heart cracks a little in his chest. he doesn’t tell you he’s only a man and his heart can’t take much more much longer.

but he squeezes your hip. bites your neck so you giggle and swat him away. rolls off you and pretends his chain isn’t still warm from your grip.

geto suguru pads away to kneel by the crib’s side. “is my wife gonna keep whining, or is she gonna help me fix this?”

SATO’S REMARK : TOUGH LUCK. BUT KEEP AT IT, BROTHER!

HUSBAND TACTICS #2: GET DOMESTIC !

taught by: toji zenin

“wanna woo her? take her on a family-esque activity. that’ll show her you’re husband material.”

ΣΧ

sigma chi’s frathouse kitchen is two bottles of bourbon & cranberry jam left open on the countertop. in the kitchen suguru geto is there, a hyper-realistic plastic baby on his hip as toji scribbles grocery items in handwriting geto will have to pretend to understand.

“here’s everything,” toji grumbles, clicking his pen and passing the note to suguru. geto’s face scrunches immediately, piercings glimmering as he squints his eyes in a desperate attempt to read the list. “how the hell is your handwriting worse than sukuna’s?”

“you’ll figure it out. it’s for meg,” toji answers, bored, drumming his pen against the sticky counter. “and some of the organic stuff my girl likes. i’ll be back late today, so i need you to drop it off at my place.”

suguru shifts the doll over his chest, taking one last look at the sorry note before stuffing it in his pocket. “are you taking meg with you today?”

“no, he’s home with the babysitter,” toji grunts, slipping his hands into his skinny jean pockets to hide the fake ice on his wrist. “new job’s paying good, so i’m taking the missus out on a date.”

“aww,” suguru softens, smile tugging at his lips. he’s pleased to see toji doing better, to say the least. he’s engaged to a pretty, rich lady now; working hard as a ghost writer for drake, all while being a good young father to meg. he pats the doll’s head absentmindedly. “that’s cute. what are you planning?”

“luxury shopping date,” toji mumbles.

“really?” suguru tilts his head. “where are you going?”

“shoppers drug mart.”

geto doesn’t comment.

“you should take that girl with you,” toji says, hands still in his pockets. “take her n’ your plastic doll grocery shopping. it’s good domestic practice. get her some expensive strawberries and see if she doesn’t fall head over heels.”

suguru bites his lip, phone already heavy in his pocket.

can’t hurt to try, right ?

# SHOW TIME !

suguru wishes you wouldn’t do this to him.

wishes you wouldn’t look all cute standing by the store’s glass doors, lashes fluttering as you blink around trying to find him. he should raise his hand, text you he’s just two aisles over and you should move before the lady behind gets mad at you for blocking the entrance. instead he watches with a fond smile as you frown and fumble to grab your phone from your purse.

he sighs, walking over to stand behind you with the fake baby in his arms. your eyes are still on your phone as your thumbs tap frantically, typing a message to send to his contact: ‘SUGURU. where are u???’

his lip twitches. he’s leaning so close over your shoulder that he can smell your shampoo, and your hair is tickling his nose, but you still don’t notice. so cute. geto thinks you’re so cute.

he hums into your neck. “who are we texting?”

“suguru!” you gasp, whipping around at the sound of his voice. he’s looking down at you with those half-lidded eyes, teasing smile, dark sweater sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. you frown at him. “you scared me! don’t you know you shouldn’t sneak up on vulnerable young women?!”

suguru blinks. “what?”

“you heard me,” you grumble, fake pout on your lips as you lean down to the plastic doll in his arms. “hi, lafayette. daddy’s being mean to mommy again.”

“i still can’t believe you named our baby after a revolutionary leader.” geto mutters.

“he’s my fave in hamilton,” you hum, slipping lafayette into your arms. “shall we get shopping?”

——

in geto’s shopping cart, there’s five shades of lipgloss, a bag of plantain chips, and four other items that are not on the shopping list.

geto suguru needs to start saying no. but it’s hard to deny you when you look up at him with those pretty eyes, batting your lashes all sweet in that way that makes his chest hurt. so he pushes the cart, resigned, watching the sway of your hips as you balance lafayette on your side and coo silly things to him like he’s a real human child. he shakes his head, bites his lip. geto suguru is utterly fucked.

“suguru! look at this!”

he shouldn’t look. because it’s just going to be another item you’ll seduce him into buying, but he looks anyways. you’re pointing at a box of dinosaur cereal—a clear off-brand version of froot loops. “lafayette would love this. can we get it for him?”

he pads around the cart to get a better look. “lafayette can’t eat cereal.”

“i meant megumi,” you coo, running a hand down his pecs. “he likes dinosaurs. he’ll love this.”

“no, he likes gummy worms,” but geto suguru is already distracted by your hand stroking his chest. his lip twitches, “you want this for yourself, don’t you?”

“caught me,” you flash him your sweetest smile, squeezing his pec before setting lafayette in the cart. geto watches as you lean up to the top shelf, skirt riding up your thighs as you reach for the box of cereal. his eyes drop. but then his neck heats and he quickly looks away.

“suguruu,” you frown, still reaching. “help me.”

suguru lets out a rough breath. he shouldn’t help, but he always will—what else can he do when you call his name like that?

he steps behind you, chest pressing against your back, arm reaching up and caging you in the process. your breathing hitches. suguru doesn’t miss it.

“suguru,”

“hm?”

“what are you doing?”

your voice comes out breathy, and suguru has to pretend he doesn’t like the way you sound or how you’re staring up at him with big eyes. he hums coolly. “i’m helping my wife.”

“oh,” your lashes flutter as he reaches to tug down your skirt. his knuckles brush your thigh & you glance down at his arm snaking around your hips before mustering up a smile.

you tease, “such a good husband, protecting my modesty.”

“mm,” he murmurs, “the best.”

your mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. geto watches your lashes flutter—shy? nervous?—as your hand curls around his bicep to steady yourself. your palm squeezes his arm. he lets his hand dip to squeeze your inner thigh, and prays you don’t hear his breathing hitch.

“do good husbands usually grope their wives..?” you murmur, and geto thinks you’re teasing, but your lashes are low and your voice is so small and god he wants to kiss you so badly.

“don’t think so,” he mutters. “am i bad?”

“so bad,” you breathe. and your breath is hot & he’s leaning so close he can feel it on his lips. you squeeze his arm, eyes boring into his, and you really need to fucking stop before he leans down and kisses you. “but i don’t mind.”

god. you’re gonna fucking kill him. geto parts his lips to speak but you get your words out first.

“so,” you beam up at him, “the cereal?”

oh. the cereal.

fuck you and the cereal.

he doesn’t mean that, though. his jaw tightens as he lifts the box and drops it into the cart. his hands shove in his pockets, and geto suguru can only blink away the irritation burning in his eyes.

“thanks, sugu,” you lift lafayette into your arms. he’s gripping the cart handle right now, trying to ignore the fact that you’re smiling up at him and cursing himself because even now he thinks you are so beautiful.

“well then,” you chirp, grin sweet, “back to shopping!”

TOJI’S REMARK : SHE DON’T WANT YOUR ASS 🤦🏿‍♂️

HUSBAND TACTICS #3: GET SMOOTHER.

taught by: toru gojo

“your problem is that everything you do maintains plausible deniability. i think it’s time you claimed her in a way she can’t deny.”

ΣΧ

the good news is, even though geto ended up spending $200 on items not on toji’s list, the plantain chips you roped him into getting were really good. the bad news is, sato gojo is lying here on his lap, forcing geto to feed him said chips while gaming on sukuna’s nintendo switch.

“sugu, i want one,” -> geto feeds sato a chip. chew, swallow. “i can’t believe you embarrassed yourself like that.”

suguru’s eye twitches. “no more chips for you.”

they’re on the bed in toru’s room, and toru gojo sighs before slipping his headphones off at his desk. “sorry, but you guys are getting crumbs on my bed.”

sato laughs. “as if sukuna doesn’t jerk off in here every other day.”

“that was before he finished therapy,” toru mumbles in response, cheeks flushed in dismay. god bless geto for enrolling sukuna in therapy for his exhibitionist kink, despite sukuna’s wishes. toru takes his glasses off, runs a hand through his hair. “suguru, what’s this about you and y/n?”

“every time suguru tries something with her, she laughs him off,” sato snitches. he flashes geto a clumsy grin, smile totally innocent. “sugu, i want one.”

geto shoves him off his lap.

“maybe you’re not obvious enough,” toru plays with the stem of his glasses. “you guys are super close. even if you’re touching her, she might not take it seriously because she’s used to touchy friendships.”

“yeah!” sato agrees, fist pumped up, face flat on the floor. “my thoughts exactly, twin brother.”

“shut up.” geto and toru say simultaneously.

“anyway,” toru continues. “maybe get bolder. do something she can’t pass off as ‘just friends’.”

geto stares at the chips in his lap. “just friends, huh?”

#SHOW TIME!

geto leans by the kitchen door. “hi, mommy. what’re you doing?”

suguru’s over at your house for dinner. he’s just put lafayette to sleep in his crib, and he has his hands in his pockets as he pads over to you, sweatpants low on his hips. his arms cage you by the stove. “you smell good,” he mutters.

you ignore him. “i’m making dinner!” you beam, turning to face him.

geto can’t even tell what you’re showing him. in your hands is a charred mess, and geto can only pray the squiggly thing on the plate is spaghetti and not something else. his brows furrow in amused confusion as you beam up at him, lashes fluttering.

he cocks his head. “is this a burnt offering?”

“rude,” you swat his chest, and geto only smiles, eyes tracking the way your hair falls over your shoulders. you mutter curses as you shift the plate away, staring at the pot in dismay. “i wanted to cook for you.” you grumble.

his lip twitches. “like a real life wife?”

“yeah,” you turn to him, lips in a pout as you play with the chain on his chest. “but it didn’t work out. can you believe it?”

“i believe it,” he hums, but in reality he’s trying not to laugh, or rather, avoiding thinking about how glossy your lips look when you pout. his palms find your waist, “need your hubby to help?”

you smile up at him, “if he’d be so kind.”

geto lifts you by the hips before you can think better of it. you yelp as he sets you down on the counter, gripping him in a panicked hug. “suguru! you can’t just do that!”

he smiles, big. “do what?”

“lift me! and without warning!” you’re still hugging his neck tight, heart racing against his collarbone. he laughs, face in your hair to muffle the sound. his hands are splayed on your back, anchoring you against him.

“stop laughing at me,” you frown, and geto pulls back. he still has that lazy smile on his lips. “i’m not laughing,”

“yes you are,” you cup his face, smushing his cheeks in your palms. “look at your smile. it’s mocking.”

“adoring,” he mutters, gaze reverent.

“lying,” you pout, frown deep.

geto doesn’t argue. he only watches, eyes half-lidded, as you lift a palm from his cheek to card through his hair, stroking softly. you’re still pouting, still pretty. his thumb presses into your spine.

“i’ve never lied to you in my life,” he murmurs.

“yeah?” you’re still raking his hair, eyes never meeting his own. “then were you laughing at me just now?”

“no, mommy.”

“see?” you cock your head. “liar.”

he lets out a long, shuddering breath, hands sliding from your back to your waist, then down to squeeze your hips. you’re still stroking his hair, unbothered. no idea that you’ve got him crumbling beneath you.

“you feel so soft,” he murmurs before he can think better of it.

you tilt your head. “my hips?”

“and your waist, and your thighs,” he drawls, and he’s not even thinking straight anymore. “everywhere.”

you stare at him, brows knit, hand pausing in his hair. “suguru,”

“yeah, baby?”

“you’re being bad again.”

he lets out a strangled breath. he’s staring at your lips, he has been for a while now, and his gaze is bleary & eyes half-lidded. “sorry mommy,” he mumbles, “are you uncomfortable?”

“no?”

“then i’m gonna kiss you now.”

“sugu—“

and he does. he pauses just slightly—just enough to let you pull away if you don’t want this, if you don’t want him—but you don’t so geto presses his lips to your own. his first thought is gloss. your lips are so glossy; strawberry sweet & sugary fake. he lets his tongue slip out to lick your mouth, before cocking his head to kiss you deeper. you squeak, moaning into his mouth, kissing him back as he presses you into him. your thighs squeeze around his waist and geto slips a groan past your lips.

“so good,” he chases your lips when you pull away to breathe, “taste so good, pretty,”

you let him press sloppy kisses to your jaw, hands still in his hair.

but geto doesn’t notice how you freeze underneath him.

TORU’S REMARK: MY ADVICE WORKED?! THIS IS WHY I’M THE BETTER TWIN!! :)

HUSBAND TACTICS #4: GO GET YOUR WIFE !

taught by: ryomen sukuna

“good progress, bud. now all you gotta do? maintain the pace. keep showing her you’re the man now.”

ΣΧ

in sigma chi’s living room, ryomen sukuna is strapped to an armchair as sato hooks him up to a birth simulator.

idiots, the both of them. it started with sukuna saying that taking care of their plastic baby isn’t much work after all, and so motherhood can’t be that bad, and giving birth must not be that bad either. sato, ever the feminist, decided to challenge him on that. now it’s a weekday evening and sato is pressing electric pads to sukuna’s belly with his tongue in his cheek. sukuna the second (their plastic baby—sukuna won the argument it seems) is crying somewhere in the distance.

“nice work, daddy geto,” sukuna hums, shifting so sato can press another pad to his belly. “you’ve gotten the girl.”

geto has. so why doesn’t he feel like it?

you kissed him back. kissed him again. in fact, he’d say he had your lips for dinner. but the texts he sent you this morning are still unread: did you sleep well? can we talk?

geto shakes his head, relaxing into the sofa with his legs spread out as he watches sato fumble with the machine. “now all you gotta do is keep up the good work,” sukuna mumbles. “easy-peasy.”

“i feel like something’s wrong,” geto plays with his necklace. “but i’m not sure what it is, exactly.”

“nothing’s wrong, dumbass,” sukuna squints, watching sato frown at the remote. “you’re just not used to being forward. months of holding back will do that to ya. what you need to do now? ramp it up. tell her you wanna put a baby in her or something. girls love that shit.”

“oh, i agree with that. it’s like saying she’s wifey type.”

“you get me, sato.”

sato grins. then he presses a button on the remote and sukuna screams.

“jesus christ of nazareth!” sukuna roars, jerking in the chair. “fuck—! turn this shit off! sato!”

sato watches him jerk with his hands on his hips, lips bent in a clumsy smile. “what? i can’t hear you over your screaming!”

suguru eyes his frat brothers, both sukuna’s—and sukuna the second’s—cries roaring in his ears. he’s still not sure why this is even happening, but he’s long concluded both his frat brothers were born with a brain. he sighs, burying his face in his hands.

he really needs to fucking see you.

#SHOW TIME !

geto wasn’t sure you’d want to see him.

but you’d already planned to meet up today; long before he kissed you on the countertop, long before he sent you six messages & deleted them all when he received no response. it would be wiser to stay home but he shows up anyway, because he’s a coward who’s trying not to be, and he hasn’t eaten anything in days because everything in the sigma chi kitchen suddenly tastes like your lips.

you greeted him with a smile on your face.

lafayette on your hip, pretty smile as you beckoned him in. said you were just about making lunch. asked him to go handle it in the kitchen because obviously you don’t want to see his face.

geto shakes his head, stares at the water running off his hands in the sink. he has to think positive.

“lafayette, baby, please don’t cry,” your voice comes from the living room. “mommy’s trying so hard—oh my god. i swear i’m gonna take out your batteries!”

geto laughs through his nose before he can think better of it.

he wipes his hands, pads over to the doorframe to watch you fuss over lafayette in the living room. you’re bouncing the plastic robot in your hands, trying to get it to stop its automated wailing. “shhh. want me to sing you a song, baby? you like songs from hamilton, right? okay, okay. why do you cry like you’re running out of time—”

lafayette screams. geto falls in love.

well he was already in love, but somehow his heart has gone sticky in his chest. it’s silly, isn’t it? but geto’s thought about it a lot. your laugh in the kitchen on sunday mornings, your contact saved with his last name, you waking him up at 3am for some ridiculous craving; and he’d get up to retrieve it, of course. because geto suguru would go to the ends of the earth for you if you’d allow it.

is it weird to think of domestic life with someone you aren’t even dating?

probably. but then he thinks about your thighs squeezing his waist on the kitchen counter, your pretty moans in his mouth, your hands in his hair—and god. god god god. geto suguru has never wanted something so badly.

so he doesn’t think too much before padding over to join you in the living room, arms wrapping around your hips. “hey.”

you tense, just a little, just enough that geto doesn’t notice, then relax into him just slightly. “hi. are you being bad again?”

he can hear the smile in your voice, but your usual playfulness isn’t as strong. “maybe. you look cute, bouncing our baby like that.”

you force a smile, eyes dropping to lafayette wailing in your arms. “well—“

“you’d make such a pretty mommy,” geto breathes, and even he’s not sure what he’s saying. all he knows is you’re warm and pretty and in his arms and it’s all he’s ever wanted, all he’ll ever want.

you don’t respond, and geto’s in his feelings now, so his mouth keeps moving: “i think about it a lot,” he murmurs. “mornings with you. you burning the eggs because you’ve never been a good cook.” his palm shifts to your belly. “and i’ll eat them anyways.”

“suguru,”

“and you’d get mad at me for eating them,” he breathes, collapsing into your neck. “tell me you don’t need my sympathy and frown up at me while bouncing our baby on your hip. and then you’d kiss me because you secretly find it sweet of me.” he breathes. “i think about it a lot.”

“you’d make such a pretty wife, such a pretty mommy,” geto breathes. and your neck is so warm, and his lips are ghosting over it, and as his palm glides over your belly his dizzy mind flashes back to sukuna’s words: girls love feeling like they’re wifey!

so he kisses your neck. “can’t wait to see you round with my baby.”

if you were tense before, you’re frozen now.

“suguru.”

“hm?”

“i’m uncomfortable.”

geto freezes.

you step out of his hold, lafayette to your chest, pretty eyes looking up at his. but you’re not looking at him with your usual fondness. your eyes are bored—unimpressed—something geto’s hazy mind can’t seem to name. your lips are tight. “i think you should take lafayette for the weekend.”

“y/n—“

“and don’t contact me,” you snap, irritated. “don’t call, text, nothing. i just—“ you bite your lip, “you need to leave, geto.”

not suguru, geto. okay. okay.

geto leaves with lafayette in his arms. his heart is still in your living room.

SUKUNA’S REMARK : WHO TOLD YOU TO SAY THAT?!

HUSBAND TACTICS #5: DIVORCE COURT !

taught by: nanami kento

“you’ve been leading with actions instead of words. are you really surprised?”

ΣΧ

is it so bad to be forward?

geto has his head on the steering wheel & his heart in his throat. lafayette is crying in the backseat but geto doesn’t care, doesn’t care to rip out the batteries or at least sing the doll to sleep. instead he grips the steering so hard his knuckles turn white.

can’t wait to see you round with my baby.

why did he say that? he wants to blame it on sukuna but he can’t. geto knows it’s all on him, of course. he let himself get too love drunk, too hope drunk, too drunk on a future that will never exist. he thought about sato and sukuna who don’t think before they talk and still manage to get the girl. but life has never let him have anything easy, and with you in his arms he managed to forget that. now the only girl he’s ever wanted thinks he sees her as just flesh, and geto is a coward so he doesn’t plan to redeem himself.

it’s best to let you go.

“do you intend to drive?”

nanami’s voice is flat beside him. it’s more of a bored comment than a question, and geto lifts his head up slow. nanami kento is beach-blond hair & pressed on clothes and a bored look that never seems to leave his face. he stares at geto. geto stares back.

“i’m going through a crisis.”

“i observed. should i get toji to drive me instead?”

“have a heart, kenny,” geto slumps against the driver’s seat. nanami’s license is on a three-day suspension for being slightly tipsy while driving, and it’s unusual for kento, but we all have our problems. geto reaches for a cigar in the glove box. nanami smacks his hand away.

“this is about y/n, correct? sato told me all about it.”

of course he did—what a snitch.

geto rests his head on the wheel, careful not to let the horn sound. “is it my turn for some advice?”

“i suppose,” nanami pushes up his glasses. “did you ever try speaking english?”

geto blinks. “english?”

“the others advised you to be forward, correct?” nanami starts. “touch her, kiss her, all of it. but did you ever speak english? tell her that you liked her? wanted her?”

geto blinks. but kento’s not done.

“i heard about what happened most recently, sukuna told me all about it,” nanami sighs. “telling a woman she’d make a pretty mom. telling her you can’t wait to see her round with your baby.” kento scoffs. “you have your domestic fantasies, geto. but do you know how terrifying that is to a woman who you haven’t even told ‘i love you’?”

ah. geto knew he’d been missing something.

he’s always been a coward. at thirteen, he pierced his own ears with a ballpoint pen and hid the bleeding from his parents for weeks. at seventeen, he got his first tattoo, and charred it off with cigarette butts until all that remained was the outline. at nineteen, he kissed a girl and blocked her the next day. at twenty-two, he fucked up his chances with the only woman he’s ever loved. geto suguru has never known how to handle wanting something. he either destroys it or runs far, far away.

“so what do i do now?” geto asks, brows knit. “she told me to stay away from her.”

“then you do exactly that,” nanami’s already unbuckling his seatbelt. “give her the space she needs. you’ve crowded her for long enough, suguru.”

he has, hasn’t he?

“i’ll ask toji to give me a lift,” nanami is standing outside the car. “you’re in no condition to drive.”

nanami slams the door shut. lafayette is still crying in the backseat.

# SHOW TIME !

geto suguru is back in your room again.

not in the way he’d like, not sprawled on your bed or with you curled into his side. he’s sitting diagonally across from you on the mini-table you have laid out, because he’d tried to sit opposite you and caught the way your lip twitched with irritation.

geto is on his best behavior.

the plastic doll is asleep in its crib as you and suguru fill out spreadsheets. logs on feeding times, that sort of thing. he stares at the gleaming columns—empty. they’ve been empty for an hour now, because geto suguru can’t stop his eyes from shifting from his laptop screen to your face.

“feeding log,” you say flatly. “did you do the 2PM ?”

“yeah,” he did—he thinks. everything is blurry.

“no you didn’t,” you bite. “i’m literally looking at the column right now. it’s empty. and it shouldn’t be.”

geto’s fingers twitch over his keyboard. the spreadsheet in front of him is empty, but the previous one—the one you’re looking at—shouldn’t be. he remembers logging it yesterday with his back bent over the kitchen island, eyes clouded over, thinking, wondering if he should send you a message.

he croaks, “i did fill it in. check the—“

“you didn’t,” you snap, and geto’s never had you snap at him before so he’s not sure what to do with that. “i’m literally looking at it right now. can you please take this seriously?”

“okay,” he swallows.

you turn back to your laptop, irritated. geto fills out the spreadsheet in front of him. he won’t give you reason to be upset with him any longer.

———

the second time geto sees you after the incident, it’s at the local library.

you’re already done with today’s work, and the walk back to the residences is long & winding. geto suguru knows his place. he has his eyes down on the pavement, wind flinging his hair in his face, three feet behind you because you’d eye him if he got any closer.

you’re shivering.

and geto noticed it three minutes ago, to be honest. noticed how your shoulders hugged together, how you shoved your hands into your pockets. he should give you his jacket. you’re cold, and he doesn’t want you getting sick, and he doesn’t want you to snap at him or shoot him down but you’re cold and you’re beautiful and geto suguru is calling your name before he can think any better of it.

“y/n—here.”

he holds out his jacket. you turn back to look at the material, and then back at him.

“i don’t want it.”

he should stop. “you’re freezing. i don’t want you to catch a—“

“i’d rather freeze.” you deadpan. “can you not speak to me?”

geto bites his lip. he stops himself before he can say okay.

——

in the library’s study room, geto suguru has his head on his keyboard and eyes staring at the glass door.

his phone chimes, but he doesn’t check the message because he knows it’s just team snapchat. but then it chimes again, and geto reaches for his phone even though he knows there’s no point.

—

y/n :)

where are you

i have your location.

we need to work on the project

—

geto scrambles—actually scrambles, he accidentally knocks over the chair behind him—and then he breathes. wipes his face with his hoodie sleeves. breathes again.

when you walk in, you don’t say hi.

you sit diagonally across again, and open up your laptop. you look pretty today. hair loose over your shoulders, cheeks flushed from the weather, lashes fluttering in the light. and your lips are glossy again, like they were in the supermarket, like they were on the kitchen counter—and oh god. geto needs to stop staring.

but he doesn’t. he watches, mouth slightly agape, as your nails click at your keyboard. he can tell you’re upset or irritated, and he thinks—no, knows it’s because of him, and he really needs to get this work done so you won’t get sad and snap at him again. he doesn’t want to be in trouble. he doesn’t know what to do when you get like that. so he turns his eyes to his laptop. but somehow, they drift back to your face again.

“can you stop fucking staring at me?”

“sorry—“ he flinches. “i’m sorry, i’ll look away.”

there’s a lump in his throat. he’s looking at the screen but he can’t quite see it, and the numbers and columns have mixed together and swollen up on the page.

but you aren’t done.

“seriously, what is your problem?” you snap, irritated. “we have a project to do. and you’ve been letting your stupid feelings get in the way of it all!”

he wants to say he’s sorry again, and that his feelings aren’t stupid but he’s sorry, and it’s all he’ll ever be, but instead his voice comes out as a croak. “i’m trying.”

you stare at him in disbelief. his fingers are shaking under the table. has he always been this jumpy?

“you need to try harder,” you snarl. “or what? too busy thinking about marrying me? having me round with your baby?” he shrinks. “what the fuck, geto?”

he doesn’t know how to explain that that day in the living room he wasn’t thinking of actually giving you a baby, at least not right now. he doesn’t know how to explain that when he looks at you he thinks of forever, he wants forever, and ever since starting this project ‘forever’ has looked like wedding bells and sunday mornings and grocery runs with a mini-you in the cart. he doesn’t know how to say he wants you to be his, your last name, your everything, and it’s sick and twisted and too much too fast but geto suguru has never been able to want in increments.

so he shrinks. stares at his keyboard. you snap, “say something!”

“i’m sorry,” he croaks, eyes on his lap. “i didn’t want to—i wasn’t trying to—“

“you scared me!” you snap. “geto, you scared me. you’ve been scaring me! these last few weeks—“ you slam your book shut. “touching me. kissing me. and i don’t mind—swear to god i don’t. but you’ve been acting so weird so suddenly! saying things you’ve never said before. is this some kind of twisted roleplay?!”

geto stifles a breath. tries to count in his head so he doesn’t breakdown in front of you. he knows that wouldn’t be fair. you keep going:

“i don’t know what i’m supposed to think,” you grip the table. “my best friend of how many years gets partnered with me for a project, great! but then he starts kissing me on countertops. standing too close in grocery stores. telling me i’d make a pretty wife and mommy and—it’s weird! i don’t know where it’s coming from! he’s never said he likes me in his life, but he can’t wait to see me round with his baby?”

you’re sniffling now. “what the fuck, geto?”

your shoulders are shaking, and you’ve sat back down, and your pretty face is in your hands as you cry. geto’s heart aches. because you’re not supposed to cry because of him. because he’s not supposed to make you uncomfortable, or confused, or upset, and he’s done all of that in the span of a week. and geto’s mouth dries. he wants to pad over and hold you in his arms but he knows he doesn’t have the right to fucking do that.

he breathes in, deep.

“i’m sorry—for moving too fast,” his hands fist. “i’ve been in love with you since freshman year. and i tried, i swear i did, to show it. but you always laughed it off. and instead of telling you outright, i just got more and more aggressive with it. i think part of me has always thought you’d never feel the same,” he swallows. “so i thought it’d be safer to show it than say it out loud. but that was only safe for me.”

he bites his lip. you’re still bawling into your hands, small and terrified, and geto‘s eyes sting. he can’t believe you’re shaking because of him.

“baby—“ he catches himself, “please don’t cry,”

“i hate you,” you sob, “i’m never gonna forgive you ever.”

he swallows. “you don’t have to. but please don’t cry,” his hands tighten on his jeans. “i don’t know what to do when you cry.”

and it’s the first time geto’s been honest, because he really doesn’t know. because you’ve never cried because of him, and normally if you ever cried at all he’d drag you into his chest but right now that doesn’t feel appropriate.

but he gets up anyways.

takes your hands from your face. and you’re so gorgeous even with tears on your cheeks, eyes glistening wet, lips puffed out & nose flushed from crying. and he wants to hug you so badly, but for now he settles for crouching to your height and wiping the tears from your eyes.

you glare down at him, and he should be scared again but all he can think is that you’re so fucking cute. your nose is all puffy and your eyes slightly red. “you’re such an idiot.”

“i know.”

“and this is so cliché.”

“i know.”

“and i want you too, but slower.”

“i didn’t know that.”

“you know it now,” you curse. “you’re an idiot, i swear.”

geto breathes. and then you cup his face, watching the way his eyes glisten with wet. “you still haven’t confessed to me, suguru.”

“i love you,” he says too quickly. “since freshman year. i think about you too much. you’re always on my mind, and i don’t want anyone but you, and i love you so much y/n and i’ll love you forever if you’ll let me—“

you interrupt him with a kiss.

BONUS !

“i can’t believe he said he wants you round with his baby.”

the project is long over, and today you’re on the countertop of the sigma chi kitchen, legs swinging as you gossip with sukuna. he has your plantain chips in his hands, leaning against the counter as he eagerly munches on the snacks.

“i told him to approach you calmly and honestly, y’know? told him girls love communication,” sukuna clicks his tongue. “nobody listens to me in this household.”

you laugh, “really? that would’ve saved him a lot of trouble.”

“right?” sukuna shakes his head, passing you a plantain chip. “he’s got his brain in his ass cheeks, i swear.”

you giggle, and right then, the door swings open. sato gojo bursts in with his arms spread out in glee. “we’re back!”

geto trudges behind him, holding too many shopping bags for one person. sato has already run towards his room, leaving you and sukuna confused—but then geto drops the bags to the floor with a thud. he looks up at you. “hey,”

sukuna absentmindedly blocks your head with his own. “yo, man.”

“can you move your fat fucking head?” geto walks past him, ignoring the gasp sukuna lets out. he brackets you on the counter, forehead slightly sticky with sweat, chain glistening in the afternoon heat.

he murmurs, “hi, baby.”

“hi, handsome,” you cup his face. “back from your date with sato?”

“not a date,” he mumbles, kissing your palm, then your cheek, then your jaw. “was getting groceries.” he murmurs. “missed you so bad, pretty.”

you gigle, squeaking and squirming away as he attacks your face with kisses. he pulls back teasingly, smile smug, before you tug him back in by his chain. sukuna watches calmly, shoving another plantain chip in his mouth. he nods in approval of the flavor.

but he quickly grows bored. “don’t get too comfortable guys. i’ll whip out my dick and start stroking right now.”

“what...?”

“can you pretend to be normal?!”

before suguru can strangle sukuna, sato bounces back into the kitchen. his grin is clumsy, cap tilting off his hair, and in his hands is a machine that looks like a mini-tablet and a bunch of wires connected to pads at the ends.

sukuna’s face contorts in horror. “is that—“

“yup!” sato beams. “it’s time for round two!”

SIGMA CHI’S REMARK : NICE WORK, DADDY GETO !

# SIGMA CHI STORIES !

PLAYING HOUSE, end.

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.

[megumios]

hellooo i saw dat ur requests were open!!!

if not done already could u do megumi x fem reader and megumi fingers reader until she cries? and megumi lowk gets off on her crying.. (if ur ok w writing that) anyway i hope u like my request!

hope u have a good night / day ^_^

🐞 anon

"come on, just one more? you can do it." megumi begs you, his fingers are still buried in your soaked cunt. you have orgasmed twice already, completely overstimulated, but he's giving you puppy eyes.

"i'll be gentle. one more, yeah?"

you sigh and nod. he kisses your tummy softly and starts to work his fingers inside you again. its too sensitive, the way his fingers caress your sweet spot and the way he breathes on your clit as he watches his fingers from up close.

"so wet, pretty." he whispers against the top of your mound. his tongue meets your clit in one kitten lick before pulling away again. you twitch against him, whining at the feeling.

everything seems to be so overstimulating. you don't know how or when, but tears start to fall from your eyes. the pressure from his fingers feels so filling, so deliciously good, and you can't help but shed some tears.

megumi glances at you out of habit, but when he sees the tears, he nearly freezes. the only part of him that stays moving are his fingers. he stares at the tears, at the pleasure on your face. he was already hard to begin with, but seeing you in tears causes another wave of desire over him.

he watches your face, every twitch and every tear. his finger rub faster on your sweet spot, coaxing you into a sweet thick orgasm.

"that's it, pretty. cum for me. cry for me." he mumbles, watching you arch your back and let out a cry filled whine. he almost cums in his pants with you from the way your tears fall on the sheets under you.

he slides his fingers out of you and just stares. your chest is heaving, exhuastion visible, but you look beautiful.

"one more, i promise. i just need to see you cry again." he whispers on your cheek. the saltiness of your tears triggers something in his brain. he quickly sheds his pants, needing to be buried inside you while you cry for him again.

this did something to me

[maaaari0]

Rudo as your baby — sfw, fluff.

★ Rudo had never known a mother's affection—there had never been a feminine presence in his life. He was raised solely by his adoptive father, and after losing him, he was cast out into the surface world. You, Enjin's girlfriend and a Giver, were on patrol with him when you spotted the boy amidst the rubble. You never expected your feelings for him to grow so strong once you started supervising him.

"Can we keep him?"

"He'll have to join the Cleaners soon. The kid's got talent." Enjin replied, leaning his arms on the balcony railing before bringing the cigarette to his lips.

"No... not like that."

"I'm not following you, woman." he said, raising an eyebrow. "You wanna adopt him, is that it?"

You didn't answer, but somehow, Enjin already knew. He just sighed. "My God."

★ Rudo was mesmerized the first time you ruffled his hair. His eyes widened, and he stood completely still for a moment, his stern expression slowly softening. Rudo closed his eyes and hugged you cautiously, still half-expecting rejection. When you didn't pull away, he stayed there, burying his face in your chest.

"Hey, love, have you seen—" Enjin's voice echoed through the room, but you quickly cut him off, raising a finger to your lips in a silent request. The blond stopped, a small smile forming as he saw Rudo nestled in your arms. "I'll come back later." he whispered before leaving the room.

★ The first time he called you "mom" was an accident. You were tucking him into bed, and he was already half-asleep. The word just slipped out. A heavy silence filled the room, followed by Rudo's deep embarrassment. But you just smiled, stroked his cheek, and said, "It's okay. You can call me that if you want."

He never said it again, and his cheeks still burned with shame whenever he remembered it.

★ Rudo became your "shadow." He didn't just watch you—he internalized a fierce instinct to protect you. On missions, he was always one step ahead, scanning the surroundings even though, as your apprentice, he should've stayed behind. If anyone dared raise their voice at you, Rudo would appear instantly at your side, hurling insults like a rabid dog. He didn't care what others thought of him; all that mattered was defending you.

"Say that about her again and I'll smash every one of your teeth, you bastard!" You held the boy back before he could lunge at the person, watching his arms and short feathers flail wildly. "Let me kill him!"

"Calm down, Rudo. It's alright." You then kissed the top of his head, and he stopped immediately. Rudo fell silent, drawing surprised glances from the others.

★ Rudo was still haunted by nightmares. Some nights, he'd appear silently at your bedroom door, wrapped in a teddy bear blanket, unable to sleep. You never said a word, just made space for him to lie down beside you. Enjin would grumble, cracking his eyes open as Rudo settled between the two of you. He'd raise a sleepy eyebrow, blinking slowly. You'd pull Rudo close, holding him snugly against your chest. Enjin said nothing and went back to sleep, too tired to fight his girlfriend for attention against that brat.

★ Rudo was used to having nothing, so when you gave him simple things—a warm meal, a clean shirt, or something old for him to restore—he'd freeze, unsure how to react. Little by little, you taught him that it was okay to accept kindness. He began treasuring those gifts with almost religious care, like priceless relics.

★ Rudo grew deeply worried whenever you got hurt. If you were attacked in front of him, he'd likely lose his mind and act completely irrationally. Later, in the infirmary, he'd sit in the chair beside your bed, his scarlet eyes filled with anguish and concern. He'd touch your hand, his face full of sorrow.

"Get better soon..." he'd murmur, small tears beginning to burn in the corners of his eyes.

★ Rudo misses you whenever you don't go on missions together. When he returns, he makes sure to tell you everything in detail, every little thing he experienced. He's still learning how to express himself, and for some reason, he finds it easier with you. Maybe it's your patience, or the fact that you never judge him, unlike some of the others. With you, he feels truly safe.

★ Rudo always smiles when you praise him. He gets all flustered, his cheeks tinted with a soft blush. One of his biggest goals was to make friends, and having you as his first friend felt like a huge achievement.

"Will we stay together forever?" he asked, his eyes shining with hope.

"Yes, forever," you replied, laughing softly as you tapped his hands.

Since he fell from the sky, he had never felt so whole. You made him feel welcomed, cherished. And deep in his heart, Rudo hoped to repay your kindness one day.

[blkkizzat]

❝ HIS CINDERELLA CAUSE I MAKE IT FIT ! ❞              ⤷ Enjin x Fallen Spherite!Reader

>>>>>> Apparently Enjin has all the 'luck' when it comes to finding Spherites in No Man's Land. This time he's found you—a stuck-up Spherite noble—cast out with the trash. You're prissy, needy and an overall pain in his ass. Definitely not his type—but that slutty pussy sure is. ♡

>>>>>> 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢 𝟏𝟖+ for filthy enjin smut. enjin & reader are delulu & down bad. big dick!enjin. size queen!reader. bimbo!reader. sex under the influence. public sex. breeding. bjs. enjin is overall diabolical. but there's also a bit of plot too with some romance/fluff/humor. no spoilers for anime/manga. >>>>>> 𝐰𝐜: 13.1k

𝐚𝐧: major special shoutouts to @honeybunnnnie my trash daddy partner in crime, who beta'd for me and gave me lots of good lil' gems I incorporated here. we share one horny brain cell when it comes to this man and the amount of headcanons we have made based on this that I didn't even include is INSANE lmfao.

You aren’t Enjin’s type. 

That much is certain the moment he stumbles upon you after being called to check out a disturbance in No Man’s Land. Scanning the terrain of garbage, Enjin wonders if he’s hallucinating.

Still high from the night before—or maybe there’s a leak in his full face?

Either way he had to be tripping absolute balls right now because what the hell else could explain the giant kaiju-like plushie with bunny ears, wide beady eyes, and jagged teeth ripping apart trash beasts in the distance like they were wet paper towels?

But blazed or not, Enjin still has a job to do. Umbreaker sweeps him across the trash dunes in a speedy blur, but by the time he arrives he is already too late and the show is over. 

All that’s left is you: a young woman passed out in a pile of demolished trash beast remains and other junk. The giant kaiju-like plushie—now inanimate and no bigger than a hand—lay beside you tethered to your person by a keyring. 

Happening upon another giver in No Man’s Land wasn’t out of the ordinary, sure, but if Enjin thought he was high from seeing your jinki in action he had to be damn near in the clouds once he recognized your clothes.  

Similar to when Enjin discovered Rudo, he could immediately tell by your dress you are a Spherite. But unlike the threadbare attire of the scrappy tribesmen teen, yours practically screams wealth. They are the finest clothes Enjin has ever laid eyes on. Appearing as if they are woven from gold itself, despite the fresh layer of grime that settled on them.

You aren’t just any ol’ Spherite—you’re a Spherite noblewoman.

Keh, interesting. 

With a shake of his head Enjin scoops you up, heading back to HQ. They aren’t gonna believe this…

Enjin digs out a backup mask from his satchel—clearly not made for your face, because it slides right off. With an annoyed sigh, he holds it in place himself. Guess that’s his job now… at least until you wake up.

Although Enjin soon discovers a pattern of how unnecessarily difficult Spherites can be upon arriving to the Abyss—as the first thing you do upon waking in Enjin’s arms is to slap the everloving dogshit out of him. 

Fuck, you have a mean right hand. 

Enjin tongues a tooth to make sure it’s still there. 

“Let me go this instant, you filthy kidnapping degenerate! I demand you to take me home!” You cry out. 

Tears fog up the mask on your face as you clearly mistook Enjin for some kind of criminal with his ‘full face’ on. Enjin sighs, tightening his grip on you and taking the not-so-painless beating you’re dishing out until you reach the nearest city. 

The very second you both are in a habitable area for breathing, Enjin unceremoniously dumps you to the ground. He catches the mask, yet he leaves you to fall straight on your ass. The fall shocks you but Enjin’s sure what’s really got you stunned is the strange bustling city surrounding you.

Removing his fullface, Enjin crouches down to eye-level with you. Overwhelmed and overstimulated by the foreign place, your eyes dart around helplessly. You’re frantic, looking everywhere for some sort of bearing of where you are and avoiding the man in front of you.

Yet Enjin just waits, clicking his tongue and rocking back on his heels, for you to quiet your hysterics enough for him to get a word in.

When your eyes, still wide with panic, finally meet, he has the nerve to raise a brow—like you’re the one being dramatic and not the guy who literally kidnapped you.

“So, as you may have noticed by now…this ain’t the Sphere,” Enjin says, balancing a cigarette between his lips. 

You look at him skeptically—he says it like it’s nothing, while your world is actively falling apart. What is he even talking about?!

“I know this ain’t the welcome wagon you posh Spherites are used to but…”

Enjin pauses, exhaling smoke to the sky. Your gaze follows up, widening once you see the oddly shaped dome covering the city, a strange yellow fog in the atmosphere.

“....welcome to the Abyss, Girlie. Name’s Enjin.” 

Blankly staring at Enjin, you say nothing. The both of you in a mini stare down. Although you’re the first to give by suddenly bursting into sobs.

Rolling his eyes, a thought briefly flashes in Enjin's head that he should have just left you for the raiders. Hell, he could still leave you now—you’re calling way too much attention to yourself.

However, Enjin also figures that with you all but swimming in luxury on the Sphere, you probably thought of the Pit—your so-called Hell, or its inhabitants as mere fairytale.

Enjin’s inkling is confirmed when you calm down enough to piece together that your now ex-husband had hired a bunch of shady tribesmen to kidnap and dispose of you—all to collect your inheritance. 

Yeah, not your fault.  Enjin thinks and cuts you a break. 

For your own sake, Enjin somehow convinces you to come back to Cleaner HQ with him. He can’t return you to the Sphere himself—but he knows another Spherite who’s trying to make their way back. That small glimmer of hope is enough to lift your spirits, just barely. This time, you follow him willingly—though you still cry the entire way to HQ.

Shame how prone to hysterics you are, otherwise Enjin actually thinks you’re pretty hot. Noting how the expensive silk of your dress clings so damn well to your every curve. He’d sell your clothes while you were near the shopping district—but unlike Rudo, he doubts he could talk you out of them. 

At least—not yet.

But that thought is drastically short lived as Enjin spends more time in your presence. Sure, you could have gotten along. You could’ve even been Enjin’s type. Yet there’s one glaring problem: 

You’re an annoying, needy-ass brat.  

Besides looks, you tick off nearly every one of his dealbreakers. You’re ditzy, dependent and whiny. Basically Enjin’s nightmare.

Plus your snobby little ass never once thanked nor apologized to him over the following weeks.

Not after he saved you.

Not after he brought you back to HQ where you were welcomed with skeptical, yet open arms—as a new, very reluctant (you had no other options really) recruit in-training.

And you certainly never thanked Enjin, even after all his shit luck, when he was assigned to be your teacher and look after your haughty ass. You have the most indignant pout on your face when Corvus announces that since Enjin found you, you're Enjin’s problem.

“You have to be kidding me? I’m stuck with Trashy Poppins here!?”

“Yo, Trashy—what!?” The reference doesn’t land with Enjin but he knows it isn’t good.

Semiu nods curtly in agreement of the pairing, amused that Enjin finally has someone to keep him on his toes as she ushers you off to get settled in.

The fuck?! 

Lamenting being stuck is supposed to be Enjin’s line. Enjin had figured the logical move was to pair you with Zanka—the closest thing to nobility among the Cleaners—and let you bond with Rudo, a fellow Spherite, even if he was a tribesman.

But it doesn’t take long to realize neither boy can handle a grown ass woman like you. One flutter of your lashes and they’re useless saps—like the big sister he never had, you could soothe Rudo’s worst moods with a mere head pat. 

While Zanka, older and appreciating your more ‘robust’ qualities, trips over his own tongue trying to talk to you.

Both ready to do anything just to earn a few sweet coos—unless someone steps in.

It had to be Enjin. He was the only one who could ‘resist’ your charms.

Still, Enjin’s got his work cut out for him when it comes to you—especially training you for combat and figuring out how the hell you’re supposed to use that so-ugly-it’s-almost-cute vital instrument.

He tries not to judge. Really, he does. Jinki are personal—he knows that better than anyone. But still…the fact that you even have one? That’s wild.

A Spherite? A noble Spherite, no less—the same pompous assholes who treat the Abyss like a dumping ground—actually caring enough about something to pump it full of anima?

Yeah, that’s impressive, he’ll give you that. What wasn’t though was the name you gave the lil thing: Bubu.

Tsk. Wack as hell. Vital instruments deserve names with some bite. Something like—Umbreaker.

Still, credit where it’s due—you’re picking things up faster than expected. 

However, that doesn’t spare him from your nonstop bitching, though. The complaints come daily: the strange smells your hair absorbs, the absence of your sacred skincare routines, not being able to take a 30 minute shower, and how everything down here always tastes just a little off.

But the most absurd? The cherry blossoms.

You complain the most about not being able to frolic in your lush, petal-covered garden full of rows of cherry blossoms. Enjin’s never even seen a damn tree like that, let alone the acres of grass and flowers you describe like some bedtime fairytale. You haughtily anoint yourself as a floral herbalist, an expert when it comes to your pretty little flowers.

It’s shit like that on top of everything else that irks Enjin when it comes to you.

And yet?

Enjin thinks the most irritating thing about you is the fact that he can’t seem to stay away from you. 

Sure, you’re annoying as fuck—but in spite of his own objections, Enjin keeps finding ways to keep your time occupied. He makes up excuses to train you longer and drags you along on missions that are solely meant for him. 

Moreover, since you can never keep that pretty little mouth shut, anyone you meet clocks you as a Spherite within seconds—which means you need Enjin’s constant protection, whether you like it or not.

Enjin ends up spending less time drinking or chasing women, finding a far more amusing pastime instead—the way your face twists in indignation every time the Ground doesn’t live up to your so-called “noble standards.” 

He gets a kick out of it, really. Agitating you on purpose, just to watch you squirm.

“Goddamnit, Enjin! Watch it!” 

You’d shriek every time your short skirt went flying from a sudden gust of wind he’d whip up with Umbreaker. Enjin saves that lil trick for No Man’s Land when the others’ backs are turned.

“That’s Enjin-sensei to you, Princess.” 

“Choke—slowly, Trashy Poppins.”

You’d lunge for his mask like you actually meant to rip it off, but at 6 '3, Enjin’s tall enough that you never have a chance at reaching it. It’s all worth it too—Enjin’s already got every pastel scrap of lace you own burned into memory, each one tucked away like a reward for getting under your skin.

It’s a little sadistic, sure—the way he taunts you nonstop, delighting in soiling that polished image of yours to grind you into the dirt of the ground right along with him. 

There’s a fire in your eyes every time Enjin dubs you as “Your Royal Trash Princess”—or just “TP” if he’s feeling lazy. You never fail to rise to his bait, eager to prove yourself—and prove him wrong.

Enjin feels he’s owed a bit of amusement for all his troubles.

Doesn’t mean anything.

Yet the more Enjin pushes, the harder it is to ignore that your bratty spark isn’t just an attitude problem. It’s energy. Real, raw passion. The kind that could actually cultivate anima. He sees it best when you’re snapping at him, flushed and defiant, too stubborn to back down.

It’s trouble to be sure, but fuck if Enjin doesn’t love coaxing it out of you.

All it took this time to get you going was him doubting your so-called knowledge of plants and remedies— “what kinda ‘floral herbalist’ hasn’t toked one?”  

So now here you are, in the HQ lounge, about to smoke your first joint as a ‘pre-game’ to the happy hour Corvus organized for all the Cleaners.

You and Enjin sit shoulder to shoulder on a worn, black quilted-leather sofa that’s seen better days. The cushions creak as you nervously smooth your skirt and settle in, unhooking your jinki—Bubu—from your belt to set her gently on the table.

Enjin rolls a few joints with unhurried precision—like he’s got all the time in the world, and watching you squirm is part of the ritual.

“Bet ya didn’t have anything like this in your lil’ garden, eh TP?” Enjin quips, breaking the silence.

Nose already upturned, your face scrunches as Enjin tosses an extra bud from his stash into your open palms. You hated the nickname ‘TP’ most of all, too easily mistaken for ‘toilet paper’ and Enjin knows that.

You shoot Enjin a dirty look before letting your focus drift back to the brittle sprig in your hands—the first real plant you’ve touched since becoming a Ground-dweller.

You think you actually recognize it. 

Back on the Sphere, your family was among the wealthiest, and your garden was massive. You took pride in your green thumb—like Delmon, whose garden you’ve been meaning to ask about. You want to help, if only to see what kind of plants can survive in conditions this toxic. But Enjin never gives you the space—always hovering, always cutting in before you can finish a full conversation.

You brush off those thoughts but your frown stays as your fingers trace the bud’s dry veins. Even for a dehydrated sample, it feels wrong—brittle in a way that hints of sickness. 

“Hmm. We had something like this—I think. But it’s just another weed.” You say shrugging.

“Heh,” Enjin smirks at your cluelessness, “Would you believe me if I told you ‘weed’ is exactly what we call it, Princess?”

You roll your eyes at the inordinately simple name. It probably has a proper scientific designation—but expecting Enjin to know it? Please.

“We always uprooted them—weeds are unsightly in gardens, you know. A weed, let alone one sick as this, would definitely be pruned right away so as to not syphon nutrients from the other plant life.”

“HAH?!”  

Mid-seal on his joint, Enjin stops cold, staring at you like you just dared to commit some sort of sacrilege before exhaling a theatrical sigh, shaking his head in pure betrayal.

He can’t believe Spherities are probably pissing away the dankest shit ever cultivated. The thought was maddening.

When Enjin’s eyes do meet yours again, there's no amusement as he takes a rather chastising tone with you.

“Princess, for your own good, never repeat that in front of anyone down here…I mean it.”

You huff, but Enjin doesn’t blink—just starts sealing the joint again, eyes never leaving you as his tongue drags slowly across the edge of the paper.

You squirm, and that’s all the reward he needs. 

“See somethin’ you like?” Enjin drawls, holding the finished joint out toward you like it’s a gift—and not a trap with your name written all over it.

Turning on teacher mode, Enjin decides to school you.

“I know we mostly have ‘reggie’ down here, but still, it’s worth its weight in gold for its purposes. Not just for fun ya know—chronic pain, nausea, anxiety—gives a bit of relief from the ailments of Abyss-living you Spherites have so graciously bestowed on us.”

From his pocket, Enjin produces a lighter, shoulders curling as he bows into the flame to set it alight.

Your eyes flick over the sinewy stretch of Enjin arms, the way his jacket strains across his shoulders—reminding you just how solid Enjin really is beneath all that shapeless fabric. Built like a weapon, hiding in plain sight.

You watch as his ringed fingers lift the joint to his lips. Drawing in a slow, steady breath, Enjin sinks back into the sofa like gravity’s got a tighter hold on him than usual. Smoke pools in his chest before slipping out in a long, deliberate exhale.

His gaze follows it, distant—like he’s chewing on thoughts far heavier than anything you said… but somehow still set off by it.

“That’s the problem with you Spherites….you don’t see things the way they are—you see things the way you are.” 

Enjin chuffs at his own words, closing his eyes to let his high settle. Not even completely stoned yet and he’s already spouting off pseudo philosophical one-liners.

“Everything else is collateral, amirite?”

Ouch.

Toeing at the floor, you sulk in silence. Wounded from the verbal licks Enjin just dealt you. Mulling over his words in silence though, you know it isn’t that simple. Horticulture can be complicated even in the most ideal conditions. Just because a plant is viable doesn’t mean it belongs in every garden—some plants are just incompatible.

However…

You sit silently, your teeth worrying your bottom lip as you study the brittle bud in your palm.

…that doesn’t make it worthless.

Instead of exploring any potential use, you tossed the so-called "weed" out—just like everything else the Sphere deemed useless. Not even considering how valuable it could be. You can see why Enjin wouldn't want you repeating that mistake. Enough people already looked at you with disdain as it is. 

Sure there’s a lot of things you miss about it, mostly superficial things that had to do with vanity, but overall life up there was super sterile and dull. You’d never say it out loud but you are glad you fell, it was hard on the ground but it was liberating.

Sighing, you quietly concede. You hate anytime Enjin actually has a point though. It’s the worst thing imaginable—for your pride and for his already unbearable ego.

Cracking an eye open, Enjin curses under his breath. Switching tactics, he decides to replace the long look on his Trash Princess’s face. Annoyance would do just fine. Besides, there was no need for you to pout over it, you actually had a shot at redemption here… heh, the kind that might just work out in his favor, too.

“Y’knowwwww, we’re always learnin’ better ways to grow things down here, faster too...”

Enjin moves so quietly, you don’t realize how close he is until you turn—and he’s right in your face, barely a breath away. Swiping his ringed thumb across your cheek, Enjin’s touch is surprisingly tender. However his expression is entirely obnoxious, full of amusement from how fast your pouty little face flusters.

“...could be a nice little hobby that would do alotta good…and if anyone could figure out how to grow this shit properly down here—”

Enjin plucks at the heat of your warm cheeks, pinching just enough to tease and drag the moment into something more lighthearted.

“—I do believe it could be you—Trash Princess.”

Your eyes catch something deeper than just teasing in his golden gaze—but before you can dwell on it, instinct kicks in. You jerk back, swatting his hand away, shoving whatever that was out of your mind.

Enjin just laughs, unbothered, as you glare at him.

“And why can’t you get Delmon to do it?” you counter, arms folding across your chest. By now, you’ve learned Enjin usually has an angle for everything.

Right on the mark, for a beat, Enjin actually pauses. He hadn’t expected you to bring up the obvious—Delmon, the gentle giant practically martyred to the idea of saving what’s left of the Abyss. But Enjin’s roguish grin slips back into place, spreading wider as he leans in, unapologetically invading your space.

“Why? Well...’cause I asked you, Princess. The ol’lug has enough on his plate as it is. You can handle it alone, can’t ya?”

Truthfully, even knowing your interest in Delmon never strays beyond roots and soil, it still irks every time Enjin catches sight of you with him. You look every bit the noble—graceful, composed, eyes soft and curious as you gaze up at Delmon, eager to learn. It grates on Enjin more than he’d admit, knowing he’s never once gotten that look, despite monopolizing most of your time.

“Ya know—unless, your skillset just ain’t up t’par?” Enjin finishes with a shrug.

Wholly unconvinced, you see this for the bait it is from a mile away. Nevertheless, you can’t deny that you are eager to get even the tiniest bit of normalcy back in your life from your old hobbies. Planting something, anything, would be nice—even if it ends up being contraband for Enjin. Although you still aren’t quite sure why you can’t consult Delmon. 

“Ugh! Fine!”

You fall back onto the sofa and Enjin follows, his arm settling behind you, practically draped around your shoulders. You don’t even flinch. He takes another slow hit, smoke curling toward the ceiling, but this time there’s a wicked glint in his eye as he watches you. Deciding he’s babysat the joint long enough, he leans in with a lazy smirk and holds it out to you.

“Enjin—your eyes!” You blurt out, disregarding his invitation. “Is that just from smoking!? I can’t go to happy hour looking like some kinda zombie!”

Enjin sputters mid-laugh, coughing as wisps of smoke leak from the corners of his smart ass grin.

“Eh, well duh. Why else would they get so red when I smoke?”

Enjin coughs out a few more chuckles. You roll your eyes.

“I don’t know, Trashy Poppins…I didn't make the connection since the air quality down here is 80% pollution! You could have anything.”

While Enjin is amused by your sass, the joint continues to burn down. Each second unsmoked is wasting precious bud. Leaning in, his voice drops to a low purr—the kind that makes your stomach flip.

Heh, time to pull out the big guns.

“Aht-aht-aht, c’mon now, Princess, you know the golden rule…”

You sigh, thinking you need that happy hour drink more than ever right now.

“You’re not serious.”

But you know he is, and of course you remember the silly motto Enjin makes an unspoken rule for his team. Although he mostly just uses it to get you to do something you’ll usually regret later.  You sigh, knowing you’ll never make it to happy hour until you appease the big man-child in front of you.

Enjin’s golden eyes shine with even more mischief than before and together like some damn mantra, you both repeat:

“...it’s not peer pressure—it’s just your turn.”

Resigned, you click your tongue, swiping at the joint in his hands. But Enjin is much faster as he pulls back with infuriating speed. You glower at him, snark locked and loaded.

“Nah, actually I’ll help you out since it’s your first time, Princess.”

Innuendo coils around his words, heat radiating off him as you tense under his gaze. You don’t want to argue with him though, the sooner you smoked, the sooner you both could be at happy hour.

“Open.” 

Enjin’s fingers graze the corner of your mouth as he holds the joint to your peach-glossed lips, eyes darkening when you part them obediently for him.

“Now breathe it in, nice and slow…deeper. Yeah, that’s it—hold it. Don’t let go until I say—good girl.”

You want to scoff at him, but you can’t—not with tears stinging your eyes and smoke burning its way down your lungs. By the time Enjin gives you the nod to exhale, you’re already choking, coughing it all back up in ragged plumes.

Yeah, this was nowhere in hell as easy as Enjin made it look.

The buzz rises in your head almost instantly, an airy haze creeping into your consciousness.

“See? Not a terrible cherry pop, eh?”

The glare you throw at Enjin is more of a squint. Still recovering from the fire tearing down your throat, your coughs earn you a few heavy-handed smacks on the back from Enjin. If it’s out of comfort or mockery, you can't tell. 

Everything in the room is spinning and becoming more distant, like a daydream.

“Easy there, breathe—it’ll hit easier when ya figure out how to grow it right, Princess. The dank shit won’t burn this hard.”

You want to bite back that even if you do figure out how to grow the damn ‘weed’ plant, you’d never touch it again. But the sudden heaviness seeping into your limbs drags you down, tilting your head on the axis of equilibrium.

“I think, no—I know, I need to lay down.”

Not waiting for permission, you flop down onto the worn cushions beneath you, curling up awkwardly with your head leaning against the armrest and your legs dangling off the seat at an angle. 

Enjin doesn’t miss a beat though—he scoops your legs into his lap, tugging off your boots so you can be comfortable.

Leaning back, perfectly at ease, Enjin holds the joint in one hand while the other rests on your stocking-covered shin, giving it a casual, reassuring pat. The way your arm drapes over your face tells him everything—yeah, you’ve got the spins.

“Keh, you’ll make it, Princess. Just let it all ride out.”

You’d make it alright, but not to happy hour anytime soon. Enjin supposes he might’ve let you take a bigger hit than you were ready for. 

Whoops.

Silence stretches in the aftermath but it’s not uncomfortable. Enjin takes a few more lazy tokes, one golden eye cracked open just enough to watch you, taking stock of your state. 

It’s in moments like this—rare ones, when you’re quiet—that he remembers just how fucking smoking hot you are.

Especially in that Cleaner uniform. Man, God bless August.

The eccentric tailor took special care in designing it thanks to a sudden burst of inspiration—August even convinced Enjin to allow him to keep some of the trim from your Spherite clothes that he repurposes. The outcome of your uniform is shinier, more fitted and much sluttier than standard issue. 

You took to it immediately, without much fuss and actually complimenting August. That was August’s gift though—whipping up pieces to suit even the finickiest of tastes—and Enjin had to admit, the man did his big one. 

But the real surprise wasn’t the craftsmanship. It was you—his oh-so-prim little Trash Princess—strutting around in something so damn naughty. Dressed up like a treat that Enjin can’t help but eat up with his eyes.

And whaddya know? Enjin has the munchies bad right now.

Left to his own devices, Enjin takes his time devouring the sight in front of him. His gaze lingers down the length of your legs sprawled across his lap, to the soft, exposed flesh of your thighs—spilling over the edge of your stockings just enough to make his jaw clench.

Fuck, they look so soft. He can't help but wonder how they'd feel locked around his head as his eyes climb to the next indulgence—your crop top. Rucked up to your ribs, the thin white cotton hugs just beneath your tits. Shit, the way your cute little nips poke through the fabric makes his mouth twitch with the urge to say ‘hi’ right back—with his tongue.

Is it hotter in here, or—?

Leering at you for too long is a surefire way for Enjin to pop a boner. Enjin knows he’s not alone in that either. That uniform of yours turns heads in every city you pass through. Consequently, Enjin has split more skulls because of idiots trying to hit on you or cop a feel than he ever has for anyone trying to snatch a Spherite.

Not that he’s jealous or nothing.

Nah. Just doing his job. Watching out for you. Plenty of unscrupulous assholes out there willing to pounce on a clueless little thing like you.

However, right now, Enjin’s just as unscrupulous—‘watching out’ only for a flash of your panties as each restless wiggle sinks you deeper into the lumpy cushions, bunching your skirt higher and teasing him with a glimpse of skimpy lace.

Man, just a little more and he’d know exactly which pair you picked today.

Sobering up a bit more, you sigh at your inability to get comfortable when you could feel the very springs in the sofa. Stretching, you straighten your leg suddenly and—

“Yo! Watch the feets, girl!”  

Though there’s amusement in his voice as he jolts upright, tatted hands grabbing your ankle before you’re able to land another blow.

“Ah, sorry—” You mutter sheepishly, reeling back your foot. “I didn’t mean to kick Umbreaker.”

For what it’s worth, the apology comes quickly—you’ve learned better than to mess with a man’s jinki, especially Enjin’s. You've nearly tripped more times than you can count over that bulky extension of himself that he always keeps within reach.

You know it’s serious too when he doesn’t even bother with the stupid nicknames he usually calls you. Nevertheless, you’re left puzzled when Enjin’s laughter comes out loud and sharp. 

“...that wasn’t Umbreaker, Princess.”

Huh? What does he mean that isn’t— 

You freeze. 

Carefully peeking out from under your arm, your reddened eyes squint down the length of your body and onto his. When the realization does set in of what exactly you kicked, it smacks you harder than any hit of ganja ever could.

“O…oh…—OH MY GAWD!”

Immediately springing upright, your vertigo swirls with how fast you’re scrambling to your knees as you gawk.

Time passes for what seems like a solid minute or two and neither of you speak. 

You’re staring at the crotch of Enjin’s baggy pants and Enjin is staring at you.

“Heh.”

The devious look on Enjin’s face right now could shame the devil himself. Yet you’re still in utter disbelief.

There’s no way that’s his dick!

Still, your brain won’t stop running the numbers—high girl math with clumsy calculations drawn from the fleeting brush of your toes against the long, thick mass hidden beneath the fabric of his baggy pants. Enjin’s words ring in your mind like a gong—‘that wasn’t Umbreaker…’

“You’re burnin’ a hole through my dick, Princess—”

Enjin’s voice unfurls seductively, like the smoke curling from his lips.

“—keep starin’ like that and I’m gonna think you wanna see it.”

Your eyes meet his dead-on. 

“I do.”

“Yeah, I’m sure yo—wait, come again?!”

Enjin’s grip goes slack, the joint slipping from his fingers. He was halfway to some sassy quip, ready to taunt your denial—but your delivery is so honest, with no teasing or angle to play off, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

The embers hiss against his thigh before he even registers he dropped it.

“Tch.” Cursing under his breath, he flicks it aside—it’s all roach anyway—and tries to pull himself back together.

You’re fucking with him. Yeah. That’s it. 

Smug again, Enjin leans into the bit you started.

“Ha ha…right. I know my stuck up lil’ Trash Princess isn’t asking to give me a dick inspection…”

Enjin adjusts his pants in a casual sweep that doesn’t fool either of you. He’s not brushing off the remaining flakes of ash—he’s palming his restless cock that jumped at the idea of you actually wanting to see it.

But both you and Enjin would quickly discover, despite your snobby Spherite upbringing, you lose any type of filter and sense of couth while high—blurting out your thoughts unabashedly. 

“I said I wanted to see it, Trashy Poppins. Or m’not gonna believe you’re actually that big.”

You fold your arms, huffing stubbornly.

There was no way an unbearably annoying man like Enjin was slanging actual horse cock! 

He had to be the one fucking with you here.

Well, wait, no—a cocky, stupidly sexy man having a big dick actually tracks, now that you think about it.

But still—you need to verify. For science, if nothing else. 

Yeah. Science.

Enjin blinks, taking stock of you—kneeling close, your tits straining like they’re about to burst free, and your skirt rides so high on your thighs this time, he swears one more millimeter and he’d see your panties for real. 

“C’mon now…”

Your sickly sweet coos needle at Enjin’s spine.

“...as if you aren’t always upskirting me just to see my panties.”

Shit. You knew it was intentional?

“At least you can show me your undies for a change. If you’re really that big, then I’ll be able to tell.”

The spark alight in your eyes is a challenge to Enjin, who loves pushing your limits. Now he needs to know how far you’ll go. Even if he’s completely unprepared for this turn of events, he’s sure as fuck not gonna be the one backing down first.

“S’that right, Princess? Well, I haven’t even seen yours today so—”

Enjin doesn’t even get the chance to finish before you’re lifting your skirt and spreading your knees wider. You stare up at the ceiling, the popcorn squares suddenly appearing super interesting to you. Enjin’s eyes however immediately zero-in on the pink lace stretched tight across your pussy.

Christ.

With a much closer view, Enjin picks up all the little details he usually misses—like how the hem digs into your soft curves or how the material is thin enough to see the split of your chubby lil pussy lips pressed underneath. 

Goddamn, are you intentionally buying them a size too small? 

Or is your pussy print just that fat?

Enjin gulps, mouth dry. 

His attention caught like a hook to your cunt, everything else is unimportant—including the irony of how he was just teasing you for the very same thing—it’s all utterly lost on him. His priorities shifting rapidly the longer he ogles you.

After a minute, giving him quite frankly more of his fill than he deserves, you let your skirt drop back into place. The alluring spell of your fatma breaks when your  knees snap shut and Enjin is yanked back to a world that doesn’t exist between the apex of your doughy thighs. 

All of his lecherous starring is worth it though—if only to be able to throw his own saying back at him for once.

“Now, how’s it go again? It’s not peer pressu—”

“—Yeah, yeah, I got it, Princess—My turn.” 

Enjin relents, cutting you off with a twisted grin as he shakes his head.

“Ya don’t gotta break my arm to see my dick, babe. Just makin’ sure you’re sure. Don’t need you runnin’ off telling Semiu I flashed ya.”

Semiu is already on Enjin’s ass for teasing you as much as he does. Something about him being ‘too grown’ not to ‘nut up’ and ‘come to terms with his reality’, but Enjin was never listening for long, zoning out as soon as a new lecture was underway. 

However, if your prissy ass really wants to see his dick that bad, of course he’d oblige. Hell, Enjin would get another kick outta watching your horror when you realize for real just how much he’s packing. It had been a minute since he'd seen that look on a woman.

For being as hot and charming as he is, Enjin didn’t get nearly as much play as he should’ve. He isn’t a virgin by any means, but too many women take one glance at his size and back off expeditiously.  

Life on the ground meant hustling to survive for most. Nobody could afford to be laid up for days just because Enjin’s wrecking ball of a cock tore through their walls, rendering them unable to walk—let alone go to work.

Yet with a clink, that all changes as the leather strap of his belt and gear slides free. Enjin lifts his hips enough to shove his pants down past his thighs and there it is—short red boxer briefs with a black waistband, the fabric stretched thin over the obscenely long, thick outline of his dick resting along his thigh.

Simply put, your jaw drops. There’s a static-like silence buzzing in your mind as you process the monstrous mass of phallic muscle before you.

You’ve never seen a dick that huge in your entire life. 

Clocking your shock, Enjin’s chest puffs like he’s just been crowned a king in the room.

“Relax, Princess…” he drawls, smugness saturating every word.

“I ain’t even all the way hard yet.”

Bullshit! 

Your eyes pingpong between his face and his cock before landing on the obvious conclusion—no overthinking this time.

“What are you waiting for then? Get hard.”

Enjin actually chokes for real this time, still not used to how blunt his demure lil’ Trash Princess gets when she’s high. He manages to laugh regardless once he finds his breath as he sure as hell doesn’t hate this new side of you.

“Hah?! It doesn’t work like that ya know…”

Enjin lies right through his fucking teeth. 

Just hearing that vulgar command from your prissy lil’ lips has his blood surging south, his cock swelling at rapid speed. Already on go, his dickprint thickens, straining against the fabric until threads stretch thin to form almost obscenely over him like second skin.

Yet unlike his past hookups you don’t flinch at the sight of him getting even bigger. 

There’s more than enough incredulousness on your face for sure, but Enjin half expected you to backpedal for the sake of your pussy’s self-preservation and book it out the door. Instead, the look you’re giving his dick is more akin to awe than fear.

Truly, though—you are in awe.

Men weren’t like this on the Sphere. Well, your husband certainly wasn’t.

Older than you by over a decade, your husband’s stamina was so poor he never lasted long. His size, his endurance, and his dismissive comments about your sexual appetite being perversely unbecoming for a lady of your station had you wondering if something was wrong with you this entire time—if you expected too much from sex.

But when your eyes drift back to Enjin—catching the thick vein running along his length, visible even through the fabric—you know better now. 

It was never you.

The realization brings a surge of boldness. Your gaze trails the pulse of his cock down to the wet patch blooming at the tip—so much pre spilling it seeps through the fabric. 

Enjin inhales sharply through his nose. He knows he’s proven his size, but your silence and the way you’re eyeing his cock like some kind of museum exhibit is starting to get to him. 

Enjin doesn’t want to back down as he impatiently waits for your final verdict of approval. But if you keep staring at him like that, with those big pretty eyes of yours, he’s going to come in his pants, untouched, like some fucking cuck.

“Well, Princess? Big enough for ya?”

You don’t even hear Enjin, too lost in your own thoughts. Your body, buzzed and reckless, has a mind of its own though. Reaching out, your hand leaves your lap to trace the thick ridges of his cock, mapping its shape through his briefs. 

“Oh, shiiii—” Enjin hisses. 

His lip catches between his teeth as all thoughts vanish the moment your delicate little fingers start stroking him.

“Argh—fuck. Can’t jus’ go grabbing a man’s dick like that ya know.”

Yet Enjin does nothing to stop you as your touch grows bolder. Your palm flattens around his girth—too thick for even your whole hand to wrap around, even through his boxers.

How would someone even get something that monstrous inside them!?

Encircling his leaky cockhead, you giggle as your index finger slowly tap-tap-taps the mess he’s made there, amused at how many of the small, sticky suds you can gather on your finger through the material.

Enjin’s own laugh is strangled. This can’t be real.

“Heh… fuck… you really tryna kill me, huh, Princess? Fuckin’ tease…”

You’re unfazed by Enjin’s provocations – too mesmerized by the obscenely large cock in front of you that has you squirming uncomfortably as your own panties turn swampy with heat. 

“May I?”

Meeting Enjin’s gaze, your polite innocence is accented by a wide-eyed pout that’s far too sweet for the filthy implications of your request. Like you’re nicely asking permission to play with your favorite toy—except you don’t even wait for him to give it,fingers impatiently snapping the edges of his waistband like some cockhungry slut. 

“Uh…” Enjin blanks while his dick is practically screaming at him to respond—even a damned head nod would suffice. Yet his brain blue-screens as it registers that look—the normally innocent, curiosity filled look that he's been craving since he found you in No Man's Land—now twisted into something debased and filthy.  And best of all?

Meant just for him.

Enjin’s so fucking hard right now it’s painful—and hell, if you’re planning to do something about that, he’s not about to stop you.

“Keh. Do you, boo.”

Enjin manspreads, giving you full access. You eagerly pull down his shorts just enough to release his cock, and it springs free, thick and heavy. 

Good God, he’s a big boy! 

Although you knew that, seeing the monster in all of its unleashed glory was an entirely different experience. Enjin’s dick bobs back to curve towards his abs, a shiny pubic piercing shining at his base under its shadow.

Panting, your previously dormant inner size queen activates. You have to swallow down the bucket of saliva collecting on your tongue before you choke—you can’t help but salivate at the thought of what a huge cock like this tastes like… what it feels like. 

You’re pretty sure it could break you in two, and surprisingly, the thought excites you.

Lowering yourself on all fours, the first tentative lick you give Enjin’s length has his toes curling as he grips the sofa, ripping a chunk clean off the decaying material. 

You moan out a depraved 'ahhh' once you reach the top, a little smile playing on your lips as you tongue down the hole at his tip.  Greedily, you lap up all the little dribbles of pre beading at the tip and flowing out.

“W-Woaaah—ugh. FUCK!”

Enjin’s hand flies into your hair as he clears his throat. Sure, your mouthwatering stares made a blowie likely, but diving in this shamelessly? It’s enough to make him feel like he’s losing his damn mind.

You grip his base—an insurance policy to keep him from cumming—while your other hand cups his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze. His thigh jolts beneath you and you simper at how sensitive he is despite his massive size.

“T-There’s no way in hell they taught your prissy ass how to be this much of a slut up there.”

Pouting, you release his balls to cradle his cockhead against your puffed up cheek, uncaring of the amount of pre seeping across your jaw. 

“D-Do…do you hate it? My hus—um, ex said it was a turn off. H-he'd say I have 'the depravity of a slums streetwalker.”

Staring up at Enjin, your eyes are clouded with lust, yet edged with worry—like he’d threatened to rip something precious away.  But it’s only his cock you’re coddling tighter against your cheek, your lips parting just enough to chase the beads of pre that drip close to your mouth.

If you weren’t gripping Enjin’s base so hard he definitely would have blown a load all over your face. Fuck, if the thought isn’t tempting to him though – he doesn’t think you’d even mind in this state.  

Goddamn, you’re so much sluttier than Enjin could have ever imagined. 

And he’d imagined it plenty. 

Especially on nights Enjin stumbled back to HQ drunk and alone, having closed down the bar with Corvus and Gris. Left to sate his own booze-fueled boner, he’d shamelessly rut into his pillow. Yet, no matter where his perversions strayed, every faceless fantasy in the dark insisted on transmuting into you. 

You seriously think he couldn’t match your freak? 

Oh, sweetheart, you have no fucking idea.

“Hate it?” 

Enjin holds back the growl building at the back of his throat. There’s a torrent of thoughts swirling with his high all at once—all coming to settle right back into his dick. 

“Never. Show me who you really are, Princess—n’ I’ll give it right back to ya tenfold—that’s a promise.”

If you weren’t already trembling with arousal—finally free to let your freak flag fly—you might’ve shied away. Enjin’s easy acceptance of you stirs something deeper, something messy that you usually ignore before it can settle. Now, with his scent thick on your face and tongue, you’re not thinking at all—aching with the urge to all but inhale his cock.

You merely nod, flashing Enjin a coy smile before stretching your plush lips to wrap around him. Slowly, you swallow down his girth, mouth hot with suction so deliciously moist Enjin’s hips jerk up. You gag, but his firm grip on your roots keeps your head in place, forcing his length to breach your throat.

“That’s it, baby…open up f-f’er me—g-good fucking girl, Princess…”

Tears prick at your eyes as his cock pounds back of your throat. The stretch is brutal—but some desperate part of you craves more of his filthy praise. What you can’t take with your mouth, your hands make up for—stroking every thick inch your lips can’t swallow.

“Shiiiit, girl! You’re a pro at this.”

If you ask Enjin later, he’d probably call you a throat goat, however most of your “experience” came from the smutty paperbacks high-society wives hid in corsets and swapped under tea tables—not actual practice. You don’t really know what you are doing. You’re just following the book's explicit instructions. 

Still, Enjin doesn’t seem to mind being your test dummy. 

On the contrary, Enjin is more than happy to let you do your thing and he does just that. Although, the longer your head bobs along his cock, the more your skirt rides up—until it finally flips over your hips, giving him a perfect view of the cheeky lace framing your ass.

Enjin groans, gripping your ass with bruising force before sliding his fingers down to palm your pussy over your panties—fuck, you’re already dripping for him.

“Hah—uppity cunt gets this sloppy just from a lil’ dick sucking, eh?”

Enjin laughs, yet the gravel rattling in his voice betrays him. No one has ever fearlessly tried to deepthroat him and actually fucking enjoyed it. 

Unable to respond with your mouth, too busy still trying to do the impossible and fit more inside your throat, your hips respond instead—wiggling desperately against his fingers, begging for more of his touch. 

Enjin doesn’t hesitate. Slipping a tatted finger into your panties, he drags it through your folds, marveling at how wet and scorching you are. Pushing into your core, your walls clamp down, fluttering around his digit.

Oh fuck, even his fingers are big! 

A second ringed finger follows – the rough, callous fingers of a man who's seen too many fights scrape so good against all your gooey spots. Lewd squelches echo from your pussy as your throat tightens around him in tandem. The sounds, the squeeze, the heat—all of it is driving him crazy.

Shit he’s gonna cum for real this time. 

To his credit, Enjin tries to warn you—tries to pull you off before it’s too late. 

He doesn’t wanna risk pissing you off and having you refuse to ever do this again. Enjin still wants to fool around more;, he wants to fuck you. It’s that thought—your pretty pussy lips splitting open to swallow him instead—that has him busting his hot seed down your throat in thick, hot pulses.

“HAHH—FUHH!”

Releasing your hair, Enjin half expects you to pull away, furious he hadn’t warned you.  Instead, your nails dig into his thigh, steadying yourself. You moan around him, the vibrations rippling through his sensitive cock while you work him for every last drop, his hips jerking beneath you.

Only when you’re certain you’ve drained him do you pull back, swollen lips coming off his cock with a wet pop. 

“Allll go-neee S-Sheee? HAhhhhh~♡”

Tits jiggling as you heave for air, you present your tongue to Enjin as proof you’ve swallowed all of him. Every. Filthy. Drop.

“Oh fuck me… you’re a nasty lil’ Trash Princess, aren’t you?”

You can’t help but agree—your throat’s wrecked and your pussy’s aching to be used just as thoroughly. Enjin’s fingers aren’t inside you any more, although they are still on your pussy, running through your folds absentmindedly.  

“Ngh—n-eed m-more,” you slur.

All your decorum was lost to the wind the moment you asked to see his dick—you don’t even care that it’s Enjin of all people that you just gave head to. Suddenly, the obnoxious pain in your ass seems like your only deliverance. Right now, you're more frustrated that you've spent so much time bickering with him when you could have been fucking him.

You much prefer his moans to anything else coming out of his mouth.

You need him to get hard again—immediately!

Enjin, mind mushy with release, takes another joint out to light. As much as he wants to return the favor after that kind of sloppy top, the man needs a minute.  His high has his whole body tingling from the post release sensitivity.

But you can’t wait any longer. It’s been god knows how long since you’ve had a proper orgasm and those were only from your own small, fumbling fingers. Throat achy and raw, you quiver at the masochistic thought of how his cock is going to absolutely obliterate your pussy.

You slide your panties down before flinging off your jacket and top.  Taking a seat on Enjin's lap, you're now clad in just your bra, your skirt that's bunched up at your hips, and thigh highs. Grabbing his cock, you give his soggy, half-hard girth a few encouraging pumps.

Your pussy is already slobbering, a viscous string of syrupy slick drips down from your slit to land on his cockhead, connecting you to him as you line him up. 

Feeling your fingers around his length, Enjin's eyes fly open, balancing the joint between his lips as he quickly shrugs off his own jacket, checking the pockets.

“Woah, woah. Slow your roll there sweetheart—you’re skipping a few steps.”

You aren’t listening though, not giving a fuck what Enjin is talking about as you cry out, grinding your clit against his fat tip, before running it back through your folds.

Enjin grits his teeth, coughing out smoke as he holds the joint in one hand and your hips in the other. You’re being a brat again, not listening to a single word he’s saying. 

“Gotta find my rubbers…also gotta stretch you out better, Princess—you’re gonna split in two if I don’t.”

You whimper, petulant and needy. You press his cockhead against your entrance, swiveling your hips like you’re going to recklessly sink down on him at any second.

“Huh? Rubbers?” You shake your head in confusion, pouting. “m’Ennnnjiiiiin…I can’t wait that long—puh-leaseee don’t make me wait s’long, Enjiiiiin. I can take it, promiseee!”

The way you sweetly coo his name is shattering any sense of self-control Enjin has left. The urge to submit you to the ultimate corruption surges hot through his veins, but Enjin knows how big he is and while he did want to break you, he didn’t want to hurt you in the process. You are absolutely nuts to want to ride him with so little prep—now, on top of everything else, you apparently wanted him to fuck you raw.

Wait—did you just ask what rubbers were? Did you not have condoms on the Sphere?

But any lingering concerns dissipate the second you start fighting to get his tip inside you.

“Too s-slow!” You groan.

Fear is the last thing on your mind—evident in the way you impale yourself on him, defiant even against the impossible stretch. Your pussy is tight around the swollen head of his cock, strangling it as your nails dig into his shoulders. You grind in slow, desperate circles. Tears roll down your cheeks as you bite them to keep from crying out, your body fighting against every inch.

Enjin watches with a dark glint in his eyes – you trying so hard for him makes him want to flip you over and fuck you into the cushions. But he’d let you have it at your own pace…for now. 

Releasing your hip, Enjin spits into his palm, rubbing his slick fingers over your clit in slow steady circles. 

“Such a hard-headed girl—c’mere…”

Enjin takes a long drag from the joint, balancing it between his fingers as he grabs the back of your neck. His lips crash into yours before you can think.

You gasp and Enjin takes the opportunity to exhale the smoke deep into your lungs, taking the harshest of the hit himself. You're left with only the smooth, earthy flavor warming your chest before it melts through your limbs.

But it’s the way he kisses you after that really knocks the ground out from under you. His tongue pushes past your lips, tangling with yours—hungry, messy, like he wants to steal the little air you have left until you’re only breathing him in.

Your arms wrap around his neck, hands buried in his soft buzzed undercut, anchoring yourself. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it greedily, teeth nipping your lower lip before diving right back in. All the while, his thumb keeps grinding into your clit, faster now, like he’s keeping rhythm with the pulse that’s beating under your skin.

Why does it feel this good? How is he doing this to your body? S’not fair! 

Not realizing you could feel this good from a kiss, you're unraveling in real time. Your mind goes blank with every pulse, every word, every inch. You’re not even fully seated yet, but you can already feel the blunt head of his cock grinding against your cervix, the pressure building with each centimeter you drop. You never imagined you could feel this full—like he might actually breach your womb.

The thought alone has you trembling, unstable, your aching thighs giving out, causing you to slide down a bit too fast. The thick veins along his length rake across your g-spot and your body snaps. A sharp, helpless spasm rocks you as your breath catches and a small, unexpected orgasm rolls through you.

Enjin pulls back just enough to let you breathe, though your body doesn’t stop shivering, lost in a blur of pleasure and pain.

“Eh... did you just cum, Princess?”

The question is rhetorical, full of smug amusement, as he can feel the increasing wetness leaking down his cock, making it all the easier for you to slide down.    

Teasing your earlobe, Enjin’s tongue dips in to flick at the shell of it, making you clench.

“HA! Good fucking girl! A lil’ more and I bet she’ll be a real squirter f’er me.”

Enjin beams, proud of his Trash Princess. No woman had ever taken him this deep—not even close. Enjin hadn’t expected you to be any different. And yet…when Enjin looks down, he releases a groan deep from his gut.

The sight alone almost has Enjin nutting in you -- your drooling cunt spread so wide around his girth, sitting almost at his base. A thought flashes briefly – it's kinda like he’s a virgin again. Parts of his dick had never experienced this kind of molten heat so maybe, in a sense, he is? Enjin didn’t fucking care if he was though, as he ain’t about to be with the way your pretty pussy is giving way like it’s made for him. 

“Run that back.”

Enjin takes the final drag, pinching the smoldering end of the joint between his fingers before flicking it aside. He leans in again, slower this time. There’s no rush in how his mouth seals over yours. The second shotgun is less about the smoke and more about the feel of you—your lips parting for him, your breath syncing to his, and the small whimper you make as he sucks slowly on your tongue.

The haze spreads between you both, thick and warm. Simultaneously, his knuckles tease your clit, a soft schlick sound filling the space between you from you getting wetter by the second. By the strength of some unknown force, you finally bottom out, immediately collapsing into his neck. 

You both moan. Enjin feels you quivering from the inside out and you feel him everywhere—shifting your guts into your ribs. 

“I…I did it.”

Your smile blooms soft against his inked skin, lips grazing the spot where you can feel his own pulse hammering wildly.

Enjin’s in no state to congratulate you on your impressive feat. Completely sheathed in you raw, coring out your gummy walls into the shape of his dick—something in his brain chemistry fizzles. Like a bit of pussy juice, acting as a catalyst, slipped into his dick and traveled straight to his prefrontal cortex to corrode all of his previous thoughts about you. The result is clear.

Enjin doesn’t give a fuck if you are a snobby, annoying, needy lil’ brat who never let him get away with shit and bitches at him constantly—the furtherest thing from his type.

Because honestly?

Motherfuck a bullshit-ass type. Your slutty ass pussy is fuckin’ perfect. 

For the first time, Enjin realizes he might be in love with you. 

How could he even look at another woman after this?

One thing if for certain—Enjin is going to make damn sure you never have the desire to even look at another man.

Both his hands trail up your hips, groping and squeezing the plump curves of your ass before settling at your waist. His blunt black nails dig into your skin to pull you back from his neck.

Enjin whistles, admiring the stagnant stream of spittle lingering on your chin. Look at you—cockdrunk just from sitting on him. 

Enjin doesn’t think he’s ever seen you look more beautiful.

“Enjiiiiiin,” you whimper, not being able to hold yourself up. 

But your cries for him only inflame the predatory smirk on his lips, your honeyed cunt hugging his cock so beautifully. 

“Makes sense you fell from heaven, huh Princess?” 

Whether you're ready or not, Enjin forcibly winds you on his cock in slow circles. Your clit brushes up against the well placed pubic ring like a reward for being the first to experience it.

“—cause this pussy’s a fuckin’ angel.”

Your eyes are already lodged in your skull so you can’t even roll them at his cheesy line. But if your pussy is an angel, then Enjin's dick is most definitely a demon—his sinful cock tearing through your insides and condemning you straight to hell.

Moaning loudly, your body moves on autopilot—chasing more friction from the rhythm Enjin set. Good thing everyone was at happy hour or you would for sure be attracting some major attention now.

Although, to be honest you probably wouldn’t notice anyway. You don’t even notice when your bra falls away, your tits spilling out just so Enjin could watch them jiggle in his face. You only register its disappearance once his mouth latches onto one of your nipples, his tongue finally saying it’s ‘hello’.

“Shiiiiit!”

Your hips stutter, then stall when Enjin tugs at your sensitive bud with his teeth.

“Hey…I know my Trash Princess ain’t tappin’ out just yet.” 

SMACK!

Enjin brings a heavy palm down on your ass and your pussy clenches tighter around him. Enjin relishes the way your plush curves mold to his hands, each smack adding to the wet, messy sounds between you. You’ve already leaked enough on his lap to stain the sofa beneath you.

“Nah, ya just got on the ride, baby. Giddy-up.”

SMACK!

“NNNGH!” You weakly glare daggers at him. 

Any softness on Enjin’s face has since been replaced by something far more mischievous. If you thought he was obnoxious before—you’re about to learn he’s a full-blown menace inside of pussy.

Wobbling, you gather together what little resolve you have left to roll your hips forward. 

“HAAH! S’too biiiiiig,” you whine but your body can’t stop.

The juices saturated between you grant enough momentum to finally get a good, smooth bounce going.

“Fuck—that’s it, ride it like it’s yours, baby.” Enjin encourages you.

The way you cream harder every time he calls you 'baby' doesn't go unnoticed.

“Oh? You like me talking sweet to the pussy, baby girl?—Or do you just like being my filthy lil’ trash slut, hm Princess?”

Gritting your teeth, you grab on to Enjin’s shirt like reins, pulling him closer to you. 

“Y-You’re…gonna—ahshiiiit—hafta f-fuck m’better than thisss…if you want m-me to be your ‘baby girl’—Trash Daddy.”

Unfortunately, your sass falls flat—you can barely keep your head from lulling to the side. But Enjin’s thoroughly entertained nonetheless—he’ll take ‘Trash Daddy’ over ‘Trashy Poppins’ any day.

“Bet.”

Electricity runs through Enjin. He’s all charged up—now it’s his turn to unleash.

Your brow furrows from the noise Enjin makes—you’re not sure if he just laughed or snarled. But it's the only warning you get. 

Sliding down the sofa a bit, adjusting himself for stability, Enjin spreads his legs, planting his feet firmly on the floor as he bullies his cock up into you like he's breaking in his own personal fleshlight.

All you can do is go slack, falling forward on his chest. His grip bruising your hips, not allowing you to run from the way his blunt cockhead plows into your womb like a battering ram. 

The couch beneath you groans, its frame creaking under the strain. The wood and leather protest like the entire thing might fall apart at any moment.

“Enjinnnnn, m’slowwww dowwwnnn!” 

Your cries only fuel his frenzy and Enjin knows from the way you’re gushing on him you can take it.

Fuck—this sweet lil’ pussy is just so good for him. Imagine if he never met you. 

If you never—

Enjin cuts the thought off cold. 

Moving before you can blink—your world flips. One second he’s pummeling up into you, the next you’re on your back. 

Enjin peels away his shirt, muscles flexing as he looms over you. His hands curl around your ankles to keep them pinned overhead. A single bead of sweat catches your bleary eyes as it slides down his bare chest, gliding over firm muscle. The bold ink patterns seem to come alive on his skin. He looks so fucking sexy right now and you can’t help but to shamelessly ogle him.

Yet, there’s something much too serious and somber about Enjin’s current demeanor. You’ve been staring at him far too long to go unnoticed. The highly expressive, sassy powerhouse is rarely this silent. He should be teasing you right now, asking some smartass shit like if you’re ‘enjoying the view’. 

“Enjin?”

Your sweet voice hits his ears and instantly you have his attention again. Enjin flashes you a pearly white smile.

“Heh, enjoy the break, Princess? You wont get another.”

Ignoring the question in your eyes, Enjin folds you into a mating press, thrusting to the hilt all in one motion. The sound of flesh lewdly slapping against flesh fills the room, as do your cries.

But there’s still something else burning in his eyes. Enjin knows it’s unfair not to be honest with you, but taking out his unspoken feelings on your pretty pussy is the only way he can express himself at the moment. 

Suddenly, there’s a loud creak followed by a decisive snap and two of the sofa’s legs give out. If your sweat and cum weren't like glue on the old leather you’d surely slide off head first. You yell out in alarm, but Enjin doesn’t give a fuck about the damn sofa.

His mood is still soured by the thought that wouldn’t be shaken away until he confronted it—

If you never fell.

But you did. He found you—and now that Enjin has you under him like this, he needs to fuck the point he’s concluded into you:

If Rudo ever finds a way to the Sphere, Enjin will personally travel there and see to your ex-husband himself. 

Hell, he might even rail you in front of him a few times—show him what a real man could do. Maybe even a real…husband?

If the sounds of sloshing fluids and skin slapping skin weren't ringing so loudly in your ears that it drowned out everything else, you would have thought Enjin had lost his mind with the way he was cackling above you.  He sounds completely deranged, laughing at the idea of him finally wanting to settle down all while continuing to pound you deeper into the broken sofa.

But despite being high off weed and your pussy, Enjin’s mind has never been more clear—he wants to lock you down.

“Hah… P-Princess, can ya feel me in your tummy? Right…” Enjin’s golden eyes lock on the ever-so-slightly distended bulge from the monstrous intrusion in your guts.

“....right, here.” 

Throwing your legs over his shoulders, his large hands splay across your sweat sheened belly. You’re squirming under the heat of Enjin sandwiching your guts between his palm and his cock. Its all far too much—you’re too full, unable to really focus on what Enjin’s saying.

“Ahh, E-Enj—m’ c-cum, g-gonna mmm…” you hiccup, swallowing your tears.

Your nails rake down his arm to ground yourself but your body is thrumming too hard, adrift in the rush rolling through every one of your wired nerves. Your tits bounce obscenely every time your velvety walls devour his cock back down to the base. Enjin’s pubic piercing bucking against your clit has you clutching onto his dick like you were about to break it off.

You feel so fucking good. Enjin desperately needs to feel you creaming on his cock, and you would be soon if your kitten nails raking down his arms– adding more red to his already inked skin– were any indication. 

“That’s it, Princess, hah—fuck, baby, I got you. Squirt for your Trash Daddy.”

As if on command, the knot inside you coils to its breaking point, prickling every nerve, releasing a warm rush of fluids. Your body tingling in ecstasy, you quickly tumble over your peak, eyes blinded by speckles of brightness as you cum.

Yet Enjin hasn't slowed, his continuous pounding forcing more of your cum and squirt to gush out of you—the melody of his now drenched balls colliding with your wet ass only growing loude

“Fuck, that’s it. Pussy cryin’ like she wants my cum, Princess…” 

You’re barely conscious from all the pleasure, eyes rolling back into your head. 

“She’s jealous that slutty throat of yours got all my cum, now it’s her turn to swallow, isn’t that right?”

It’s a rather roundabout way for Enjin to ask if he can nut inside you, but then again, he wasn’t really asking. The thought of breeding you makes him feral. 

“Ahh—f’nnghhhh!”

Non-verbal and fucked dumb, you’d probably agree to anything right now. You’re an utter mess–pussy stretched beyond anything you thought possible, face sticky with slobber rolling down to pool in the folds of your neck. 

“O’course it is…gonna dump all these trash babies into my princess’ sweet lil’ cunt.”

Although you are super turned on by the thought of Enjin breeding you, there's no way you have any idea how serious Enjin is about putting a baby in you. How could you? You don’t even realize the love confession his cock is professing to you.

“FUHHHH—take it!”

Enjin pumps thick ropes of his cum into your tummy as his body thrashes on top of yours. The primal intensity has you vibrating as another orgasm rips through your overstimulated and overworked pussy. Filled the brim, his spunk overflows, sploshing out of your pussy as he rocks his hips, urging his seed deeper to plant right in your womb.

In the afterglow, the two of you lie off-kilter in a tangled heap on the broken sofa. There’s blood rushing to your head— not the worst place for it, you think, all things considered. Enjin’s weight is heavy, his chest heaving into yours, warm and sticky as he wraps you in his arms. 

Just as you feel you both might drift off like this, Enjin stirs. Flinching, you whimper as Enjin wills himself up, his cock sliding out of your pussy with a squelchy suctioning noise. Your knees part for him with zero resistance as he inspects his handiwork, peeling apart your battered pussy lips to reveal your dug out slit. 

“Whewww,” Enjin whistles at the sight of the thick creampie glistening in your core. “All this cum your cute pussy pulled outta me—you’d think she was my jinki.”

Sober, you likely would have slapped him for referring to your pussy as his vital instrument. But ecstasy clouds your logic, so high off endorphins and other substances, you only giggle. It is kinda funny you suppose.

“Yeah—squirtin’ on command like that. Definitely an attack type.”

Spread open, the thick plug of spunk froths out of you. But Enjin simply tuts, pushing it right back in, not wanting to waste a single drop.

“Yeah, how about that, ’mma duel wielder! Yup, definitely gotta name ‘er now—what you thinkin’ I should call her, princess?”

Enjin sees the way your pretty cunny is twitching, and in his pussy drunk mind, it's an approval. The spasms that still quake through you are like tremors of Morse Code—your slutty pussy agreeing with him, begging for more. Flipping you over on your belly, Enjin is more than happy to fulfill any request of his new vital instrument.

“Got it! Cumbringer! The Umbreaker and The Cumbringer. Nice ring to ‘em, dont’cha think?”

Cumbringer!?

Later, you would definitely regret being so thoroughly fucked out of your mind you didn’t put a stop to this. Enjin is most definitely going to be insufferably proud of himself for the next 3-6 business weeks. He’d lord this over you and tease you with not-so-subtle hints around the rest of the cleaners. 

Yet, as Enjin is swabbing his huge cock through your folds, you feel the ache of loss in your core, wanting to be filled again and you can’t seem to find the fucks to care—you just needed more of his dick, like…now.

Pleased with your compliance, Enjin thumbs the dips at the small of your back, perching your ass up so your back arches real nice.

“Trash Daddy’s gonna take real good care of Cumbringer from now on, too. Make ‘er live up to the name.”

When Enjin pushes into you again, the new angle has him bullying against your g-spot with even more intensity than before. Seeing the way you jolt, he holds back from going as deep this time to directly abuse the spot. Slick runs down your legs and despite how slippery the ruined leather cushions are beneath you, Enjin still holds you firm as his cock sloshes through your ruined pussy.

“Say, how much anima you think is in my nut, Princess?”

You don’t respond but Enjin, proving to have the stamina of a beast, feels like he should give you at least two more doses just to be sure.

⛓

Fading in and out of a euphoric stupor, you’re unsure how much time passes. Absolutely cockdrunk, at some point, you’d simply just surrendered. Your pussy clearly has zero complaints about being a jinki for Enjin’s cock and you are too dumb once you get a lil dick to stop him.

Somehow, you’ve ended up folded over the wide coffee table. It’s unstable beneath you, but Enjin doesn’t seem to care what he breaks when he’s fucking you. He only moved from the sofa when the back of it finally broke.

Straining, you think you hear voices but everything feels so far away and fuzzy. The room gets darker and you realize Enjin’s thrown his coat over you. Still sheathed deep inside you, Enjin’s cock plants lazy kisses to your womb as he speaks rather casually to someone.

Hmm, did he get a call? Is that Semiu?

Semiu is likely calling, wondering why you both haven’t shown up to happy hour yet—shit. There’s no way you’re making it in this condition; your limbs are toast. You can’t even move the weight of Enjin's bulky jacket off of you, the heavy material trapping you in the humidity of your own breath and sweat. But in a way, the warmth is comforting. Your cheek resting against the wood, you allow the tent of muggy heat and his cock moving languidly inside you to lull you into complacency— in your delirium, everything feels like a nice dream.

Yet Enjin is fully alert, a shit eating grin on his face as he stares down Semiu and Gris who had just walked in on Enjin shamelessly beating your doonies down. Enjin only spared your modesty by covering you up, but he has no qualms with either Gris or Semiu seeing him in all his glory and doesn’t even bother pulling out of you.

A fact that is painfully clear as he pats the pockets of his jacket draped over you for his cigs—he might as well smoke if he’s giving you a break.

“I win,” Semiu turns to Gris, hand out expectantly.

Semiu’s cool expression never changes but there is amusement in her eyes as Gris fishes into his pockets and places a stack of bills into her hand.

“Tsk, damn…” Gris shakes his head, although he’s not shocked. 

The two of you are down so horrendously bad for each other that this should have happened long ago as far as everyone else was concerned. The tension has been at an unbearable level for those around you, the way the two of you picked at each other non-stop like a kid’s first crush.

Alas, you’re an airhead and Enjin is so stubborn he’s delusional. So the older Cleaner members couldn’t help, but place bets on when and where you and Enjin would finally slip between the sheets. Its a shame that you weren't in one of your beds right now--in between actual sheets--instead of the lounge becoming collateral damage.

“You know, after all the game you talked about winning your money back at poker tonight, Bro said you were a no-show because you knew you were gonna lose…” Gris eyes the boneless, quivering lump that is you under Enjin’s jacket. 

Enjin really did a number on you. Your nonsensical babbles pouting for Enjin to ‘make sure to tell Semiu to bring you back some fries from the bar’ obviously means you have no idea that they are actually in the room.

“But it looks like you have your ‘ace in the hole' for an entirely different game.”

Enjin chortles. His hips stutter forward a bit too hard and you squeak in protest, he just hushes you.

“Awe, so you came back all this way to check-up on us? How sweet,” Enjin says sarcastically, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Hardly. Rudo accidentally chugged an entire beer he thought was soda—then proceeded to throw it all up over Zanka,” Semiu says flatly. 

Enjin attempts to hold back his laughter as Semiu continues with a sigh. She explains thatGris helped carry Rudo back, promptly putting his little blacked out ass to bed. Zanka locked himself in the bathroom immediately upon returning.

“Although they're sure to be occupied for the rest of the night, since the kids are back in the building you need to wrap this shit up Enjin—she looks like she could use the break anyway.”

Semiu casts a sympathetic look your way. She did warn you about Enjin though, so he was your mess to deal with now. 

“Sure thing,” Enjin says, patting your form underneath his coat, “I’ve trained my new jinki well enough for tonight.” 

Semiu takes one look at the absolutely diabolical grin on Enjin’s face and decides she's already had enough of his shit for the night.

She sighs again. “Just hurry it up, alright?”

Enjin gives Semiu a cheeky salute. Yet the second her back is turned, Enjin mimes a dramatic chef’s kiss to the air for Gris. Enjin’s eyes roll back like he’s just had the best meal of his life. 

Gris snorts, shooting him a wink and a thumbs-up for a ‘job well done’ like a proud teammate before heading out of the room as well.

“One more thing.”

Semiu pauses in the doorway, hands resting on the double doors, surveying the crime scene-like state of the lounge. The sofa is toast, the coffee table’s on life support, and there's a growing puddle under you, spilling over to slowly drip off its edge onto the floor.

“If you’re just going to recklessly rawdog her, at least get her on the pill. Alice can sort that out tomorrow—right after you replace every piece of furniture you’ve both annihilated.”

Enjin simply shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette.

“I suppose…we can stop by Alice’s too.” 

Semiu just rolls her eyes, only to wrinkle her nose as a wave of stale air wafts by.

“And for the love of god—crack a window. Smells like fresh ass in here.”

Once the doors finally click shut, Enjin rips his jacket off of you and smiles. You’re still blissed out in lalaland while your pussy, Cumbringer, is clenching around him like she has one more go left in her.

Grabbing your arm, he pulls you up. Still sheathed inside you, he sits back on his knees, bringing you with him, your back pressed against his chest.

“Mmmm—*yawns* Was that Semiu on the call, Enj?”

Call? Oh, heh.

“Ha, yeah baby girl, just Semiu on the line,” Enjin lies too easily. 

It’s for your own benefit though–no need to ruin your bliss with anything silly like embarrassment or shame from being walked-in on. Hell, unless Semiu says something, Enjin might be able to get away with not ever telling you.

“She said they ran outta fries though. I’ll get ya some later, yeah? Jus’ need Cumbringer to clock in one more time, Princess...”

Enjin rocks his hips with yours in a slow wave and your pout melts, no longer caring about the fries. Your head tips back onto his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you.

“Ah, mmmm, b-but—ngnh!  She mentioned something about hotdogs and getting pills tomorrow? Is that a mission?”

Enjin hums to keep from laughing as he turns your face towards him. He smirks devilishly against your lips.

Distracting you with sweet chaste kisses, Enjin rubs gentle circles over your womb. You’re gonna be so fucking hot waddling around HQ in your slutty ass uniform, tits leaking and belly full with his brats. 

The only pill he’d get from Alice would be a fertility pill.

“Nothing my slutty baby girl or my Cumbringer gotta worry about, Princess. Leave everything t’me.”

𝐚𝐧: ahh tysm for reading, especially if you are new to my writing. enjin brain rot is lethal. i needed to get this outta my system! jjk girlies forgive me for straying from my wip list and kinktober lol. definitely down to write more of him. i have a p2 and another enjin story (an AU) idea. but i have to focus on my jjk kinktober now! ♡

also, in case anyone is wondering—yes, reader's jinki is a labubu and yes, enjin just guilt tripped reader into growing him his own personal stash djhscjhdfj. banner: mash up of official manga + rororogi mogera 'last mall' doujin panels.

[itssocomplicatedyeah]

Imagine: You met Enjin on the day the city once again filled with screams, the cracking of rooftops, and the heavy rumble of trash beasts.

Days like that had happened here before, but it was impossible to get used to them. First, the glass in the shop windows would tremble, then people would rush to shut their shutters, grab their children, and flee the streets that, only minutes ago, had smelled of warm bread, caramelized crust, and morning coffee. Your bakery, too, sank into half-darkness when you forced the bolt across the door and told your younger sister to go upstairs, to your small apartment above the shop.

You remembered how she turned around on the stairs, fear frozen on her face.

“Don’t come out,” you told her then. “No matter what happens.”

And then, of course, something happened.

The impact was so powerful that the house across the street seemed to fold in on itself. Then the beast lunged toward your side of the street, and you did not immediately realize that you were screaming. Not because you were afraid for the shop, but because your sister was upstairs. You would have run after her yourself. That was how it always happened when adrenaline boiled in your blood: foolishly and recklessly, straight beneath falling beams and fragments of debris, if someone had not grabbed you by the shoulder and held you in place. You remembered that Cleaner’s face well, but not what he said. All your attention was fixed on the man with the umbrella, who appeared near the breach with such calm precision that it was as if he had known long in advance exactly where he needed to be.

Enjin.

Back then, you did not know his name yet.

All you saw was the gray umbrella opened amid the dust, his tall silhouette, his tattooed arm as he caught your sister and pulled her out from beneath the crumbling wall literally a moment before part of the ceiling collapsed. She was crying, clinging to his clothes, while he quietly told her something, soothing her almost casually. As if there were no monsters in the world, no wreckage, no heart inside your chest that had nearly torn itself apart.

When it was all over, you could not bring yourself to come closer for a long time. You simply stood in the middle of the street, covered in spilled flour, dust, and tears, while your sister, safe and alive, was already running into your arms.

Then came repairs, cleaning, shattered windows, display cases boarded up with planks. The city slowly and stubbornly returned to life again, like dough that still rises no matter how roughly it has been kneaded.

And when the bakery finally reopened, you and your sister spent almost the entire day at the oven. You baked everything you could: cinnamon buns, honey pastries, berry pies, little cream tartlets, sugar cookies, blueberry croissants. By evening, the tables were weighed down with bags tied with simple ribbons, and to each of them you attached a short note.

“Thank you for saving us. Thank you for saving her.”

Standing outside the Cleaners’ headquarters, you certainly felt almost laughably out of place. You held the bags with both hands, while your sister hid behind your shoulder and whispered that maybe it would be better to just leave everything by the door and run away. You had almost agreed when Semiu appeared in front of you.

She looked at you as though, in a couple of seconds, she had managed to understand your entire story.

“Is this for the Cleaners?” she asked.

You nodded.

“We just… wanted to say thank you.”

Semiu accepted the bags, and something soft flickered in her gaze.

“It’s very brave of you to come here in person.”

You smiled awkwardly.

“Stupid, probably.”

“No,” she replied. “Not stupid.”

Of course, you did not see how the bags ended up on the table in the common room. You did not see how the others first exchanged glances, then someone was the first to reach inside, and within a minute the room was filled with noise as though they had discovered not baked goods, but treasure. After all, in the Ground, pastries like that really were worth their weight in gold, and cost quite a lot, while these were free. Rudo and Zanka were already arguing over a cinnamon bun. Riyo shoved two pies into her mouth at once. And Follo was trying to find out whether there were any pastries left.

Enjin was the last to take one of the bags. He pulled out the note, skimmed the lines, and suddenly smiled. As if he had understood who it was from even before he finished reading.

“Oh,” Gris, standing beside him, drawled. “Looks like Enjin has himself an admirer.”

“Be jealous quietly,” he answered calmly, tucking the note into his pocket.

From then on, he began dropping by your shop more often. At first, as if by chance. He would pass by after a job, come in for coffee, buy something for the team to have with tea. Later, he stopped trying to pretend he had just happened to be nearby on business. He would simply open the door, and the little bell above it would ring so familiarly that you would start smiling before you even saw his face.

“You again,” you would say, setting a tray on the counter.

“What a warm welcome,” Enjin would reply, folding his umbrella by the entrance. “I’m moved.”

“Don’t get used to it. It’s just today’s special: a rude greeting at the counter, free of charge.”

“Then I’ll take two.”

You quickly memorized what he liked most, though Enjin could buy different things too, wanting to try everything. He could joke that he trusted your taste, could stand in front of the display case for a long time with the expression of someone making an important strategic decision. But if there were blueberry croissants among the pastries, his gaze always lingered on them a little longer.

And at some point, you started always saving one for him, hiding it under the counter.

Even if the day was busy, even if everything sold out before noon, and even if your sister rolled her eyes and said you were acting suspiciously.

“It’s for a regular customer,” you protested.

“Of course,” she drawled, looking as if she had figured everything out long ago. “For a very regular customer. With an umbrella and pretty eyes.”

“Go check the dough.”

“So you’re not arguing about the eyes?”

You threw a towel at her, and she ran away laughing.

Enjin, of course, noticed how carefully you had paid attention to his tastes. He did not show it right away, but one evening, when he came in close to closing and you silently placed a paper bag with that very croissant in front of him, he narrowed his eyes.

“You knew I’d come?”

“No.”

“But you saved it for me.”

“Maybe it just fell on the floor and I felt sorry to throw it away.”

“I’ll eat it even if it’s already hard as stone.”

You turned away toward the shelf so he would not see you smiling.

“Just take it before I change my mind.”

He chuckled quietly and unwrapped the fresh pastry.

Whenever he came by, you talked about a little bit of everything. The weather, supply deliveries for baking, how difficult and expensive it all was, fussy customers, how hard it was to keep sugar glaze from cracking when the air was too humid. You asked about his work carefully, not wanting to pry or seem intrusive.

But Enjin answered. Sometimes briefly, sometimes with a smirk. And sometimes he surprised even himself with how much he wanted to continue.

“Aren’t you scared to work here?” he asked once, sitting by the window with a cup of coffee. “In conditions like this. After everything.”

You shrugged, wiping your hands on your apron.

“I am scared. But if I close the shop because of fear, the city will become even darker. People need bread. And something sweet. Especially in our world.”

He looked at you for a long, attentive moment. Without his usual lazy smirk.

“That almost sounds like heroism.”

You snorted.

“Don’t start. I just know how to bake buns.”

“Sometimes that matters more than you think.”

For some reason, that made you feel embarrassed and so warm inside that your heart fluttered.

But you remembered one evening especially well, when the shop had already closed and your sister had gone upstairs, taking the leftover cookies with her, while you stepped into the yard behind the bakery, where it smelled of wet stone, a cooling oven, and fresh mint that you secretly grew in an old wooden crate by the wall. Enjin stood nearby, leaning one shoulder against the brickwork. He had a cigarette in one hand.

“Aren’t you afraid that if you keep eating pastries so often, soon even your own umbrella won’t be able to lift you?” you joked.

“Now that’s something I could take offense to,” he said.

You laughed.

“Sorry. I just think I’ve spoiled you.”

“But I deserved it, didn’t I?”

“I wish I had your confidence.”

He smirked, took a drag, and exhaled the smoke to the side so it would not drift toward you. That small carefulness caught at you more strongly than any beautiful words could have. You talked about trifles. About the old man from the neighboring street who bought the same loaf of bread every day but always pretended to choose. About your sister, who dreamed of learning how to bake buns so good that “the Cleaners would faint from delight.” About the fact that, in your opinion, Enjin hid his exhaustion behind jokes far too often.

“What a dangerous observation,” he said.

“But it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Any more of this, and I’ll start being afraid of your perceptiveness.”

“Oh, I’m terrified.”

He seemed about to answer, but then the first raindrop landed on your nose, and the second followed on your cheek. You lifted your head. The sky above the narrow yard had darkened more than before, and the roofs of the neighboring houses were already rippling under fine rain.

“I’ll go get an umbrella.”

You took a step toward the door, but behind you came the familiar rustle of fabric. When you turned around, Enjin had already opened his umbrella, easily shifting it so that both of you were sheltered beneath it. The rain pattered softly and rapidly against the dark surface, as though someone had scattered a handful of tiny beads over it.

Enjin smiled.

“Then what would you need me for?”

You froze for a second, then laughed.

“That sounded suggestive.”

He chuckled.

“As planned.”

“Idiot.”

You nudged his shoulder, but he did not even move. He only laughed with you.

The yard gradually darkened. Rain ran down the drainpipes, gathered in puddles, whispered over the bakery roof. Somewhere above, a window slammed shut. From inside the shop, sweet warmth still drifted out, while outside, the air grew cooler, fresher.

Suddenly, you noticed how close he was standing. Close enough that the edge of his sleeve almost brushed your hand. Close enough that the scent of his cologne and cigarettes mingled with the rain and something sweet.

Enjin raised his tattooed hand and touched your cheek with his thumb, wiping away a drop of water. The movement was simple, almost accidental, but you froze as though he had done something far more intimate.

A pleasant shiver ran through your body. And it was certainly not from the cold. He did not take his hand away right away. And you did not want him to. On the contrary, you leaned slightly closer, pressing your cheek into his palm. Enjin looked at you as if, in that second, all the jokes, all the familiar teasing and lazy smiles had suddenly become unnecessary. His gaze softened. Enjin stepped closer. The edge of the umbrella covered you more tightly, cutting you off from the rain, from the street, from the entire city, and he kissed you.

At first, it was almost weightless, as if he were asking for permission only after he had already understood the answer long ago. His lips were warm, tasting of powdered sugar, blueberries, and the faint bitterness of cigarettes. You breathed out against him, your fingers carefully clutching the edge of his clothing, as though afraid he would pull away too soon.

But Enjin did not pull away. He only bent a little lower, holding the umbrella above you, while his other hand gently touched your waist.

The rain drummed against the fabric. Drops shattered into puddles. Somewhere beyond the wall of your bakery, trays were cooling, still carrying the scent of fresh pastries. And in that moment, it seemed to you that the city, no matter how frightening it was, could still be pleasant. At least here, beneath Enjin’s umbrella. In his warm palm. In a kiss that had begun with gratitude, a blueberry croissant, and a single raindrop on your cheek.

[jiyuspassion]

.✦ ݁˖ enjin 𝐶𝐴𝑁’𝑇 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡．．．

jiyu's letter ᝰ.ᐟ um... 900 followers???? that's insane. wow. thank ya'll so very much for the support, it really motivates me to keep writing <3. all the love to my mooties, you guys are soo amazing. if i end up making it to 1k i might do a little special or event hehe. thank you all once again, hope you enjoy <3

☂︎ᵎᵎ smut. multiple rounds. overstim(?). MDNI. p in v. fem!reader.

this is dedicated to my lovely @suganoms, who also proofread this haha. love you doll <333

when enjin introduced you to his gang of misfits, the entire team of akuta— no, the entire headquarters— was in disbelief. 

you were something of an angel; helping out with the injured (because enjin wouldn't allow you to do any real fighting), often helped amo with her abilities, and you had such a gentle way of talking to everyone that it rendered them speechless in conversations. not to mention your beauty that could make anyone do a double take. 

and enjin? well— what does he even do? 

there was no way he was handling all of that, the cleaners decided. 

as much as enjin wanted to prove them wrong, they were indubitably right (semiu's getting paid for this). you were smart, beautiful, and made him shut up for once. you were sweeter than any piece of rudo's candy. 

and you also had an insanely high libido.

the few days that enjin is off from his duties is when you decide to pounce. that night, after everyone in headquarters is sound asleep, you kiss him stupid, breaths heavy in the quiet of your room. 

and to your poor boyfriend's dismay, you don't just go one round. not two, nor three, but five rounds. or six? enjin had lost count long ago. 

your mixed liquids were a sticky mess along your inner thighs and enjin's pelvis, pooling onto the sheets beneath. the bedframe creaked embarrassingly loud, accompanied by your sweet voice praising him. 

he would've thought that you would have stopped by now. 

yet your hips seemed to bounce with the same eagerness as the first round, grinding in tight, lethal circles. your hands pressed against his chest, thumbs tracing his complicated tattoos. enjin grasped at any plump flesh he could, your zealous cunt fluttering around him with the intent to milk him dry. 

the both of you were drunk on the feeling of each other, sweaty skin sticking to one another, breaths hot against your swollen lips. claiming marks etched onto your skin had begun to bruise, though enjin's tattoos managed to hide them well. 

"mmhmm, baby— fuck, you're filling me so good. ahn, can't get enough," you slur, breathy and needy. your thighs burn and quiver, but you're already far too addicted to the pleasure to stop. 

enjin's marked hands guide your hips when your rhythm grows sluggish, and despite how drained he is, his hip involuntarily buck up to meet your bouncing, albeit with shaky jerks. 

"come on girl, that all you got? use me, just like that, fuckk," he groans lowly. he delivers a playful smack to your ass, smirking as you yelp. pleasure shoots up his body in shocks of overstimulation, his balls so tight he's sure there's absolutely nothing left. yet, nothing is better than watching his pretty girl ride herself silly on top of him with wanton need. 

when you speed your hips up to nasty gyrations, enjin's sure he's about to see the sphere. his grunts turn to raspy groans, his hands quivering as he holds onto your hips with a bruising grip. it feels so fucking good, but you're definitely gonna kill him at this pace. 

"shit, shit, slow down, girl— ah—" his eyes roll back, thighs weak beneath you. 

"yes, yes, yes, enjin! you're so deep!" you babble, barely coherent of the writhing man begging for mercy.

when you finally get your fill with a satisfying climax, enjin's so overwhelmed by the feeling of your cunt clenching around him that he lets out a a small whimper into the crook of your neck. his orgasm only comes with a weak twitch of his cock, but it feels so good, it's enough to make tears gather in the corners of his eyes. 

"fuck, that was amazing, enjin," you murmur, laying your head against his chest. his heart is beating loudly against your ear, which you soothe with a comforting rub of your thumb. 

"yeah, mhhmm," he agrees feebly, still coming down from cloud nine. he sniffles a bit, wiping the wetness from his eyes. 

"were you whimpering earlier?" you decide to tease. as if he's not already in a vulnerable position.

"no? must've been your imagination."

"you did." 

"did not."

"you totally did."

"nuh-uh."

"oh come on, why won't you admit it?" you huff.

"'cause i'd be lying if i did. now go to sleep, girl." enjin tucks you into his arms, not allowing one more word out of your mouth. 

you do close your eyes. for a beat. then…

"can we go one more round? please?"

"… you're kidding."

as much as enjin loved you, he truly couldn't handle all of that.

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @lilithkleia @satorusdreamer @yoonsucks @chloeee20 @v4mp1r3b4tzz @kalatiii @serpenttine @rengoatku

𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑗𝑜𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡？𝑠𝑖𝑔𝑛 𝑢𝑝 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒．

𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡．

© all rights @jiyuspassion 2026. do not copy, translate, repost, or feed to ai.

[crescendoserenade]

Enjin has a crush on Semiu's sister reader who’s blissfully unaware

☆masterlist☆

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑

Enjin, who has a crush on Semiu’s little sister. It couldn’t be anymore obvious.

To everybody except you, of course. Unlike your big sister, who was no-nonsense and grounded, you were a bit more scatterbrained and kind of floating around in your own world. Likely due to your vital instrument: a headset that kept sequestered your ears from outside noises when it wasn’t nestled around your neck.

Others around HQ would tease you on the rare occasion that your headphones were down: “You finally in the real world with us?” But people (excluding Corvus, Semiu, and the kids) never tried to chase you down or have conversations with you. They, for the most part, let you be.

“She never takes those damn things off,” Semiu sighs to him one day after she has to wave you down to relay to you some important info. Enjin’s there too—staring you down as you walk away, leaning lazily on the reception desk. Semiu raises her brow, golden brown eyes looking at him over Eyes, her vital instruments.

“Whats with that goofy look on your face?” She accuses.

“Nothing, just, your sister’s really hot.”

“Take that up with her, not me.”

And he tries, truly he does, but he spends half of his time trying to get your attention and the other half trying to figure out something to say when he finally does have it.

His heart practically shoots out of his chest when he finally has your attention. You take your right hand to pull the muff of the headset away from you head, resting it around your shoulders.

“Yes, Enjin? Did ‘ya need somethin’?” You look at him with those relaxed eyes. He can hear the loud music blaring now that they aren’t covering your ears: he’s confused at how you can walk around for hours upon hours listening to high pitched emotional throat screaming, but your instrument apparently keeps your eardrums from rupturing.

“Just wondering how you can listen to that crazy music without bleeding from your ears, ‘s all.”

“Oh! Uh, it’s not that bad, see?” And you giggle at the way his eyes pop out of his head and he yanks them off his head so dramatically, mouth going slightly dry at the way he’s handling your treasure but he hands them back to you the way they came to him.

Such a drama queen. You live for it though.

He gives you this look like you’re crazy, but the blush blooming across his face reaches the tips of his ears anyway.

After that interaction, he’s looking for more excuses to be in your face. Not that you really noticed or minded when you did. People kind of left you alone and it was nice to get along with another person outside of jobs. He’s trying to woo you with corny pick up lines and things of the like, but you stare at him with a face akin to that of a confused fish.

He’s like, painfully obvious that he’s crushing on you and you are so painfully unaware, he’s sulking to your sister for advice.

“Look, I’m going to give it to you straight,” she says, her index digit and thumb digging into her temple as she flips through yet another magazine. “She doesn’t really pick up on subtle gestures. You’re gonna have to be blunt and forward with her. Bless my sister, but she’s kind of an airhead. Other than that, you’re outta luck.” He groans at the idea of actually having to confess, but everyone has told him this. Riyo, Zanka, Bro. Even Dear cuts him a funny look whenever Enjin brings up his favorite babysitter.

“Hey, I’m not an airhead!” You voice cuts from behind Enjin. He nearly jumps out of his tattooed skin at the sound of your voice and basically teleports behind Semiu. Your finger brushes under your nose. “Was wondering why I was having a sneeze—you guys were talking about me!”

And by the looks at how bad you startled Enjin it was probably bad, but Semiu’s quick to ease those thoughts before they begin to fester.

“It wasn’t anything bad,” she begins, looking up at you with her golden eyes. “Just talking about how one of you fellow coworkers may or may not have the hots for you.” Your sister smirks as Enjin makes a discomforted noise and your eyes pop out of your head.

“Really?! Who?!!” This is the most expressive and loud he’s ever heard you. Like, ever.

When you realize your sister isn’t gonna be messy and spill the deets, you bolt over to him and grab him by the jacket.

“Enjin—you know who it is right? Tell me! Please?” You plead, those relaxed eyes of your now wide and sparkly.

And he almost does, his entire upper body turning blood-beet red at how close you are to him. If only you knew you were right in this mysterious co-worker’s personal bubble.

If only. The phone ringing cuts though the fiasco. It gathers both yours and Enjin’s attention. After a few seconds, Semiu hangs up the phone and turns to the two of you, informing y’all on a job that just came up that requested you two specifically.

“Good! I get to pick your brain about my secret admirer,” you say with the most interested look he’s seen on your face in a while.

“Not in my car you’re not” he says, following behind you as make haste towards the garage.

Semiu smiles to herself, as if she totally did not set you two up in a mission that only required one cleaner….

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋

 Perhaps I will make a part two perhaps............

[crescendoserenade]

Enjin has a crush on Semiu's sister reader who’s blissfully unaware

☆masterlist☆

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑

Enjin, who has a crush on Semiu’s little sister. It couldn’t be anymore obvious.

To everybody except you, of course. Unlike your big sister, who was no-nonsense and grounded, you were a bit more scatterbrained and kind of floating around in your own world. Likely due to your vital instrument: a headset that kept sequestered your ears from outside noises when it wasn’t nestled around your neck.

Others around HQ would tease you on the rare occasion that your headphones were down: “You finally in the real world with us?” But people (excluding Corvus, Semiu, and the kids) never tried to chase you down or have conversations with you. They, for the most part, let you be.

“She never takes those damn things off,” Semiu sighs to him one day after she has to wave you down to relay to you some important info. Enjin’s there too—staring you down as you walk away, leaning lazily on the reception desk. Semiu raises her brow, golden brown eyes looking at him over Eyes, her vital instruments.

“Whats with that goofy look on your face?” She accuses.

“Nothing, just, your sister’s really hot.”

“Take that up with her, not me.”

And he tries, truly he does, but he spends half of his time trying to get your attention and the other half trying to figure out something to say when he finally does have it.

His heart practically shoots out of his chest when he finally has your attention. You take your right hand to pull the muff of the headset away from you head, resting it around your shoulders.

“Yes, Enjin? Did ‘ya need somethin’?” You look at him with those relaxed eyes. He can hear the loud music blaring now that they aren’t covering your ears: he’s confused at how you can walk around for hours upon hours listening to high pitched emotional throat screaming, but your instrument apparently keeps your eardrums from rupturing.

“Just wondering how you can listen to that crazy music without bleeding from your ears, ‘s all.”

“Oh! Uh, it’s not that bad, see?” And you giggle at the way his eyes pop out of his head and he yanks them off his head so dramatically, mouth going slightly dry at the way he’s handling your treasure but he hands them back to you the way they came to him.

Such a drama queen. You live for it though.

He gives you this look like you’re crazy, but the blush blooming across his face reaches the tips of his ears anyway.

After that interaction, he’s looking for more excuses to be in your face. Not that you really noticed or minded when you did. People kind of left you alone and it was nice to get along with another person outside of jobs. He’s trying to woo you with corny pick up lines and things of the like, but you stare at him with a face akin to that of a confused fish.

He’s like, painfully obvious that he’s crushing on you and you are so painfully unaware, he’s sulking to your sister for advice.

“Look, I’m going to give it to you straight,” she says, her index digit and thumb digging into her temple as she flips through yet another magazine. “She doesn’t really pick up on subtle gestures. You’re gonna have to be blunt and forward with her. Bless my sister, but she’s kind of an airhead. Other than that, you’re outta luck.” He groans at the idea of actually having to confess, but everyone has told him this. Riyo, Zanka, Bro. Even Dear cuts him a funny look whenever Enjin brings up his favorite babysitter.

“Hey, I’m not an airhead!” You voice cuts from behind Enjin. He nearly jumps out of his tattooed skin at the sound of your voice and basically teleports behind Semiu. Your finger brushes under your nose. “Was wondering why I was having a sneeze—you guys were talking about me!”

And by the looks at how bad you startled Enjin it was probably bad, but Semiu’s quick to ease those thoughts before they begin to fester.

“It wasn’t anything bad,” she begins, looking up at you with her golden eyes. “Just talking about how one of you fellow coworkers may or may not have the hots for you.” Your sister smirks as Enjin makes a discomforted noise and your eyes pop out of your head.

“Really?! Who?!!” This is the most expressive and loud he’s ever heard you. Like, ever.

When you realize your sister isn’t gonna be messy and spill the deets, you bolt over to him and grab him by the jacket.

“Enjin—you know who it is right? Tell me! Please?” You plead, those relaxed eyes of your now wide and sparkly.

And he almost does, his entire upper body turning blood-beet red at how close you are to him. If only you knew you were right in this mysterious co-worker’s personal bubble.

If only. The phone ringing cuts though the fiasco. It gathers both yours and Enjin’s attention. After a few seconds, Semiu hangs up the phone and turns to the two of you, informing y’all on a job that just came up that requested you two specifically.

“Good! I get to pick your brain about my secret admirer,” you say with the most interested look he’s seen on your face in a while.

“Not in my car you’re not” he says, following behind you as make haste towards the garage.

Semiu smiles to herself, as if she totally did not set you two up in a mission that only required one cleaner….

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋

 Perhaps I will make a part two perhaps............

[rengoatku]

Enjin is too big! ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ꒰ mdni ꒱

It was no secret that Enjin was massive.

Lean and 6’3, subtle muscles decorated his body. Certainly more than enough to fold you like a pretzel.

The only downside to his staggering build was well… he was too big.

“C-Can’t, you're so big, Enjin.” You mewled, hands pushing uselessly at his chest as he folded you deeper into a mating press. “Yeah? Too big for you, baby?” He snickered, lips tracing your jaw as he forced more of his length into your quivering cunt.

Every inch stretched you wider, bullying you in such a vulgar manner. His inked hands push further into the plush of your thigh, your knees kiss your chest as he pushes in deeper.

“Oh, come on, loosen up, will you? I'm barely halfway in.”

You peer down to where your bodies connect and come to find that he's just halfway in. A pitiful whimper leaves your lips at the sight, head falling back against the pillows as you accept your fate: being split in half by Enjin’s monster cock.

He thrusts shallowly, relishing in the way your pussy clenched around his girth and your oh-so sweet moans that follow. “Hah — shit, you're going to have to let me in sooner or later, doll.” He grits out, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to stifle his groan when you clench around him.

“I can't,” you wail, tears brimming in your waterline, while Enjin only thrusts harder until your poor cunt. “You will,” he counters.

Your hands fly up to grasp his shoulders, nails digging into the tatted flesh, all while he drives his cock deeper into you. One of his large hands moves to rub soft circles on your clit, causing you to whine out.

After what feels like forever, he finally bottoms out.

You feel so full, stuffed to the brim with his dick.

Enjin presses light kisses along your jaw, slowly pulling out before slamming back into you. A loud moan from you bounced off the walls; your body jerked with the force.

His pace was brutal; he impaled you over and over, rough hands gripping your thighs and locking you in place. “Look at you,” he cooed, “taking me so well, and you said you couldn't take it.”

You could only muster a hoarse ‘please’ at his words. Enjin moved your legs from his shoulders and wrapped them around his waist, leaning down to move his ear closer to your mouth, “What was that, baby?” He teased, chuckling as you whined and tugged at his hair. “Bratty little thing, aren't you?”

You felt your orgasm build with every mean snap of his hips against yours, his leaky tip smooched your cervix with every thrust. Your head spun, and your stomach tightened.

Enjin’s eyes scanned your body, taking in every perfect imperfection. That's when he noticed it, the small bump that appeared on your stomach every time he bottomed out. “What's this?” he mused, pressing his palm down on the bulge. You squirmed, crying out at the feeling, “You're so… so deep.”

He hummed, tracing the swell with one of his fingers before placing his palm down again to continue fucking into you. “Yeah? You can feel me all the way in there, can't you?” His pupils were blown wide, crazed even as he watched the bulge disappear and reappear with every thrust.

The sensation was overwhelming; your orgasm was so close you could practically taste it.

Without warning, you snapped, cumming on his dick while he continued pistoning into you. Enjin groaned lowly at the way your pussy fluttered around his length, “Fuck, what a good girl. You can give me another, right?” His thumb traced your clit lazily, causing you to jolt.

A sob escaped you at the overstimulation. He continued his brutal pace while now also torturing your poor clit. “Enjin — ah — Enjin, I can't take it —” he cut you off with a harsh thrust, “You can and you will.”

Your body shook as hot tears slipped down your cheeks, your legs shook around his waist, but he didn't care; it spurred him on. “So fucking tight, god, what're they feeding you?” He joked, dropping his head to suck at your nipple, lapping over the hardened bud with his tongue.

One, two more thrusts later, Enjin came with a shaky moan of your name, causing you to tip over the edge once more.

He watched the bulge disappear from your stomach as he pulled out, saving a mental image of his cum that spilt out right after. “We might have to do some size training with you, doll. Nearly clamped my dick off,” he laughed, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek.”

“No, Enjin, you're just comically huge. No, it's not a compliment.”

“Whatever you say, doll.”

a/n: first time writing for dada kind of nervy

taglist

[chrollogy]

𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓥𝐄𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝓟𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 | sunday x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: Penacony is riddled with rumours about infighting within The Family, resulting in Penaconians and tourists to question the stability of the Dreamscape and whether the Five Great Lineages are actually ‘harmonious’. As a solution, the Dreammaster assigns you—Third to the Iris Family Head—to marry Sunday, the revered Head of the Oak Family. A symbolic pair meant to embody harmony within The Family and refute hearsay.

Beneath the spectacle, however, lies unresolved affection, quiet hesitation, and the painful question of whether your ‘perfect’ marriage is merely performance—or something real.

CONTENT WARNING: arranged marriage, halovian!reader, actress!reader, reader is referred to as miss & mrs, loosely follows canon lore, fluff, angst, SLOW BURN, one sided pining but eventually turns to mutual pining, requited unrequited love, childhood friends, forbidden lovers if you squint, petname (my love), OCs mentioned, plot with p*rn, smut (mdni), virgin!sunday, masturbation (m), body worship if you squint, guided fingering, virginity loss (m), p in v, creampie, sunday cums a lot lol, not beta read.

WORD COUNT: 22,994

NOTES: this is prob the most slowburn fic i’ve ever written >< sunday fic for my birthmonth hehe enjoy!! div: diviniyae

Moment of Morning Dew

The chandeliers of Dewlight Pavilion glimmered like suspended constellations, their fractured light spilling across polished marble in soft gold and pale violet. Even in the Dreamscape—where beauty was manufactured to perfection—this place still carried a certain weight; a stillness that pressed gently against one’s lungs. Amidst the grandeur of the Pavilion, you stood a step behind Maeven Ellis’s absence—your adoptive mother—her authority as Iris Family Head lingered in your posture in the way attendants lowered their gaze as you passed.

Third to the Head of the Iris Family, yet today, you felt oddly like a child again; waiting in a suffocating office as you were summoned by the Dreammaster himself, you weren’t aware of the reason why he had called upon your name but judging from your senses, you weren’t going to like it.

Across the room, not far off from where you stood, was Sunday, he was situated beneath a stained glass window, its colours painted him in shifting hues of amber, indigo and rose where it bounced off his gleaming halo, depicting him as some kind of reverend being. When you had entered the Dreammaster’s office, you were greeted by the Oak Family Head—a mere formality, a simple nod of his head. No words, no nothing.

It had been a while since you’ve last stood in his presence like this, most of the time you’d see him around Penacony or during grand Family banquets but that was about it, nothing more than a hollow distance between the two of you.

Minutes of deafening silence passed before the doors to the office opened once again and in came Mr. Gopher Wood, it wasn’t his original form, merely someone else’s body—presumably someone from the Oak Family—he had possessed.

“Come closer.” He had instructed before taking a seat behind the wooden desk, his tone was calm yet it held unparalleled authority—as a child, it would always send chills down your spine; countless Family gatherings where he spoke to your mother in such a tone. The Dreammaster was a kind man yet something about him unsettled you.

Without another word, you stepped forward just short of his desk, heels echoing faintly against the marble floors. Sunday mirrored your actions, standing a few centimetres away from you—it was enough to get a whiff of his scent.

Vanilla and musk, something sweet yet pierced one’s senses. You tried to ignore the way his shoulder almost brushed your own and how his figure towered you.

“I’m sure you’re both well aware of rumours that are circulating around the Dreamscape,” Mr. Gopher Wood began, hands folded neatly atop the desk.

You sucked in a small breath, you’d heard them too. Whispers that drifted through velvet corridors, murmured between the cracks of reality that there was in-fighting between The Family lineages which ultimately questioned the Dreamscape’s stability. For a space designed to eliminate unfavourable factors, it wasn’t hard for negativity such as baseless rumours to start circulating within its walls.

Dangerous words which challenged The Family.

But . . as for summoning you and Sunday, you were clueless. Why did the Dreammaster specifically choose you? You weren’t skeptic about Sunday as he held authority over the Oak Family, in other words, he was Mr. Gopher Wood’s successor but as for you . . it didn’t quite make sense.

Neither of you answered, instead, you both waited for the Dreammaster to speak once more. 

“Rumours are . . fragile things, if they are left unchecked, they fracture trust. And in Penacony, trust is the foundation upon which dreams stand.”

The Dreammaster continued, “Thus, we shall give Penacony something stronger than baseless rumours—a symbol of eternal harmony.” Something inside your stomach tightened, you didn’t like the tone in his sentence, as if it was final and had no room for if’s or but’s; an idea that was already concrete before it came into existence.

“You two will be married.” Mr. Gopher Wood stated as if discussing something as simple as a change in décor.

Silence fell.

If the previous silence felt suffocating, this one was much, much worse. It felt heavier and pressed onto your skin tighter as though it was determined to live inside your bones. For a moment, all you could hear was the faint hum of the warm chandeliers—even its glimmering lights felt hot against your skin, a searing burn.

Was the Dreammaster serious? An arranged marriage between you and Sunday? In your eyes, marriage weighed more than a coin being tossed in a bucket, it symbolised unity between two individuals who loved and cherished one another, not a façade to combat baseless rumours, and especially not a lie.

A million emotions surged through you; the thought of eternal unity with Sunday was something you had always dreamed of ever since you were a child. The first time you laid eyes upon him was when you were both naïve and wide-eyed, and something inside your young heart stirred when he laughed at your jokes or tugged at your hands with his, running away from panicked attendants assigned to look after you.

Back then, your adoptive mother would bring you over to the old Oak Family manor for play dates with Sunday and his younger twin sister—a young trio built on mischief and pure wander. The three of you were inseparable until the day duties and career came into talk, where days filled with innocent laughter turned into monotonous lessons that prepared one for the burden of authority.

Yes, you weren’t going to deny it, you had feelings for Sunday that stemmed a long while back but being married to him under a contract that screamed nothing but business was not what younger you would’ve wanted, no, she had dreamed of a blossoming, genuine love.

There was also unease for the role entrusted upon you; how would being in a false marriage affect your naïve heart? You were well aware Sunday didn’t mirror your feelings at all but having him pretend and play the part of a husband was beyond dangerous. It was ironic to think that this marriage was akin to Penacony’s Dreamscape itself—a dream becoming a reality.

But . . was it your dream to be married off to Sunday in the name of falsehood?

With the Charmony Festival inching closer, it wasn’t a surprise the Dreammaster was becoming desperate for a solution.

You laughed. A humourless sound that conveyed the disbelief in your heart; you were raised to be a respectful, refined woman especially in the presence of esteemed Elders but not when said Elder proposed such a bizarre idea. This was marriage the Dreammaster was talking about, a life long commitment—a life long role that was anything but real.

“Pardon my brazenness, Mr. Gopher Wood but . . are you serious?”

The Dreammaster didn’t so much as blink, “Completely.”

At his affirmative reply, you slowly turned your head to the side towards Sunday; he remained expressionless, the glimmer in his citrine eyes hiding more than just pure emotions. His posture remained straight, one hand tucked behind his back just as he had been taught by the Oak Family Elders. Whether the idea affected him or not, Sunday didn’t let on, not even a twitch of his brow nor a rustle of his ivory wings.

“A union between the Oak and Iris Family presented as one of harmony—of perfection. A model pair for Penaconians to look up to, and once the people see The Family’s harmony upon supporting this marriage, rumours will fade.” Mr. Gopher Wood continued, which turned your attention back to him.

The Dreammaster had a point, with two significant figures in the five lineages getting married, Penaconians would witness The Family working together to ensure it happens flawlessly—the Oak Family would be tasked with organization, the Alfalfa Family with financing, the Bloodhound Family with security, the Iris Family with reception entertainment, and the Nightingale Family with decorations. All in perfect harmony.

“And what it needs to see,” You murmured quietly. “Is a lie?” You knew it was only a matter of time before the Dreammaster exhausted his patience and snapped. He had always been fond of you but knew to draw the line at disrespect.

His gaze remained fixated on you, it wasn’t unkind but it was firm, unwilling to back down from the challenge you had presented; he noticed the way your wings rustled imperceptibly, how it curled inwards as if to display silent retaliation.

“The Dreamscape needs stability.”

That wasn’t the answer you were looking for.

Slowly, you exhaled then fully turned toward Sunday, his golden halo glimmered brighter than ever, “Sun—Mr. Sunday.” He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a split second—just a flicker—you saw it. Something from years ago when he used to grin at you over ice cream and toys.

“Are you okay with this?” The question came out softer than you’d expected, laced with vulnerability. Sunday held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then, parted his lips to speak, 

“As Oak Family Head, it is my duty to ensure that everything within the Dreamscape remains in order.”

“. . That’s not what I asked.”

Were you surprised, though? You’ve always known Sunday was a selfless individual, especially when it came to Robin but you wished—more than anything—that he’d be a bit more selfish; to do something that he truly wanted and not because he was bound by duty and expectations.

“This arrangement fulfills its purpose.” As expected, Sunday spoke like this matter was nothing more than another responsibility to be managed, throwing out the fact that he was to be married off to someone he didn’t love.

You nodded, “Right.” A small, hollow sound. And once more, you were hit with the harsh reality that this Sunday wouldn’t run away the same way he did during the lessons he found boring, no, instead this Sunday would build the cage himself if it meant keeping everything intact and under his control.

Hesitantly, you looked away first, directing your attention back to the Dreammaster—any second longer looking at those citrine eyes was far too dangerous for your heart, “Apologies, Mr. Gopher Wood but I need time. This isn’t . . exactly a small decision.”

But did you even have the luxury to make a choice? Nonetheless, Mr. Gopher Wood inclined his head slightly and indulged you in your request, “You will have what time is necessary but do understand, the longer uncertainty lingers, the more damage rumours may cause.”

A gentle threat wrapped in silk.

You nodded calmly, though your thoughts were nowhere nearly as composed. Marriage. To Sunday. It was as though the stars were playing a nasty elaborate prank on you but as twisted as it was, a part of you—one buried within the depths of your being—was happy.

Could you blame yourself though? You’ve pined for Sunday for eons because maybe, just maybe, he would finally look at you the same way you’ve looked at him: under the light of romance.

“Then, I shall take my leave. Mr. Gopher Wood. Mr. Sunday.” After necessary formalities, you turned to leave, light from the chandeliers above stretching your meek shadow across the marble floor.

“Maeven Ellis’s daughter.”

You paused. It was the Dreammaster’s voice once again, “You are an actress, are you not?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you spoke up, “Yes.”

“Then think of this as your most important role.”

At his words, your lips pressed into a thin line. That was easier said than done. A performance, of course, everything in Penacony was. You didn’t bother responding, instead, you kept walking, heels echoing with each careful step, out of the Dreammaster’s office and away from Sunday.

Moment of Golden Hour

Despite the name of Golden Hour, sunlight didn’t spill like liquid gold in the Moment but the Dreamscape was as beautiful as ever. After the impromptu meeting with the Dreammaster and Sunday, you found yourself sitting on an iron bench at Aideen Park—a quiet corner devoid of commotion to collect your thoughts. In the distance, laughter echoed and soft music the band performed.

On your lap rested an important document for an upcoming film, pages and pages of a bound script to read and remember but for once, you didn’t feel like reading. Not when your mind wandered off to the encounter a few system hours back, you couldn’t help but replay Mr. Gopher Woods words—that you’d be married to Sunday.

Amidst the serenity of the Moment, your ears perked up at the sound of familiar footsteps coming closer—calculated and sharp—but you didn’t bother looking up.

“I thought you might be here.”

The owner of the calm voice was no other than Sunday, you were more than certain of it because only he had the power to make your heart stutter. You didn’t let on—didn’t show an ounce of emotion just as you’ve been doing for the past years you’ve known him. Slowly, you exhaled, gaze still fixed on the inked pages atop your lap.

“The Oak Family Head seeking an audience with me? What a lucky woman I am.” You chuckled humourlessly. Sunday didn’t reply and you almost felt bad for greeting him with such a sour state, so you spoke up again, “. . Are you surprised? You know my hiding spots better than anyone.”

Growing up, Sunday learned that whenever you had something in mind, you always seemed to seek out quiet spots to unwind and one of them happened to be in Aideen Park—a tucked little area away from everyone while still able to bask in the Moment’s luxury.

“You never changed them.” Sunday whispered in a soft tone, if you hadn’t caught it, you’d think he was merely murmuring to himself. There was something in his voice you didn’t quite recognize, one that made you curl your fingers tighter around the pages.

“Is there . . something you need, Oak Family Head?”

As much as he appreciated authority, Sunday never did like it when you addressed him with formality but he’d rather sever his halo than admit it to your face. After all, it was merely a silly thought. He let your question linger in the air for a while, letting the background noise of the park fill the space between the two of you, then, he spoke,

“I came for your answer.” Straight to it. Of course he did.

A quiet, humourless laugh slipped past your lips, you finally turned to look at him. The golden lights of Aideen Park engulfed his pale blue strands, it softened the edges of his otherwise composed expression but it didn’t make him easier to read. You couldn’t lie, Sunday looked absolutely breathtaking and it pained your heart at how effortless it was for him; his citrine gaze shone the same way his halo did, bright and blinding.

“My answer? That’s what this is to you? And here I thought you came to seek me out as a—I don’t know, maybe a friend?”

It was microscopic but you saw the way Sunday’s shoulders sagged and how the wings behind his ears lowered but you weren’t about to be moved by something minute; what the Dreammaster had asked of you—and Sunday—wasn’t something simple, it asked for your soul, to play a never ending role built on lies.

“It’s a matter that requires resolution.” He replied evenly. Your chest tightened, “Do you know what you’re asking of me, Sunday?” The question came out sharper than intended but you didn’t take it back and for the first time, something flickered across his face, maybe it was surprise, maybe it was discomfort, you didn’t bother deciphering.

“I am aware of the implications—” “No.” You cut him, shaking your head as you stood, the script on your lap swiftly falling onto the ground, long forgotten. “No, you’re aware of the politics of it—the outcome.”

Frustration rose within your body, a scowl forming on your face as you stepped forward. Sunday had never seen such a look painted on your face, he had only ever seen pleasant expressions from you, especially directed towards him.

“You’re asking me to stand beside you in front of all of Penacony and smile like it means something. To let them believe—” Your voice caught slightly but pushed through it, “—to let them believe this is real.”

“That’s the role we’ve been assigned.” He said quietly. “Assigned,” You echoed, almost incredulous. “Is that all this is to you? Another duty? Another piece of the Dreamscape you have to keep polished and intact?”

“If you think I have the luxury to treat it as anything else then you are sorely mistaken.”

“Then, let me ask you one thing, Oak Family Head. Did you have a hand at choosing your . . partner?” With Sunday willing to fulfill such a role, you were certain Mr. Gopher Wood had already told him about the proposal prior to the meeting earlier, and you were sure the latter had at least given him freedom to choose.

Sunday nodded, “Yes.”

You let out a shaky breath, your scowl turning into something much softer. Sadness. “But why? Why me, Sunday? Don’t—Don’t you know how cruel that is? To ask for something that big?” You looked away, unable to see the way regret briefly shadowed his face. His chest tightened at your pitiful form, he didn’t mean to put you in a troubled spot but he wasn’t entirely innocent either.

Marriage meant the two of you were bound to each other for eternity with divorce was absolutely out of the table, especially for prominent figures like you and Sunday; it made sense for a planet that worshipped the Aeon of Harmony.

“. . Because I assumed you wouldn’t be scared doing it with me, at least—doing it by my side.”

Oh, your foolish, foolish heart shouldn’t have skipped a beat at his reply but it did and it angered you even more that it did because despite it all, you still loved him. And maybe you were willing to comply but a greater part of you was stubborn.

“Do not try to mold me with flattery, Sunday. What about us, hm? We’re not symbols—not the ‘model pair’ the Dreammaster deems us to be. We’re people with lives of our own! I cannot dictate for you but I know marriage is something I want to be organic. To fall in love with a man who cherishes and loves me back.”

Words hung heavy in the air, fragile and bare. For a split second, you were convinced he was going to take a step closer and say something that wasn’t measured or wrapped in a silken ribbon called duty. And maybe some twisted part of you wished Sunday would have told you that he’d at least try to love you—to reassure and tell you that your heart has a home in his hands but he didn’t. 

Instead, he said: “We are what Penacony needs us to be.”

Silence settled once more, you didn’t answer this time as you were reminded that you and Sunday held very different dreams. You closed your eyes to steady yourself briefly, and when you opened them again, your expression had shifted, something more resigned, “. . Fine.”

Sunday’s ears perked, wings spreading ever so slightly as if to convey shock. You straightened slightly, smoothing the invisible wrinkles from your clothes—a habit you’ve picked up before you stepped in front of rolling cameras.

There was no use arguing with Sunday or pushing your ideals to him, he was stubborn and he’d do anything to ensure the stability of the Dreamscape, even if it meant carrying the weight of falsehood his whole life. Besides, arguing like this in public was sure to garner unwanted attention, it was only a matter of time before someone heard of the conversation.

“If this is the role entrusted to me then I’ll play it. I’ll accept the marriage.” The words felt foreign on your tongue—too final but you didn’t waver. 

Sunday carefully studied you as if to search for something beneath your composure, “Are you certain?”

You laughed humourlessly, “Do you think I have a choice? But if you want me to be honest, no. But I’ll do it anyway.” For you, you wanted to add. You bent down to swiftly pick up your script, dusting it off lightly, and when you returned his gaze, your expression had settled into something practiced.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it believable.” The corners of your lips tugged upwards despite its heaviness.

“I . . never doubted that. You are one of Penacony’s greatest actresses.” Sunday intended to lighten the mood, to flatter your skills and forget about the tension in the air but for some reason, his words hurt more than anything else. You put too much faith in me, Sunday. You thought.

Sure, acting came easily to you but not when you had to play the eternal role of a loving wife for a man you’ve pined for. For years. It was a twisted game that tested the borders between a dream and reality, and you could only hope to build a cage around your naïve heart.

Moment of Morning Dew

Wedding preparations commenced shortly after meeting with the Dreammaster once more to confirm your stance on his idea; everything was a blur, from colleagues and close friends congratulating you on your engagement (even Robin who sent a congratulatory letter despite being aware of everything) to exclusive interview appearances—sometimes accompanied by Sunday—to talk about every detail.

Of course, since the engagement came out of the blue, it was met with a lot of speculation, and rightfully so as not a single soul had seen you and Sunday together outside Family gatherings but even in banquets, neither you nor him would really converse.

But, those speculations were easily dismissed by letting interviewers know that you hid your relationship with him for personal reasons; it wasn’t foreign for celebrities to do such things. Though, the only truth you uttered during those interviews was probably the fact that you loved Sunday.

There was no denying that, and for Penaconians, that alone was believable. Aside from planned appearances on interviews, you hadn’t seen much of your . .  fiancé but maybe it was for the best, the more he remained at a distance behind closed doors, the more your naïve heart wouldn’t mistake the relationship for something real.

Silk draped from the ceiling in soft, cascading layers, mirrors framed in gold caged you in, it reflected you in every angle, each one just slightly more flattering than the last. Assistants moved like whispers—adjusting and smoothing but never loud enough to cause unnecessary chaos.

The Dewlight Pavilion served many purposes for The Family—the main being a place where Heads discussed important matters but you didn’t expect it to host a fitting room specifically curated for wedding preparations; it only made sense with how busy your schedule was, not to mention how you just finished a table-read two system hours ago which meant the script was still swimming in your mind and so was exhaustion.

“Hold still, please.”

A quiet exhale escaped through your nose, resisting the urge to fidget as a pair of hands adjusted the fall of fabric at your waist; you just wanted to go home. “I am still.” You murmured.

“Still-er.” The head assistant replied gently.

Tired, you bit back a comment, there was no point arguing with anyone. It was evening and you wanted this over and done with, the more you cooperated, the faster this whole thing would be finished.

The gown itself was unsurprisingly perfect. White—of course—but not the stark kind, it shimmered faintly like it had been spun from light filtered through clouds. Intricate golden embroidery traced along the bodice, delicate and intentional. 

“There. All done! How does it feel, miss?”

The head assistant’s dainty voice faded into as you looked at the mirror, it was the first time you stared at your reflection since standing inside this fitting room yet strangely enough, an actress stared right back—the ‘you’ all of Penacony knew, the one in front of flashing lights and rolling cameras.

“You’re truly beautiful, miss!” Another one of the assistants gasped, her reddened face tucked between the hearts of her palms.

“. . Thank you. The dress feels . . fine, it’s not too heavy.” The staff dismissed the absentmindedness laced in your voice, mistaking it for pure awe. You didn’t know what to feel seeing yourself in a wedding dress because even with an exquisite ring wrapped around your finger, you still couldn’t believe you were getting married.

“Turn slightly, please.” The head assistant instructed and you did. The skirt fanned out like a blooming flower, its silken fabric faintly glimmering beneath the lights.

“Perfect.” She breathed out.

Perfect. The word followed you everywhere these days—about your relationship with Sunday, about the engagement ring, and now about the dress. You were about to give her a practised reply, the same one you’ve been giving everyone else—a ‘thank you’ and a smile that reached your eyes—until the atmosphere shifted.

The curtains behind you weren't drawn yet but you knew who was beyond them and you were certain the attendants knew as well from the way their backs straightened, immediately stepping away from the raised platform you stood upon.

“Pardon my intrusion, may I step inside?” 

Sunday’s voice filled the silence. As if on cue, heat blanketed your cheeks, heart racing at the thought of him seeing you in a wedding dress. Your gaze landed on the head assistant through the reflection, giving her a slight nod to which she immediately understood and swiftly drew the curtains back.

As Sunday stepped inside, both attendants silently bowed their heads and headed out, closing the curtains behind them to give privacy. Alone in a small space with him with too many mirrors; you swallowed thickly and smoothed down the skirt of the dress, “I wasn’t aware of your visit.” You murmured, tucking a loose strand behind your ear.

“I was told preparations were underway. I wanted to ensure there were no complications.” 

Of course.

“Well?” You started, head tilted slightly. “You came all this way, you should at least give your evaluation.” Your hands found its way atop your clothed hip. It was half a joke, half a challenge yet you awaited for his words.

Sunday didn’t reply immediately, instead, his gaze settled on you—steady and unreadable. You observed how his amber eyes lingered on the bodice of your dress a second or two longer before moving on to the bloomed skirt. Beneath his wandering gaze, something in your chest tightened, cheeks burning deeper, it almost felt like a thousand needles prickling your skin.

“. . It suits you.” He said at last.

You blinked, brows knitting together, “That’s it?”

“You expected more?”

“I expected something. I’m about to be married off to the Oak Family Head and become the half of Penacony’s model pair, surely that warrants something far better than ‘it suits you’.”

“You always did prefer honest reponses.” That caught you off guard. Sunday wasn’t one to reminisce about the past—at least not with you—but he has done it twice now, once back at Aideen Park and once today.

You didn’t reply nor did you acknowledge how his gaze softened slightly, “Well, if you want honesty then . . you look exquisite and the dress harmonizes with your beauty perfectly,” The end of his sentence ended awkwardly, as if he wanted to speak more but ultimately decided to hold back.

You were well aware there was no romance behind his compliment, it was merely an honest, straightforward one but you couldn’t help suck in a breath. You looked away, clearing your throat lightly, once again smoothing a none existent crease on the dress, “That’s the goal, isn’t it? To make me look presentable for the big day.”

Sunday hummed absentmindedly causing you to risk a glance at him once more, his eyes were still on you but this time he wasn’t assessing, he was admiring.

“How is it then? Convincing enough for you, Mr. Sunday?”

His gaze finally drew upwards ‘til it met your own, a strange glint flickered in his honeyed eyes, “. . Too convincing.”

Whatever that meant

Before you could respond, the head assistant spoke just beyond the drawn curtains, effectively breaking the . . moment between you and Sunday. Akin to a deer caught in headlights, you slightly stepped away from the latter; funnily enough, there was already a great distance between the two of you but somehow you just felt like distancing yourself further.

“Miss, we need to finalize the veil fitting.”

You cleared your throat, trying to burn down Sunday’s weighted stare, “Of course.”

“. . I should take my leave then.” His gaze lingered on your face but you didn’t dare meet it. With that, he let out a soft sigh, turning around to part the curtains and leave but before he could even take one step, you called out his name, tone laced with . . desperation?

“S-Sunday . . ?” You weren’t sure why you did it or what possessed you to even utter his name yet somehow, you felt it was necessary to do so; though, you didn’t know what to say because now, Sunday looked over his shoulder—citrine gaze, full of hidden curiosity, just above his ivory wing—waiting for what was to come next.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” What did that even mean? Why did you say that? You were certain Sunday was just as confused about your reply as you were but he didn’t seem to let on, in fact, without so much of a hitch, he tilted his head, gave a little smile—one that had you biting the inside of your cheek—and replied, “Of course.”

Then, without another word, he gave both attendants a nod of acknowledgement before heading for the door.

Moment of Blue Hour

After two strenuous weeks of running around the Dreamscape—whether it be for work or for wedding preparations—the big day finally came, and in all honesty, you weren’t sure what to feel. The morning felt like a huge blur, attendants rushed in and out of the bridal suite to tend to you, and several loved ones visited in between, it served as a gentle reminder that you weren’t entirely alone. At least not today.

The first to check on you was Robin, she had peeked into your suite with a warm smile on her face, though, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. You didn’t blame her, she knew of the situation and you assumed she also didn’t know how to feel for you—happiness seemed too cruel but sadness would also dampen the unsteady mood that lingered within the atmosphere.

The least she could leave you with was encouragement and a few good words about her brother: “I know you know my older brother well enough so I won’t say much but . . he will never hurt you. You and I both know he wants the best for everyone, and that includes you.”

The next two who visited were Ms. Maeven Ellis and Siobhan who stayed a little longer with you, especially the latter—out of the three, Lady Siobhan was probably the only one who understood your emotions the most as she, too, was pressured with countless expectations within the Iris Family as the second to the Head.

Being an adoptive older sister, she always looked out for you, most of them during young days where Ms. Maeven Ellis would push you to take acting classes. Though, despite the former’s efforts of letting you choose your own path, you did eventually end up in the artistic industry just like everyone else in the Iris Family.

The Eventide was as romantic as ever, docked in the Sea of Dreams where its tranquil waters lulled guests with awe. Warm lights illuminated the expansive boat, it bathed everything in a gentle gleam of gold; its cathedral-like structure effortlessly blended reverence and spectacle, a quiet yet bold message that The Family did not hold back on this grand event. 

Rows upon rows of guests filled the hall, a sea of fine silk and polished smiles—though, however warm they may be, all you could feel were the weight of their stares, a sense of anticipation that settled over your shoulders, it seemed to be heavier than the gown you wore.

The cameras also didn’t help, the subtle click of the shutter every second or so, they hovered discreetly and blended within the crowd but you knew they were there, capturing every movement and emotion etched into your face.

And as you stood at the altar facing Sunday, your hands resting atop his bigger ones, you trembled slightly—a barely noticeable crack on the surface of the glass. He must have noticed because within the next second, his hands squeezed your own, a gentle action to ground you, to serve as a reminder that only you and him mattered in this moment—not the officiant, not the guests, just you and him. A soft, shaky breath escaped your crimson-stained lips, you mirrored Sunday’s action. A small thank you.

The officiant’s voice carried smoothly through the air, unwavering as he spoke of harmony and unity, of two individuals converging into one for the sake of something greater; you heard his words but they felt far away, almost muffled and dream-like. Your focus drifted over to the feeling of Sunday’s hands in yours, to the warmth of it, to the quiet reminder that despite everything, this moment was real

Well, at least parts of it were but you wanted to believe that softness in Sunday’s gaze as he watched you walk down the aisle earlier was genuine—that it wasn’t a mask he prepared and wore for this ceremony but you’d be lying to yourself. To you, Sunday was the hardest book to decipher, the more you read in between lines and paragraphs, the more you’d doubt your thoughts.

“. . And by the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you—”

Your breath caught and the room seemed to still.

“—Husband and wife.” The officiant paused for a split second, letting the words linger in the air and manifest into existence. Then, he continued,

“You may now kiss the bride.”

As his words echoed in your mind, your gaze slowly lifted to Sunday’s and for a moment, you both hesitated. He was the first to move, his head inclined towards you—eyes fluttering shut—slowly leaning in, his hands rested on either side of your waist; the quiet hum of the Dreamscape faded into the background as the space between your faces narrowed with each long second.

This was a part of the performance, you both knew that but it wasn’t something that was rehearsed, and even though you were an actress yourself—where kissing co-actors came naturally—this felt entirely different.

You closed your eyes, heart stuttering, the traitorous beast banging against the cold bars of your chest; for a second, you wondered if Sunday could hear it but upon noticing the unreadable expression on his face, you assumed he was focused on how to approach the kiss everyone anticipated—the subtle pause in his breath was enough to tell you it wasn’t easy for him either.

And just as Sunday was about to seal the kiss, he gracefully lifted a wing to obscure the view, leaving everyone unaware of the small distance between you and him; it was deliberate yet to everyone else, the veil of feathers seemed natural given the way your faces were angled slightly. The perfect illusion of an elegant kiss.

“Forgive me, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable in front of everyone. This . . should suffice, we do not have to go all the way.” Sunday whispered dangerously close, your knees almost buckled at the feel of his hot breath ghosting over your lips.

Your hands, which rested atop his clothed chest, curled slightly, nails digging into the hearts of your palms, “Right . .” You whispered back.

You told yourself it didn’t matter, that Sunday only thought of respecting your boundaries—as a matter of fact, you should even be grateful that he didn’t force you and yet something in your chest dipped in disappointment. Albeit small and quiet, it was significant enough to feel it within your ribcage, the low murmur of your heart.

Of course. Sunday would never force something like that and you respected him for it! But . . you couldn’t help think that he simply didn’t want to kiss you. As childish as it sounded, you were convinced.

You bit the insides of your cheeks, lids tightly pressed against your eyes, you didn’t dare take a small peak. Not when his face was barely centimetres away from your own and absolutely not when his intoxicating scent invaded your senses. The wings behind your ears rustled briefly, brushing against Sunday’s.

Slowly, the moment passed; each camera click and quiet gasps from the guests enveloped the enchanting scene at the altar. A few seconds later, his wing lowered—as graceful as ever—once again revealing you both to everyone else, and it was like the entire room breathed out a long sigh.

The guests responded instantly, applause swelled throughout the Eventide, everyone wore a smile on their faces, completely convinced by what they’d witnessed.

You pulled away first, immediately turning to the crowd with the most genuine smile you could muster, trying to mirror everyone else’s joyous expression.

Among the guests, you caught Robin’s gaze who sat on the front row pew—she wore a smile like everyone else but her cerulean eyes gleamed with apology; you assumed she felt partly responsible for her brother’s decision regarding the marriage but you never blamed her, if there was anyone to blame it would be the Dreammaster but you’d never dare utter it into existence. After all, you were just pawns in his Dreamscape.

Funnily enough, as the person who decided you and Sunday to be married, he didn’t attend today, you’ve heard whispers within the Dewlight Pavilion that the Dreammaster wasn’t feeling too well these days, not that you cared about the man. You may have grew up with him around but that doesn't mean you’ve warmed up to him; he still carried the same unsettling aura he had when you were a kid.

After the long awaited ceremony, everyone settled into the reception where an abundance of congratulatory greetings and hugs were given to you and Sunday; most of them came from close co-actors who you’ve worked with on previous films, they also took the time to converse with him and didn’t hold back with such questions.

“Okay, this might be a bit silly to ask but who fell in love first?” Cassian—a co-actor you’ve grown close with—asked with pure curiosity, his hazelnut gaze darted between the two of you, he nursed a half empty glass of SoulGlad, swishing the golden liquid within as he stood before the table you and Sunday sat on.

You briefly looked over to Sunday who already had his eyes on you. “I did,” You started, setting your gaze back to Cassian and pairing it with a small smile.

“This is actually the first time I’m admitting this but . . I’ve had a crush on him ever since we were kids so I’m assuming it was me who fell in love first—I mean, who wouldn’t, right? He was kind and caring, and from then on, my young heart knew who it wanted.”

With every word that rolled from your tongue, heat that blanketed your cheeks intensified. Obviously, everything you stated was the truth but saying it aloud in front of him was rather embarrassing even if he didn’t have a clue how real it was.

A confession veiled as a lie.

You could feel Sunday’s honeyed gaze boring into the side of your face but you kept your eyes on Cassian who animatedly cooed in response, “Well, aren’t you a lucky one, Mr. Sunday!” The brunette inclined his glass towards the two of you as if making a toast.

Sunday chuckled softly in response, uttering a small ‘Indeed, I am.’ You ignored the stutter in your chest.

“Do you guys have a destination for the honeymoon? There are so many worlds to choose from!”

You let out a cough, the heat from your cheeks spreading down the column of your neck and onto your chest where it bloomed, “A-Ah, well! Sunday and I decided that we’ll have to push back our honeymoon for a while. With the Charmony Festival approaching in less than a few months, he’d be busy with preparation and as for my schedule, it’s packed with shoots—you should know.”

Cassian enthusiastically nodded, “That’s right! We’ve an upcoming film together—I can’t believe I forgot! Well, I shouldn’t take up anymore of your time, the two of you should enjoy your first few moments as husband and wife. Haha! I’ll get going then. Oh and I’ll see you on set!” With that, the brunette excused himself and headed for the open bar.

“I wasn’t aware Mr. Cassian is going to play the lead role along with you.” Sunday curiously stated. You shrugged, “I wasn’t aware you were interested in my matters but yes, we will be in a romance film together. Why? Interested in seeing it in the theatres once it comes out, Mr. Sunday?”

He let out a humourless laugh, “I liked your little story earlier. The one you told Mr. Cassian.”

Little story. Well, little did he know how true it all was.

This was supposed to be a happy day but with the amount of times Sunday had unknowingly shattered your naïve heart into more and more pieces today alone, you weren’t certain how long you’d last in this foolish charade, and you couldn’t blame him at all—not that you had anyone else to blame but your feelings.

“What can I say? I’ve been told I’m amazing when it comes to improvising.” You didn’t meet his gaze, instead, your eyes scanned around the room, pretending to skim and scan, feigning interest in the uninteresting.

Well, at least the guests looked like they were having more fun than you—they laughed over clinked glasses and exquisite Penaconian dishes, a genuine expression of joy painted on their alcohol tinted faces.

Sunday left the conversation at that and tended to his own glass, briefly swirling the liquid inside before taking a calculated sip; the golden beverage blanketed his tastebuds, its familiar sweetness putting his mind at ease. He wasn’t certain of the reason but he felt somewhat odd upon hearing your reply, the feeling irked him down to the bone.

Clearly, it was an uncharted territory and Sunday despised places he couldn’t control—the unknown and the unpredictable. He hated the thought of not knowing how to unpack his emotions.

But the real question was: Why did he feel this way? and what was the root of it? Maybe it was stress getting to him, he rarely got decent sleep and his daily schedule was always packed. Yeah, definitely stress.

Old Oak Family Manor (Reality)

A few tiring system hours later, you and Sunday were finally surrounded by pure silence—no prying eyes, no endless questions, just silence. The two of you found yourselves inside the old Oak Family manor, a separate building from the Hotel that stood in Reality but remained just as grand and expansive.

“So . . you’re the only one who lives here now? What about the Dreammaster?”

The manor stood like a quiet declaration of wealth—just as you’ve always remembered it to be—it gleamed like polished marble kissed by dawn, its towering windows framed with intricate carvings and draped with silken curtains.

Everything felt all too familiar and with every turn of your head, an old, tucked memory resurfaced like a bubble floating upwards—the curved staircase you and the twins would sit on to tell ghost stories, the expansive field outside where you’d spend afternoons running around, and . . Sunday’s room where he and Robin would ‘perform’ concerts .

The very room both of you stood in.

You had spent enough time in the old Oak Family manor to know that his room barely changed—sure, his toys were replaced with endless stacks of books and documents, and his bed no longer housed soft plushes but apart from those, everything was the same.

“Ever since I was appointed Head, this manor was entrusted to me. I am not aware of Mr. Gopher Wood’s whereabouts nor do I question it.”

“You don’t have company?” “I have attendants.”

You let out a snort which earned a raised brow from him, “That’s different, Sunday. The attendants work here.” The manor used to be so lively, now it felt completely empty and a little cold; you couldn’t help but wonder if Sunday ever felt lonely, especially with a building so vast—was he haunted by the echoes of his lone footsteps? Did he ever avoid eating in the dining room because he’d be the only one sitting at the long table?

“Nevermind, disregard my last question. Though, I do have another one, are you sure you’re comfortable with me sleeping here? I mean, there are tons of other rooms in this manor.” Naturally, since you were now married to Sunday, it only made sense to reside together in the Oak Family manor, however, you didn’t expect to actually share a room with him.

“You’re my wife, are you not? If anything, it’d only rouse suspicions from attendants about us sleeping in different rooms,”

He had a point.

 “And just because our marriage stands on falsehoods does not mean I won’t uphold my role as your husband. I’m sure you’re aware I’m not that kind of man.” Sunday continued. Again, he was right, he certainly wasn’t the type of person to slack off just because he was out of the spotlight and you didn’t know whether that was a blessing or a curse.

“I suggest you wash up first, it has been a long day, after all, and your clothes are in the closet.” Oh, that’s right, you almost forgot about your belongings, thanks to the help of the Bloodhound Family, all of them were transported to the manor safe and sound; you assumed the attendants must have unpacked it all for you.

You absentmindedly nodded, trying to process the fact that you were now bound not only to Sunday but the manor as well for the rest of your life—that you would come home every single night and sleep beside him.

A foreign feeling washed over your body, the feeling that would grow from the depths of your core in response to a drastic change in your life. It wasn’t unsettling nor uncomfortable per se but it was extremely hard to ignore.

Bathing beneath the warm water took a lot longer than you’d intended, the feel of it against your bare skin soothed you so much that it almost felt like someone had wrapped you in a cozy hug, one that you’ve been deprived of these days.

Now, sitting on your side of the bed—the left side—in your silken nightie, you carefully combed your freshly dried hair, a thousand thoughts coursing through your mind and none of them were coherent.

Sure, what you were wearing was designed entirely for sleeping but Xipe above! You felt absolutely exposed; the way its flimsy straps slid down your shoulders every other minute didn’t help at all.

Even the way Sunday’s honeyed eyes widened when you walked out of the bathroom clearly meant he was taken aback by the brazenness of your attire—or the lack of it. But could you really blame yourself? Prior to tonight, you lived alone and that meant you could wear whatever you wanted to bed with no one to judge.

Setting the comb on the night stand beside you, you quickly tucked yourself beneath the ivory duvet upon hearing the shower turn off; if you hid yourself inside the bed, it would make you feel less exposed to Sunday, you pulled on the duvet ‘til it covered all the way up to the base of your neck.

Yeah, this seemed about right.

He stepped out of the bathroom, clad in a pair of matching pyjamas, hair and wings damp, it took him only about three steps before he stopped in his tracks, gaze fixated on you.

“Is the temperature too cold for your liking . . ?” Sunday stood there dumbfounded at the silly sight before him—you, on the bed with just your head and neck sticking out from under the duvet.

“No, it’s perfectly fine. Why do you ask?” You shook your head, blinking up at him. He replied with a small sigh, “If this is about your . . attire then rest assured I do not mind but if you feel uncomfortable, I can offer you a top to wear over.” He immediately looked away, feigning a cough.

His reply may have been nonchalant but you caught how the tips of his ears flushed a deep pink hue; obviously he, too, was as embarrassed as you were, only he was better at hiding it.

Once again, you shook your head, “I don’t want to bother you with such trivial matters. Besides, I’ll be going to sleep soon.”

Sunday wordlessly nodded before turning off the lights and proceeding to walk towards the shared bed—towards you.

As darkness filled the entire room in an instant, you swallowed thickly, trying to calm your poor, poor heart as his footsteps echoed closer than the last; you closed your eyes as he lifted the duvet—a breeze of cool air momentarily enveloping your bare skin—he slipped inside and the mattress dipped beneath his weight, it made you realise just how small of a space there was between your bodies.

Not enough to have your bare arm brushing against his clothed one but enough to feel warmth that radiated from him.

“Pardon me but would you have trouble sleeping if I turned on a lamp?” Sunday whispered into the darkness.

“I don’t mind but are you not going to sleep? It’s well past midnight.” You opened your eyes and inclined your head, facing him.

“I’ll be writing for a bit as sleep has not yet caught up to me.” The bedside lamp turned on with a soft click which immediately illuminated his half of the bed, casting a warm gentle glow on his softened features. You replied with a wordless nod before turning your back to him and letting the faint sound of pen and paper sully you into endless clouds of dreams.

A couple of pages and half a system hour later, Sunday finally looked up from the inked pages of his book. Curious, he glanced over at your sleeping form which remained with your back towards him, he watched the rhythmic rise and fall with every shallow breath.

Compared to earlier, more of your torso peeked from beneath the duvet, he noticed how the flimsy strap of your nightie had fallen from your shoulder and took the initiative—after whispering an apology for his brazen behaviour—to lean over and fix it.

Sunday let out a sigh, he pulled the shared duvet upwards to cover your shoulder before returning to his side of the bed.

For some reason, he couldn’t help but feel that you held disdain for him—and honestly? Rightfully so because truthfully speaking, he had foolishly roped you into an eternal duty without your consent, without considering how you would feel about the entire idea. It wasn’t like him to involve others in such serious matters, and if given the opportunity to shoulder the problem alone, he would’ve done so in a heartbeat.

Sunday gazed down at his book once more, catching a glimpse of glimmering gold wrapped around a digit of his left hand—his wedding band, it shone quietly beneath the warm glow of the lamp. He brought his hand up to examine the piece of jewellery, honeyed gaze following each curve of the intricate pattern engraved on it. Despite its small size, it sat heavy on his finger and whether it was the weight of burden or something more, he had no idea.

Funnily enough, never in a million years did he think he’d be married before Robin; sure, he was the older twin but relationships and marriage rarely crossed his mind, and as embarrassing as it was, flirting definitely wasn’t for him either.

Moment of Morning Dew

“So what you’re suggesting is a date?”

“Indeed.”

“Wow, I didn’t know you were quite the romantic, Oak Family Head.”

“To be frank, it wasn’t my idea. It was merely suggested to me and I think it’d be appropriate to make occasional appearances in public as husband and wife.”

Well, there goes romance out of the window. So it was tied to duty after all, and here you were thinking Sunday acted out of his own will for once but if there was anyone to blame the feeling of slight disappointment, it would be none other than you and your naïve heart.

It had only been a little over a month after the marriage yet you’ve already been met with disappointments and you hated yourself for feeling that way because it wasn’t even Sunday’s fault—he was only upholding his role but you? You had mistaken his actions for reality.

The chaste forehead kisses whenever he visited you on set paired with a humble bouquet of flowers, the endearments he called you in front of your co-actors, holding your hand—all these were initiated by him and every single time, like a fool, you had mistaken it for something sincere.

How ironic that between the two of you, Sunday would be the better actor. You’ve paid him a visit countless times in Dewlight Pavilion when you weren’t needed on set—brought him food, offered him a shoulder massage whenever he seemed visibly stressed, and even tried convincing him to take a breather but you were rigid and hesitant.

Today just happened to be one of those days where you visited him. As usual, you were as stiff as a board and your words barely held any sincerity in them, as if you merely read off a script. 

And maybe that’s why he took the initiative to lead because he had sensed your hesitancy regarding everything.

“Where are we headed?” You raised a brow, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

Sunday gathered every document on his table and stacked them neatly in a pile before placing it to the side, “Aideen Park. I heard there was a small event happening there and I thought we could pay a visit.”

Moment of Golden Hour

Aideen Park was livelier than normal, people lined up for several reasons—food trucks, photobooths, and even a mini ferris wheel ride. Naturally, the band which usually performed at the heart of the Park gained quite a crowd as well, they played an upbeat melody to fit the joyous atmosphere. Several booths and signage within the vicinity was enough to deduce that this public event was run by SoulGlad with their iconic logo plastered everywhere.

“Hm? Did SoulGlad release a new flavour?” You fell into a step beside Sunday, eyes fixated on a stall where a staff happily gave away freebies and judging by the unfamiliar packaging of SoulGlad in his hand, it had to be a new flavour.

He nodded, jutting out his right arm which you wordlessly held on to, “Indeed, SoulGlad has released a new flavour called Charmony to honour the Charmony Festival. I figured I’d acquire several bottles for Robin.”

You hummed at his reply. It was nice knowing he still thought about his sister even in her absence, at heart, Sunday was truly just an older brother taking care of his family and it warmed your heart more than anything.

You’ve always wondered how he felt when Robin left Penacony; from what you could remember, it was a crucial turning point in their lives as well as yours—her music career was taking off, Sunday was training to be Bronze Melodia, and you had just secured your first lead role.

“Have you had the chance to try the new flavour?” You asked, shaking the thoughts away.

At your question, he shook his head, “I have heard from several people that it has its own unique twist to it. Now, I know we have personal security around but it’s best to stay close to me with this many people present.”

With his free arm, he adjusted your hand on his clothed bicep, allowing you to hold him better. “It’s not like I’m going to run away.” You murmured, ignoring the blanket of heat settling on your cheeks.

There had already been a few instances where you had held Sunday by his bicep like this or his hand but you’ve never gotten used to the feeling of his body pressed closely against your own.

Even through the fabric of his blazer, merely touching him seared your skin like a thousand flames—it felt like it was forbidden to do so yet at the same time, you couldn’t quite pull away even if you wanted to.

Sunday led the two of you to a food truck lined with customers and on the way there, you were both excitedly greeted by many event goers and passerbys, with some even coming up to you for autographs and photos.

You only managed to get through three autographs and two photos before Sunday came up behind you, a chivalrous hand hovering on the small of your back as he gently ushered you away, a wing curled around the back of your head, “We should get going before people start shoving one another to get signatures and such.”

Nodding, you smiled apologetically before bidding them good bye, “It was nice seeing you all! I hope everyone enjoys this SoulGlad event!”

“Pardon my intrusion but I noticed you were getting quite flustered so I took matters into my own hands.” Sunday apologised, not realising his hand—which rested on your lower back—had protectively snaked around your waist, it pulled you closer to him, effectively turning your legs into jello. If it wasn’t for his hold, you would’ve already kissed the grounds of Aideen Park.

Oh god, you hoped he hadn’t noticed how your torso shook with a small shudder. You feigned a cough, “T-That’s quite okay, Sunday. Thank you. What did you want to ord—”

“Mr and Mrs Sunday! How lovely to see Penacony’s harmonious couple in our humble event!” One of the SoulGlad staff at the food truck rushed over to the back of the line where you and Sunday stood, effectively gaining attention from customers in the queue. They turned around and whispered amongst themselves, not-so-subtly pointing at you both.

Sunday greeted the Pepeshi staff with a smile, “Ah, hello. Thank you for having us.” 

“Are you two seeking to order? I can take it in advance so the two of you won’t have to wait!” He excitedly spoke, the fluff ball atop his head vigorously swinging back and forth.

In unison, you and Sunday both shook your heads, declining his kind offer, “We shan’t. She and I are here as humble customers, we don’t mind waiting a little while. It would be unfair for those who are before us.”

“No such thing! Mr. Sunday and Mrs are our esteemed guests! You know what? I’ll go ahead and get two servings of our best seller—Clockie Pizza!” Before the two of you could humbly decline once more, the Pepeshi had already taken off towards the food truck, excitement budding with every step he took.

Within a few minutes, he came running back with two servings of Clockie Pizza on a paper plate, steam which radiated from the slices indicated it was freshly taken from the oven.

“Here you are! Two slices for our very special customers, enjoy!” Both of you thanked the Pepeshi staff as he handed the plate over to Sunday, he gave the two of you another excited smile before skipping off towards the food truck. You and Sunday could only exchange lopsided smiles, not really knowing what to make out of the situation; as much as you felt bad, you were pretty hungry so you were absolutely more than thankful.

After eating, the two of you found yourselves in one of the photobooths (Embarrassingly, Sunday had noticed you were staring intently at them while you were eating and asked if you wanted to go). Naturally, the booth had limited space inside which meant you two had to squeeze yourselves on the bench—arms and legs flushed against one another.

You tried not to think about how your wing momentarily brushed his own, his ivory feathers tickling yours; Halovians’ wings were a sensitive area and one couldn’t just reach out and have a feel of it, many Halovians treat their wings as the most important part of their body and consider it an intimate gesture if they willingly let someone touch it.

“How does one operate this?” He drew the crimson curtain on his left side to close off the booth before turning to you with a hint of confusion on his face. At his question, you  mirrored his expression, brows drawn together, “Have you not tried one before?—Nevermind. We simply press this button on the screen to get started and once it starts, the camera takes three pictures so we have to think of different poses for each frame.”

“And oh, it’s timed so efficiency is needed.”

“Seems quite pressuring, no?” Sunday humourlessly laughed. This was his first time trying out a photobooth machine and the thought of coming up with three different poses in a span of mere seconds . . He couldn’t even think of one off the top of his head.

“Oh? Is the Oak Family Head intimidated by a photobooth? Well, if you ever feel stuck, you can go ahead and copy my poses. Ready?” You glanced over at him who only nodded in response, honeyed pupils gleaming beneath the harsh lights of the booth.

Without another word, you leaned over and  pressed the button in the middle before quickly getting into a pose—the classic smile with a peace sign.

On the other hand, Sunday blinked as he watched numbers on the screen count down. 3. Ah, what pose should he do? 2. Maybe just a smile? Would that be too formal? 1. He quickly looked over to you to imitate your pose but before he could even get his hand in position, the camera brightly flashed indicating that the first photo had been taken.

“Quick! Finish off the other half of this heart!”

As the screen began counting down once more, Sunday hesitantly mirrored your gesture with his left hand. Four fingers curl like so . . and how does the thumb go? Ah, straight down at an angle. Then, place it against her hand. While he mused over how to complete the hand heart, the camera flashed once again. Another photo taken, another frame where he wasn’t ready. Why are photobooths so hard?

“Why don’t we just do a smile?” 

Finally, something he could get behind. The two of you instinctively squeezed closer, inclining your heads towards one another with smiles on your face, then, the camera flashed. Sunday let out a soft sigh, it’s as if weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

A small laugh escaped your lips as the two of you exited the booth, “Not bad for your first photobooth experience, huh?” You didn’t notice how heated your skin had become ‘til the air outside pressed against you like an icy envelope.

“You are teasing.” Sunday stared at you with a deadpan expression which only pulled another laugh.

The small machine whirred to life, producing two copies of the strip, you took them both and handed one over to him, “This one is yours, Mr. Oak Family Head.”

You took the time to examine each frame and couldn’t help but crack a smile at how clueless he looked in the first two photos; the first one was him blankly glancing over at you while on the second one, he wore a confused expression while glancing down at his half of the hand heart.

As for the third photo, you didn’t want to look at it for too long. Not because it was hideous or any of that sort—quite the opposite—but because both of you looked like an actual happy couple, a pair who loved one another. You swallowed thickly.

“Where shall we head next? Up for a ferris wheel ride?” Tucking the photo strip inside the pocket of your jacket, you looked up at Sunday with a calculated smile on your face. His gaze lingered on you for a second longer as if to search for something but nonetheless, he nodded.

The ferris wheel carriage was quite small, meaning either you and Sunday would have to squeeze together—again—on one side of the carriage or sit on opposite sides; obviously, both of you opted for the latter, which despite facing one another, at least gave you room to breathe.

You avoided fully facing him by slightly angling yourself sideways to gaze beyond the carriage; the ride wasn’t as grand as the one in Clock Studios Theme Park  but it was able to reveal a great area of Golden Hour once at the top.

Below, Penaconians went on about their day as usual—whether it be shopping, working or simply taking a leisurely stroll in the Moment, you watched as they led their own lives, wondering what it felt like to be a normal Penaconian.

But what did normal mean for you, exactly? You wished you had the answer.

Sunday knew it was rude to stare but he simply couldn’t bring himself to stop either. Earlier, when you were examining the photo strip, he had noticed the solemn expression on your face; how the corners of your lips sunk ever so slightly and the faint gleam of sadness in your eyes.

A wave of regret hit him once more, the same way it had done for the past month—hard. And now as he watched you observe the Dreamscape below, he couldn’t help but feel responsible for your sadness. There had been many instances where he had caught you with a somber expression but he never dared address it, though now seemed like a great opportunity.

“Are you quite alright?”

Turning your head to him, you drew your brows together, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sunday pressed his lips in a thin line, “You . . can always talk to me. As a friend.”

You chuckled, adjusting your body so you could face him fully, “Is the Oak Family Head missing his Bronze Melodia days?”

Deflecting—that’s what you were doing, a habit he never once liked from you but as concerned as he was, he didn’t press any further. Doing so would most likely only worsen whatever you housed inside your chest, and he didn’t want to be the cause of that. Maybe some day you’d finally open up to him about all your worries and feelings but for now, he’d wait even if it meant waiting for eons.

Moment of Sol

“Ah, Mr. Sunday! Lovely to see you here once again. As you can see, we’re about to start filming so it’s best to keep quiet. Other than that, feel free to watch.” The director—who he had come to know as Thaddeus—gleefully whispered before heading to his seat. The former wasn’t old, most likely in his early forties but he did don several silvery strands on his head along with a full beard.

Sunday made his way over to a quiet corner behind all the film crew with a decent view of the scene unfolding before him. The set was a large bedroom dimmed to convey a sultry atmosphere, in the middle sat a large bed draped in crimson sheets where you and Cassian were positioned. Judging by this, he could easily deduce that the scene you were filming was rather intimate—it was a romance film after all.

During the previous times he had visited you, the scenes he witnessed were more . . family friendly. Scenes where Celestine—the character you played—merely caught up with her friends in a coffee shop and all of that sort; there was one that Sunday particularly took a liking to, where you and Cassian argued back and forth—an intense quarrel between two lovers.

It reminded him how much of an amazing actress you were, he didn’t want to admit it but that scene moved him enough to make his eyes water, he could only imagine what it would look like on the big screen. But this scene was entirely different, Sunday had never seen you act intimately before and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

“Quiet on set! Pictures up! Roll sound! Roll camera! Marker . . and action!”

Clap!

The slate’s sound echoed throughout the entire set and Sunday watched as you and Cassian instantly got into character. He sucked in a breath as the two of you slowly inched closer to one another, sealing each other’s lips in a heated kiss.

Soft, wet sounds filled the room, the kiss deepened and turned into something less innocent  and for a brief moment, Sunday forgot he was in a set, and that the scene before him was scripted.

He swallowed thickly, shifting his weight from one foot to another as Cassian roamed his hands all over your body, even going as far as raking his palms along your clothed chest and the area behind your wings. A dainty whimper slipped past your kiss-bitten slips in between breaths, followed by a whisper of his name. 

Something strange bubbled within Sunday’s chest, he was well aware everything was scripted but seeing another man brazenly touch you with lust and fervour, and hearing you breathe out someone else’s name did not feel right at all. Was he jealous? No. But he wasn’t entirely fine with this either. 

Nonetheless, Sunday didn’t have the right to have a say on these matters so he kept quiet and continued watching how Cassian eagerly shoved his tongue past your lips like a hungry beast. He didn’t even realise his jaw had tightened and the tips of his fingers had dug into the hearts of his palms ‘til the Thaddeus yelled ‘Cut!’ ultimately breaking immersion. The two of you pulled away from one another, breathless and hair mussed.

“Cassian, remember to angle your arm slightly or else we won’t be able to see her face—” 

As the director gave him instructions, you managed to spot a familiar face within the small crowd of film crew, his golden halo shone lightly beneath the artificial set lighting—Sunday.

Xipe above, you almost forgot he was going to pay you a visit today, not that you didn’t want him to come, it’s just that having him watch an erotic scene with yourself and Cassian felt odd. You were embarrassed, to say the least. As an actress, you took yourself out of comfort zones countless times for different roles and they were no easy feat but who knew you’d be struggling to act in an intimate scene before Sunday?

With a lopsided smile, you shyly waved at him to which he responded with an incline of his head. Whether he had a smile on his face or not, you weren’t sure, you couldn’t see clearly beyond the lighting.

Sunday, in fact, did not have a smile on his face

It was childish and idiotic to sulk over such a minor thing and if he could stop his chest from tightening weirdly, he would have done so already but he couldn’t, and now a subtle frown blanketed his face. He tried to look at the bright side—how talented you were at acting and how proud he was that you’ve come so far but god he was powerless to his own thoughts.

“Alright, from the top! Sound! Cameras! Marker and . . action!”

Clap!

Again, the entire room snapped into place, including you and Cassian. For the second time, Sunday watched in silence as the two of you passionately made out once more, this time the scene escalated to him pushing you down on the mattress below, lips still locked onto your own, and hands pinned against the pillows.

Even with your eyes closed and even with Cassian smothering you like there was no tomorrow, you could feel the heat of Sunday’s gaze from beyond the cameras and lights—the intensity of it. Getting into the zone was second nature to you yet you couldn’t shake off the nagging thought that he was watching you, it felt like you were cheating right in front of his face; Sunday probably didn’t mind at all but still.

This went on for a few more minutes until Thaddeus was satisfied with the outcome and wrapped up the scene, “Actors, we need you in a wardrobe change and can we please rearrange lighting on the set for the next scene?”

With that, you stood up from the bed and walked over to Sunday who greeted you with a small smile, “Hey, I’m glad you’re here.” You mirrored his smile before loosely wrapping your arms around his waist. A simple performance in front of everyone. He did the same and placed a chaste kiss on the crown of your head.

“You did well, my love.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Mm, really? I’m glad you think so.”

“Well, I shan’t take up any more of your time. Mr. Thaddeus did mention a wardrobe change for you, right?” Sunday slightly pulled back, a warm smile on his face as he gazed down at you. Ah, you wished he stayed for a little longer even though embarrassment ate you alive in his presence  but alas, he was a busy man, so you simply nodded,

“I’ll see you around?” The corners of your lips curled into a smile.

He hummed, he gave you another chaste kiss, this time on your forehead before completely letting go of you. Oh, god. Was it merely your imagination or was he acting extra . . touchy? You wouldn’t even dream of putting Sunday and touchy in the same sentence—they were like two magnets with the same side that repelled one another but his actions proved otherwise. Or maybe you were highly delusional.

Before he could walk away any further, you called out to him, “Sunday?” He turned around, an expectant look painted on his face.

“I . .” Love you? Was that what you were going to say? There was no harm in that, right? Right? Come to think of it, neither of you had ever uttered those words—were you about to start now? Technically, the two of you were married and expressing love to one another was normal. God, why were you even overthinking—

Whatever.

“I love you.”

Sunday’s wings momentarily rustled, a hint of shock washed over his face, albeit subtle, you caught on. His chest tightened but it wasn’t the same feeling as earlier, it didn’t hurt, instead, it felt like a dainty butterfly fluttering inside his ribcage. He stared at you momentarily, the rush of everyone else around fading into the background, his breaths turned shallow and slightly uneven. Was he sick?

“I . . love you, too.” And without another word, he left.

Fake. Fake. Fake. Fake!

You reminded yourself this marriage was fake and so was his response but your heart believed otherwise because now it pounded against the bars of your ribs, it wanted to leap out and find comfort in the warmth of his palms. Heat spread from your cheeks, along the column of your neck, and all the way down to your chest—it bloomed like a fiery flower, its blazing petals hungry for more. 

The urge to tell Sunday as soon as possible settled in your heart.

The night before the Charmony Festival, Old Oak Family Manor (Reality)

Unfortunately, with both your schedules tightly packed, you rarely saw Sunday within the past week—only some nights during ungodly hours where he carefully slipped next to you in bed but other than that, no words were exchanged, and as much as you wanted to talk to him, exhaustion weighed on your body. And as soon as you were enveloped by the softness of the bed, it immediately lulled you into a deep sweet dream.

Tonight wasn’t any different, you came home to yet another empty house—save for the attendants—without Sunday and frankly, you were worried he wasn’t getting the proper rest he needed. You did leave him a couple of messages earlier between your shoots simply asking how he was but he never replied to them, though that wasn't surprising given how close the festival was.

The shared bed felt a lot colder and bigger as you slipped beneath the covers, you turned to face Sunday’s side, stretching out an arm as if to reach for him only to be met with emptiness. A small sigh slipped past your lips, you silently prayed to Xipe that THEY would answer your wishes to see him soon. 

For now, you closed your eyes and went to sleep.

11 system hours later

Ri█—ng!

█Rin█g!

Ring!

At the sound of your phone, you stirred awake in bed, sleep still weighed heavy on your body. Was that your alarm? You didn’t remember setting one last night . . Nonetheless, you slowly opened your eyes and reached for the device atop the wooden nightstand, bringing it to your face. You blinked a few times, doing your best to adjust the blur of your vision to see better.

Mr. Oti Alfalfa

Huh? Why was the Alfalfa Family Head calling you? As if your entire body was doused in icy water, you quickly shot up, fingers raked through your mussed hair as you answered, “H-Hello?”

“Ah, it seems you’ve finally woken up, Miss.”

“Mr. Oti Alfalfa! My sincere apologies, it had been a long night . . May I ask why you’re calling?” You rubbed your temples, looking at the wall clock to check the time—11 system hours?! You’ve been asleep for 11 system hours? Just how tired were you last night? Though, with the weight of sleep on you, it did feel like you slept for quite a while, almost like a never ending dream.

“The Family has cleared your schedule for today, we require your presence at the Dewlight Pavilion right this moment. There are important matters to be discussed.”

At the mention of The Family’s residence, you looked over to your right. No Sunday, an empty space. Seeing as how they required your presence, that meant they asked for him too, right? He must’ve been at the Pavilion already but why didn’t he wake you up from your sleep?

There were a thousand questions that ran through your mind regarding the whole situation but what could they possibly need to discuss with you? They even cleared your schedule which meant it had to be something very serious, not to mention how you could sense the urgency in old Oti’s tone as he spoke of important matters. 

It made you somewhat uneasy.

“Alright. I will be there in a few minutes.”

With that, you quickly got dressed and headed for the Dreamscape.

Moment of Morning Dew

The Dewlight Pavilion housed more members of The Family than usual, its entrance had at least six Bloodhound Family security officers guarding the doors, and the inside wasn’t any better. What was going on? Today was the Charmony Festival, right? So why was almost everyone present in the Pavilion? You walked down its long halls, each step taken heavier than the last.

There was a slight tension in the air, you felt it and it made your stomach churn; you noticed how some attendants gazed at you as if you were some kind of criminal. 

Was . . something wrong? Nonetheless, you ignored them and kept walking ‘til you reached the Council Chamber.

Inside, gathered four Family Heads, they gathered at the heart of the chamber, sitting around a vast circular table. Robin was also present but where was Sunday? Shouldn’t he be present as well? 

“. . May I ask what this is all about?” Your brows furrowed, a small frown forming on your lips; you looked over at Robin who only gave you a solemn expression, even the look on your adoptive mother’s face was hard to explain.

“Are you aware of what has transpired in Penacony?” Oti Alfalfa spoke up.

Slowly, you made your way over to situate yourself next to Robin. “No . .  I have been asleep and only woke up from your call. Did something terrible happen in the Dreamscape?” You felt asking that question would do more harm than good but there had to be a clear reason as to why they needed you here.

The atmosphere was unbearable. Every Head, including Robin wore an unreadable expression, it’s as if all of them were in on some kind of secret and no one dared to inform you about it. Sunday’s absence in this meeting made you all the more nervous. All of them shared strange looks with one another before Oti Alfalfa spoke up once again,

“. . The Oak Family Head and the Dreammaster had committed the highest act of treason—not only to The Family but to the entirety of Penacony. Sunday usurped the Harmony and revived Ena The Order to use THEIR power to create an eternal dream paradise.”

You didn’t know what to say. Was there even anything appropriate to say? 

It didn’t feel real at all, you were hoping they were merely playing a sick, elaborate prank on you but the look on their faces proved otherwise. Old Oti’s words reached your ears the same way nightmares did—fragmented, disjointed, and absolutely impossible to process all at once.

Sunday. Treason. Eternal dream paradise.

No. That wasn’t the Sunday you knew, he couldn’t have possibly done something like that, not the man who had spent most of his life looking out for others—putting their needs before his. It felt contradictory to everything he was. But did it really? Your mind scrambled for reason and context, for some kind of missing piece that would make everything make sense but there was nothing. 

Among the million of questions, your mind raised another: What exactly had your marriage been for? 

You stood with him before all of Penacony yet all this time he secretly worked with the Dreammaster to dismantle the very concept you and he were assigned to uphold—Harmony. A deep, aching sorrow settled beneath your ribs.

“Rightfully, the former Oak Family Head was imprisoned but it has come to our attention that he had managed to flee from prison, he is now deemed a wanted fugitive. We asked you to join this meeting because we have a few questions regarding your husband.” Flee from prison? How? And who aided him? A part of you was relieved that Sunday managed to flee from The Family’s wrath but you were also scared of what he might face once they found him.

You knew what was coming next.

Maeven Ellis parted her crimson-stained lips, she still held onto that unreadable expression, “Oh, Triple-Faced Soul, please sear her tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that she will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.”

“Everyone in this room is aware regarding the status of your marriage with the former Oak Family Head, orchestrated to refute rumours within the Dreamscape. Were you an accomplice to him and the Dreammaster? Was your marriage merely a disguise to direct Penacony’s attention from their dark schemes?”

You shook your head, “No. I was only aware that our marriage was a solution against those rumours.”

Why were they asking you this? Each Family Head had already agreed to the Dreammaster’s proposal of having you and Sunday marry one another, why was Oti Alfalfa acting as if he wasn’t in favour of the proposal?

“Did you have a hand at helping the former Oak Family Head escape?”

Once again, you shook your head, “No. As I mentioned earlier, I just woke up. I came home from a long shoot last night and went to bed as soon as I could.”

“Did the former Oak Family Head tell you of his schemes?”

You were getting sick of this, twice you’ve already told them you weren’t aware of the Dreammaster and Sunday’s plans, why were they so insistent you had a hand at their schemes? Your mother—out of all people—knew you’d never get involved with something like that. Sure, you had the third highest ranking in the Iris Family but you were merely an actress and stayed out of The Family’s business.

“No.”

Oti Alfalfa nodded, briefly glancing at the golden band around your finger, “That is all but let me tell you this, once The Family finds out you have made contact without any notice or you are actively helping the former Oak Family Head hide, you will be met with punishment for aiding and abetting. This applies to you as well, Miss Robin.”

He didn’t have to verbally say it yet you knew between those words he spoke, he wanted to remind you that The Family was always watching.

After being dismissed by Old Oti, you headed straight to Golden Hour to clear your head—you still couldn’t wrap your head around the whole incident. Did he really manage to revive a dead Aeon? The one that Xipe assimilated? The severity of the entire thing was beyond you and there was no easy way to process all this.

Moment of Golden Hour

“You know, Sunny, won’t it be better to bid farewell to her instead of staring at her poster like a total creep?” 

“That implies we won’t see each other again and I do not intend to keep it that way. Even so, I simply cannot bring myself to face her like this even with a disguise. It’s far too risky, Wonweek. I am a fugitive, after all.”

Amidst the glittering luxuries, billboards, and rush of people in the Moment, Sunday—disguised as an Intellitron—stood before an expansive poster of you at Oti Mall, his honeyed gaze traced over your features once, twice, thrice as if to engrave them in his mind.

He was aware the poster was merely an advertisement for a skin care brand yet you looked extremely happy in it and he could only wish the same for you now. With the amount of Bloodhound Family security patrolling around, he assumed news had already broken out regarding his escape, and that you were also aware of it—of everything he had done.

The Pepeshi—Wonweek—who stood next to him hummed, “Oh, really? Not even when she’s right there crying?"

Sunday immediately turned to his companion, “What?” He followed the Pepeshi’s line of sight, it took a few seconds before finally spotting your familiar figure—you sat on a bench in front of Clock Diner, arms crossed over your chest, seemingly staring into nothing. Even though you wore a hat and sunglasses, Sunday could still tell it was you.

“W-Well, maybe not crying but she certainly doesn’t look okay to me.”

“Stay here . .” Sunday absentmindedly murmured, his eyes remained fixated on you, and as if his feet had a mind of its own, he started walking towards you.

“Hey! What the heck happened to ‘I simply cannot bring myself to face her like this’!” Wonweek called out to him, mocking his voice but didn’t bother interfering, he figured the two of you needed to talk, even if it was indirectly.

This wasn’t Sunday’s plan at all, he wasn’t supposed to approach you yet here he was merely three steps away; he had to remind himself not to get carried away with things and that he had a disguise which meant he was a stranger to you.

“Pardon my intrusion, Miss but are you okay?”

At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, you immediately snapped out of your thoughts and shifted your gaze to its owner who stood to your left, just beyond your line of sight—it was an Intellitron clad in a long plum coloured dress. Despite their unmoving facial features, you could sense the hint of concern in their voice.

“O-Oh, um! Yes, of course thank you for asking . . Apologies for my rudeness! Did you want to sit down?” You feigned a cough and adjusted the sunglasses atop your nosebridge before scooting to the edge of the bench to make room. The Intellitron murmured a small thank you as she sat down, smoothing the skirt of her dress.

“My apologies if you were taken aback by my brazenness.”

“Not at all! I’m grateful to have someone look out for me, Miss . . ?”

“Wonweek.” The Intellitron replied.

“Miss Wonweek! What a lovely name . . Thank you, again. It’s just that it’s been a long day and, uh, a . . dear friend of mine has gone somewhere far, far away from me, and I am not certain when I will see him next. Or if I will ever see him again.” You tried your best to stabilize your voice but as each word slipped past your lips, they trembled harder than the last, and the only way to calm yourself down was to caress the golden band wrapped around your ring finger.

“This friend . . he seems quite important to you, no?”

Letting out a shaky sigh, you nodded, “He’s someone I hold very dear to my heart and all I wish for is to talk to him. I’ve been meaning to tell him something.” Sunday swallowed thickly, what could that something possibly be? He’d rather not get his hopes up.

“Your friend may have gone off somewhere far away but I am certain once the time is right, destiny will intertwine your paths once more.”

“Of course. And should the path he chooses not include me in the future, I can only hope it’s a path where he is genuinely happy. I am willing to sacrifice that.” After all, your ties with The Family would make the situation difficult—Oti Alfalfa had already warned you earlier that they had eyes and ears everywhere.

“I may not know your friend well but I am certain he would not want a future without you in it.”

3 months and 3 weeks later, Consternation Starzone, Planarcadia

“Ugh, come on! You already picked the last movie, Stelle! Let me pick one for movie night this time!”

As Sunday walked into the hotel room, he was immediately met with a scene of his bickering companions, however, one of them remained seated in a corner with his arms folded across his chest and eyes closed.

“Great, Sunday’s here! He can back me up on this one! Can you please convince her to watch this movie?” The pink haired woman —who he had come to know as Miss March 7th—eagerly walked over to him and shoved her phone before his face, presenting an opened browser tab for an overview of a movie.

Love and Devotion (1h 49m): Estranged childhood best friends find their way back to one another which results in a trip down memory lane and a blossoming love. Faced with obstacles from their contrasting paths, they navigate through difficulties together, ultimately challenging their relationship.

Cast: Mr. Cassian Noctis, Mrs.—

She swiftly pulled away her phone before he could read any further, an expectant look in her eyes. That was your movie, March 7th wanted to watch your movie—he made a promise to himself he’d make time to watch it once it comes out but ever since he boarded the Express, it had only been missions after missions. Though, he was updated enough to know that it received a lot of love not only in Penacony but across the cosmos as well.

“Do you even know what you’re asking of him? That’s his wife in that movie!” Stelle—the other woman March argued with earlier—scratched the back of her head, whisper-yelling the other half of her sentence. She sat on the edge of the bed, a pillow tucked beneath her arms.

The latter quickly connected the dots, her eyes wide with realisation, “O-Oh! Um! You know what, I think we can go with the movie you picked!”

It wasn’t a secret among the Crew that Sunday was married but they figured the topic was sensitive to him as he barely talked about you, even the mention of Penacony had him wearing a solemn expression.

Though it was the complete opposite for him, Sunday wanted to talk about you—about his homeworld but he was afraid doing so would only get his hopes up for nothing. For the past few months he had been hoping to at least get a glimpse of you during his journey around the cosmos, you were an actress after all, you occasionally went on film press tours.

“I don’t mind at all. I had the opportunity to watch behind the scenes while they were shooting and I was more than intrigued to see the finished piece.” Sunday shook his head, he handed March their room keycard she gave him earlier before sitting next to his dark haired companion on the couch.

“Really? That’s so cool! Ugh, I wish I could get her autograph! You know, I was quite surprised when news broke out that she was engaged! I’ve also seen some of the wedding photos and you two looked absolutely stunning! Anyway, how about you Dan Heng? Do you have any movies you wanna watch?” March turned to the man next to Sunday.

Dan Heng opened his eyes and slowly shook his head, “I’m okay with any movie you guys pick.”

After a few more minutes of going back and forth, all lights were turned off and everyone eventually settled on Love and Devotion. Sunday was the most intrigued—even more than March 7th who initially convinced all to watch the movie; he knew of your acting prowess yet  he was completely speechless.

Every single time you appeared on screen, his heart seemed to skip a beat or two, he chalked it up to not having seen your face for a while which is why excitement enveloped him every now and then. 

However, half way through the movie while a particular scene played—the scene he vividly remembered watching on set—a foreign feeling enveloped his entire body, a hint of heat and something more.

Subtly, Sunday looked around to see his companions’ reactions, March 7th and Stelle who were sitting on the bed were unfazed by the escalating scene of the movie whereas Dan Heng merely scrolled on his dimmed phone, a slight blanket of pink dusting his cheeks.

With the volume turned all the way up, wet kissing sounds filled all four walls of the hotel room, it made Sunday’s stomach churn in a way that had him digging the tips of his fingers on his palms.

You and Cassian were only kissing but the intensity and lewd noises you made sent an icy shudder down his spine.

This wasn’t good.

A quiet, shaky sigh left his lips as his pants tightened with each passing second. Oh god, was he . . aroused? He didn’t remember feeling this way when he was on set—quite the opposite—so why now?

Sure, the room was dark enough to hide his growing erection but it wasn’t exactly ideal to experience one around three people. Besides, it was uncouth and he needed to leave. Now.

Sunday immediately stood up, gaining curious glances from everyone else, he tried to subtly cover pants, “Uh, I-I need to get something in Dan Heng and I’s room. Feel free to keep watching.” He didn’t bother waiting for anyone else to respond and immediately headed for the door.

As he stepped out onto the hallway, he breathed out a sigh of relief, at least there wasn’t anyone else around the corridors this late at night. Carefully, he walked towards the shared room, trying his best to avoid further friction in his pants or else it would be a very embarrassing moment for him—it was  humiliating enough to walk with a weird gait, anything more and he’d bury himself in the ground.

Thankfully, Sunday reached the room which he hastily opened with the keycard tucked inside his pocket, he swiftly slipped inside and sat on the edge of his bed with his eyes closed.

Silence settled in the air, it was accompanied by his heavy, uneven breaths as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. He felt extremely filthy—to think of you in such a lustful light without your knowledge, it was beyond unmannerly. 

“F-Forgive me . . for my vulgar thoughts and for what I am about to do.”

In the blink of an eye, Sunday found himself inside the bathroom, door locked and back pressed against it.

Dizziness washed over him and embarrassment ate away at his feverish skin as he reached for the waistband of his pants, he hastily pulled it down with his underwear, a sharp hiss leaving his lips, cock slapping against his lower abdomen. It wore a deep blush of pink and oozed with pearlescent pre-cum, he wondered how his cock would look against your face while you licked and sucked at it.

The soft fabric shamelessly pooled around his ankles which completely exposed his lower half, the cool air against his legs left an icy shudder. Sunday brought the hem of his shirt to his face, biting down at it so it didn’t get in the way.

He wrapped a trembling hand around the base and squeezed, a loud moan immediately spilling from his lips, pre-cum that decorated his sensitive cockhead trickled down.

A pearlescent sheen covered the entirety of Sunday’s cock as he eagerly spread it from tip to base—up and down, up and down, a couple of languid strokes that had him panting heavily.

A vivid imagery of you pumping his cock plagued his mind as he shut his eyes closed, both hands wrapped around the length of his shaft while your tongue gave experimental licks, “Ngh—ah! Mhm!” Sunday whimpered, free hand gripping the cool surface of the bathroom door behind him, he hadn't been doing this for long yet his knees were ready to give up from the immense weight of pleasure.

His chest vigorously rose and fell as each inhale and exhale turned more shallow than the last, he picked up the pace, stroking himself a little faster.

Pure bliss gnawed at his feverish skin, it sank its teeth into him ‘til it reached his very bones, engulfing his entire body in an intoxicating pleasured state.

“Ah—! Haah! Oh, god!”

Despite the sound of blood rushing in his ears, Sunday replayed the sinful moans you made in the movie, how your face contorted in pleasure as Cassian kissed down your neck—lips parted and brows tightly knitted together.

You sang the most exquisite melody he has ever heard and he could only hope to pull the very same ones, maybe something even better, one that would flawlessly intertwine with his own to create an immoral tune.

He bucked his hips into his curled hand at the thought of having sex with you. Embarrassingly, Sunday had never gotten intimate with anyone—his days were packed with duty on top of duty and he wasn’t given the chance to get into a relationship as it was the last thing he had in mind as (former) Oak Family Head. All he knew was to govern the Lineage he grew up in.

But he wondered . . How would you feel around his cock? Were you warm and soft?—maybe even a hint of greediness where you readily swallowed him whole.

It almost pained him that you weren’t in front of him right this moment because now, he had to settle for his inexperienced hand and just the thought of that grew a bud of frustration within his chest. Sunday wanted you—he needed you. 

Badly.

He desired to bury his shaft deep inside and have you come undone around him once, twice, as much as you wanted—‘til your legs trembled around his waist, ‘til your throat ran dry from repeatedly calling his name like a sacred prayer, and even then, he wasn’t sure if his thirst would be satiated.

This wasn’t just lust anymore. No. Sunday wasn’t merely aroused by a heated scene in your movie, he held something much deeper for you in his heart. It had always been there from the start but remained dormant and quiet enough to go unnoticed by him but now that it has bloomed into something greater, he realised that what he held for you was love.

Sunday loved you. Deeply, truly, and agonizingly.

At the sudden realisation, the coil inside him snapped instantaneously, spurts of hot cum spilled from his cock, he came with a loud wanton moan which echoed throughout the bathroom walls. His body trembled and pleasure which engulfed his entire body took him to places he’s never been before.

Sunday grunted as he milked his cock, shamelessly pumping it ‘til it emptied; he slumped against the door, filth settling over him while he tried to catch his breath.

Despite his lust-clouded mind, he only thought of one thing—to tell you how he truly felt.

As morning finally came, Sunday stepped outside the hotel to gather his thoughts after last night’s realisation, he figured getting some fresh air while walking amongst the locals and taking in the beauty of Ahatopia would quench the yearning in his heart.

Duomension City was as busy as ever with students, office workers and early risers trying to get through the morning rush, even at this hour the City remained lively—this world wasn’t entirely different from Penacony, teeming with large and colourful animated posters, it reminded Sunday of Moment of Golden Hour which also brimmed with bright billboards, music, and the surge of Penaconians out and about, it made him miss home even more.

But Planarcadia was different, it was a world that devoured silence and perhaps that’s why Sunday had grown to relax a little because silence left too much room to think. He adjusted the collar of his coat as he stepped through the crowded avenue, weaving between strangers with practised ease.

The cool air smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee and expensive perfume, it blended seamlessly with the sounds of passing conversations and the quiet hum of cars.

A group of students rushed past him suddenly, laughing too loudly and nearly colliding with his shoulder. Sunday stepped aside instinctively, accidentally knocking into a stranger; the sound of a distinct thud reached his ears, an object falling onto the ground.

He halted his tracks to pick up the fallen object—a bottle of iced coffee—and return it to its owner. Ah, he should really watch his surroundings.

“My apologies for bumping into you, I should’ve been more aware of my—” Sunday stopped mid sentence as he faced the owner of the beverage.

The world didn’t go silent, no, if anything, Planarcadia only grew louder around him—footsteps rushing past, the distant sound of train announcements echoing, laughter from down the street but all of it blurred into meaningless noise because standing only a few inches away was you.

There was no mistaking it with your ivory wings and gleaming halo.

Was he dreaming? It had to be an elaborate prank, no? This was the world of Elation after all, maybe some Fool decided to play a sick joke on him. But the look on your face mirrored his own—shock and confusion.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the sea of people in the vicinity weaved their way around—they split and reformed like water around stone. Strangers brushed against his shoulders unaware that his world had just tilted violently off its axis.

You weren’t doing any better at all, it's as though your heart had forgotten how to beat. Sunday looked different, it wasn’t a drastic change but it was enough for you to notice.

The pristine perfection once attached to him had frayed at the edges, his attire was less . . uniform, and his eyes gleamed with more sincerity but there was undeniable exhaustion on his face, as if the last few months had carved something deeper into him.

And yet it was still him—your Sunday.

“. . You’re here . . ?” He broke the loud silence first.

“So are you.” You breathed out.

He looked down, suddenly remembering the bottle which rested on his palm. Carefully, he stepped closer and held it out, you took it with your left hand, fingers brushing against his gloved hand.

Sunday sucked in a sharp breath as he noticed the familiar band of gold around your ring finger, “You—You still wear your ring?” He asked with a hint of hope evident in his tone.

You almost laughed at the absurdity of his observation but curiosity soon followed, “We are still married, after all. People notice everything, if they don’t see a ring on me, they’d immediately assume divorce. It’s not exactly easy given your absence in Penacony. Why? Do you not wear yours anymore?”

Oh. So you only kept the ring on to avoid speculation and here he thought it meant something more to you but he didn’t have the luxury to sulk about it because every second spent in his presence faced bigger punishment for you—he knew The Family, they weren’t lenient.

He didn’t wear his ring anymore but kept it with him at all times, it was tucked safely inside the inner pocket of his coat, close to his heart. He refused to wear it for the same reason he severed his halo back in Penacony—to feel pain. Albeit not physically, he felt the emotional pain of being undeserving of loving you and being loved by you.

“I think I should go. We—We shouldn’t be talking . .” Sunday shook his head and slowly stepped backwards which earned a baffled expression from you.

That’s it?

After not seeing each other for months, he was just going to chicken out and refuse to talk? You were well aware he only cared for your safety but you believed you needed answers from him and besides, the confession in your heart sat long enough—it was finally time to set it free.

“Really, Sunday?”

The sound of your voice uttering his name had him swallowing thickly. “Because if I remember correctly, you still had the guts to talk to me back in Penacony hours after you became a fugitive.”

He stopped in his tracks, now it was his turn to be confused, “You saw through my disguise?”

“. . I had a hunch it was you. I’ve replayed that conversation a million times for the past few months—over and over ‘til it finally dawned on me. So, please, let’s talk? You told me in that very conversation you wouldn’t want a future without me in it, right?”

Sunday couldn’t refuse.

The two of you found yourselves back at your hotel room—he would’ve offered his room if he wasn’t sharing it with Dan Heng—both of you figured it wasn’t best to talk about such matters in public, especially since merely being seen together with Sunday was already a crime itself.

The hotel you stayed at was more luxurious, a suite which offered a generous view of the bustling city below and its panoramic skyline, and carefully selected artwork adorned its beige painted walls.

“Are you here for a press tour?” He asked, eyeing the expansive room. 

“I’m here on vacation.”

Silence stretched and tension grew thicker with each second, you and Sunday stood a few metres apart from one another, sticking out like sore thumbs. Neither of you dared to speak with the amount of thoughts that raced in your minds—there was simply a lot to talk about that none of you knew where to start at all.

Should you address the elephant in the room? What he did back in Penacony and the fact that he was now a wanted criminal? Or should you tell him the very words in your heart that desired to be known?

Yes, Sunday committed the highest act of treason against his homeland, its people, and The Family but what exactly could you even say to him regarding that matter? Get angry and berate him further like everyone else did in his absence? Doing so still wouldn’t change what he had done. You’ve heard every word The Family higher ups spoke of him—they were rightfully angry, of course, you wouldn’t deny them that feeling but it pained you.

“I need to tell you something.” Both of you spoke up in unison, urgency in your tones equally evident.

“You go ahead first.” Sunday cleared his throat. If he was being honest, he hasn’t been able to sit still ever since he last spoke to you in Penacony—you mentioned how you wanted to tell him something, and judging by the look on your face, he could only assume what you wanted to say was regarding that matter.

Letting out a sigh, you nodded, never in a million years did you think you’d be confessing to him in a luxury hotel room, in a foreign world, stars away from Penacony,

“I know our marriage requires us to . . act in certain ways to make it believable but I have something I’ve buried inside my chest for as long as I can remember and no matter how many times I push it down or simply ignore it, it just won’t go away . . What am I even rambling about? What I’m trying to say is . . I have feelings for you, Sunday—even before this whole marriage act, ever since we were children.”

You looked away and stared at the abstract painting near the bed, you simply couldn’t handle returning Sunday’s stare, especially not when silence grew. Maybe you should have just kept your mouth closed and let him go first because now you were starting to regret it—what if he wanted to get a divorce?

Clearly there was no point in your marriage anymore, he has been absent in public for months and there was no reason to keep up the charade.

Even though your marriage was sealed with a legitimate contract, none of The Family Heads acknowledged its authenticity; your mother and Robin were a different case—it was more so out of respect while the rest did so out of disdain but still, the Dreammaster who orchestrated this unity was already dead which meant it held no significance at all.

Just an empty legal document.

“I . . feel the same way.”

. . What?

“It was foolish of me not to realize sooner. It was easy for me to show affection for you because what I have in my heart is genuine but I merely hid it behind the reason of duty because I wasn’t entirely sure of these feelings at all.” 

Now, it was Sunday’s turn to look away in embarrassment, a hue of deep rose graced his pale cheeks and heat prickled his skin.

Your breath stopped and the city below seemed to disappear, his words weren’t grand but they were honest, probably the most honest it has been since for as long as you could remember, it was a simple truth laid bare beneath a foreign sky.

For a long moment, you couldn’t speak because part of you had wanted this—you dreamed of this for so long now that it felt entirely cruel.

Cruel because you couldn’t be with him, not by your side, not in Penacony, not elsewhere, and now that your hearts were on the table, you simply couldn’t stand the thought of separation.

But for now, you wanted to cherish this moment. To convince yourself that you and Sunday had a future together where he didn’t have to run from The Family and face consequences, that the two of you weren’t bound for interminable separation.

“This is so unfair.” With a shaky breath, you buried your face in the hearts of your palms. You were certain if Aha was aware of the situation you and Sunday were in right now, THEY would be laughing. What a cruel joke from the cosmos.

He closed the distance between the two of you, protectively wrapping his arms around your body as he rested his chin on the crown of your head. It’d be absolutely selfish of him to ask for something more but he couldn’t bear the thought of you being with someone else.

He pulled back and pried your hands away from your face, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheeks as he cupped them, tentative  in a way that almost undid you more than certainty would have.

“. . May I?” He whispered. The warmth of his hand against your skin sent something sharp and aching through your chest.

“You may.”

Sunday slowly leaned in and for a moment, you remembered the ‘kiss’ at Eventide, only this time, it was as real as it got. The kiss wasn’t dramatic nor theatrical—it was merely his lips pressed against your own, soft with a small tremble, as if almost unsure if this was the right thing to do.

One hand found your waist carefully, drawing you closer with a reverence that made your knees feel less reliable all of a sudden. The kiss deepened but not with force but with feeling, slow and tender.

It felt like grief and relief at the same time, as though the two of you mourned the past few months but also treasuring the fact that, somehow, there was still the present and the future.

His lips were warm and softer than you’d imagined in moments you had long since stopped permitting yourself to imagine. Every slight shift was careful, as though he was memorizing the map of your lips. For the first time, this moment was entirely yours and Sunday’s—no ivory wing to shield the kiss, no cameras, and definitely not out of duty.

Your hands found their way to his collar, fingers curling more firmly into him which pulled the faintest sound, something quiet and surprised that sent a shiver down your spine. When you finally parted, it was only enough to breathe; your foreheads rested together, the city below spinning while the morning seemed to hold itself still around you.

“. . So,” You whispered, still breathless, “That was significantly better than the wedding.”

Sunday’s shoulders shifted slightly, he laughed, “I would hope so.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself, and perhaps he saw something equally dangerous in your expression because his gaze softened into something so openly affectionate it nearly stole your breath all over again. You pulled him back down on you, this time the kiss was less hesitant but just as tender than the last, and maybe also a bit rougher—full of desire and hunger.

Sunday’s hand remained at your waist, steady and warm as though he feared everything might vanish if he held on too tightly but this second kiss had already undone that illusion, there was nothing uncertain left in the way you leaned into him, nothing hesitant in the way your fingers dug into the fabric of his coat.

The kiss deepened not with urgency alone but with the quiet ache of something long denied, every touch seemed to carry the weight of love restrained far too long.

“Tell me to stop.” Sunday breathed out between kisses, a shaky whisper. His words weren’t obligation, they were reverence as he would simply not take what was not freely given. 

Your answer came not in words but in the way your hands rose to cradle his face, the way you kissed him again with a certainty that made his breath hitch, and that was enough for him. His restraint broke softly akin to silk slipping loose, not reckless, never reckless but what laid beneath the silken veil was a brewing storm of desire—the feelings of yesterday suddenly coming back to him.

The hand on your waist carefully slid upward, the tips of his fingers tracing your clothed body before he gently ushers you out of your jacket, it fell onto the polished floors with a soft thud—one layer deeper, closer to what you both wanted.

But before you could go any further, Sunday completely pulled away from the kiss, cheeks bitten with pink and lips parted as he breathed heavily.

There was a hint of hesitancy in his face, “I’ve never done this before but I want you . .” He whispered, trailing off as embarrassment engulfed him.

You gave him a small smile and leaned in to kiss his lips, “That’s okay,” Then, the column of his neck, “You can simply,” And the spot beneath his wing, “Follow my lead.”

Oh, you’d be the death of him.

Soon, your hands slid down to unfasten his coat, easing him out of his outer layer ‘til it met yours on the ground.

There was something so heartbreakingly human about this moment—two individuals who had once stood at the altar of Eventide, beneath thousands of watchful eyes, now trembling more in private than both have ever had in public.

No words were spoken as each layer was shed, only the quiet rustle of fabric, shared kisses, and the growing anticipation as you bared your feelings to one another.

Sunday barely noticed you had guided him over to the bed ‘til his back kissed the soft ivory sheets, he was so caught up in the heat of the moment he almost forgot to drink you in—to bask in the sheer beauty of your naked body.

Through tinted cheeks and wet lashes, he looked up at you with pure desire and slowly raked his honeyed gaze all over your body—from your breasts, to the dip of your waist, and all the way down to the apex of your thighs. Sunday let out a shaky breath as he felt his cock hardening even further.

“You’re exquisite.” He breathed out. Paired with your glimmering halo and the wings behind your ears, you were a sight for the heavens.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Sunday.”

A small chuckle escaped your lips, it was clearly a tease to mask the fact that his naked form drove you to the brink of insanity. Beautiful was an understatement—there wasn’t a word in the thesaurus that could describe the angelic sight before you.

The shy look on his face was ironic because his cock stood prouder than ever, begging to be inside you. It flushed pink and leaked a generous amount of pre-cum, and it took all your will power not to lap it up right then and there.

“Wait,” He started. “I want to please you.”

At his request, you switched positions, only this time you sat up on the edge of the bed. Sunday slowly got on his knees before you as he placed a trail of chaste kisses down your neck, collarbones, and just above the valley of your breasts. Sensing slight hesitation from him, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist and guided his hand to your chest,

“It feels good when you massage and squeeze it—ah! Just—mhm! Just like that.” You moaned as he gave an experimental squeeze, brain short-circuiting at your immediate reaction to his touch; his palms were expansive and his fingers were long which allowed him to stimulate most of the sensitive area.

Sunday brought both hands to cup each breast, gently massaging them while his eyes darted between your chest and face, he wore an expression full of wonder and curiosity, rosy lips lightly parted as he breathed heavily.

Curious, he eagerly wrapped his lips around a mound, tongue swirling around your hardened nipple, causing your hands to fly to his hair.

“S-Sunday—!”

He responded with a hum which sent vibrations across your skin as you gently tugged at his hair. If he was being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing and his actions were merely fuelled by the sounds and expressions you made.

With one hand still on your other breast, he gently fondled your sensitive nipple between his lithe fingers, you arched your back, pressing your chest further into his face. Your skin was extremely warm and soft beneath his touch it almost felt unreal; he couldn’t believe he was right in front of you, intimate and vulnerable.

Sunday then switched between your breasts, giving the other the same amount of attention and stimulation before he trailed downwards.

Gentle and hot, he placed wet open-mouthed kisses between the valley of your chest and along your stomach, taking the time to lap up the sensitive area just above your bellybutton.

Once he reached your sex, he looked up at you briefly to look for any discomfort in your face, and upon not finding any, he slowly pried your legs open, revealing your sopping entrance.

All for him?

Though, it felt rather daunting not really knowing where to start. With two fingers, Sunday gently rubbed up and down your slit a couple of times, observing your reaction—you bit the bottom of your lip and your brows slightly knitted together.

So far, so good.

“Y-You can—ngh! Wet your index and—ah—ring finger with your mouth and put them inside.” You let out a soft moan, one hand planted firmly on the mattress to support your crumbling torso while the other explored his hair. Sunday may have been inexperienced but god did he pleasure you effortlessly, he hasn’t even touched you properly yet you were already trembling.

At your words, he paused slightly. Put his fingers inside his mouth? What a bizarre thing to do. His cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red as he wrapped his lips around his digits, effectively wetting them as instructed, he could taste a hint of you.

You could only watch in awe as the sight before you unfolded, never in your lifetime did you think you’d see the revered Sunday—former Bronze Melodia and former Oak Family Head—stick his fingers inside his mouth.

“Now, with your palm facing the ceiling, slowly push them in one by one.”

A soft pop echoed in the silence as he removed his digits from his mouth and brought them down to your sopping cunt. Slowly, he pushed his index finger past your folds and immediately sought your reaction—a soft sigh.

Oh, how warm you were, it felt like he was dipping his hand in a pot of warm honey, slick and smooth, and maybe even as sweet. Sunday gave a few shallow experimental pumps before adding the second digit, eliciting a shaky whimper from you.

“Haa—ah! C-Curl your fingers upwards and—yes! Oh, god! Just like that, Sunday—mhm!” You threw your head back as he curled his fingers, face contorted in pure pleasure.

At your pornographic reaction, he swallowed thickly; he tried not to think about how much his cock ached, being untouched for so long, it’d have to wait for a little while, he wanted to please you ‘til you were satisfied.

Deep in a haze of lust, you tried your best to form a coherent sentence, “Can you—oh, that feels good. Can you feel a spongy texture? Gently apply pressure and rub it back a-and forth—hngh!”

Sunday absentmindedly nodded, he could feel the area you mentioned just above the pads of his fingers. As you instructed, he pressed on it lightly, afraid he’d hurt you if he did more. With a grind of your hips, you let out a wanton moan in the shape of his name.

“Is this okay . . ?” He breathed out.

“Y-You’re doing good. Just keep a delicate, steady pace . .” Your hand on his hair snaked down to the apex of your legs to spread open your cunt, “If you want—haah! You can also kiss at this spot here at the top and—oh, fuck! Sunday!”

Before you could finish your sentence, his lips were already flushed against your entrance, closely following every word you uttered. A slight shudder washed over your naked body as his feathered wings brushed against the insides of your thighs.

“Yes! Lightly suck on it like tha—aah! Ngh! Haah, I’m so close. Don’t—mhm! Don’t stop, please”

With the combined stimulation of his fingers inside you and his lips around your clit, a string of colourful moans left your lips as you slowly sank deeper into the depths of bliss. The sounds you made were music to his ears which only fuelled his actions further.

With a forceful grunt, you threw your head back as you came on Sunday’s fingers—toes curling and thighs shaking at the immense wave of pleasure that hit you.

He slowed down his movements and resorted to languid strokes which allowed you to grind your hips and ride out your orgasm. He let out a shaky moan at the sensation of your walls tightening around his fingers, oddly enough, it felt satisfying for him.

Coming down from your high, you slumped down on the bed, face extremely heated and lips parted to catch your breath.

Wide eyed and in slight awe, Sunday slowly pulled out his slick coated fingers which earned a low whine from you, he curiously examined his soaked digits, they were faintly trembling from the repeated motion.

Without a second thought, he wrapped his lips around them with the sweetness of your taste settling on his tongue. Oh, how dangerously addicting you were. Wet sounds slipped from his mouth as he sucked his digits clean from your saccharine slick, earning a curious glance from you as you lifted your head off the mattress.

He was trying to kill you.

The two of you found yourselves situated further up the bed with Sunday slotted between your parted legs, he hovered over you with one palm firmly planted beside your head while the other languidly pumped his hard cock just before your wet cunt.

He let out soft pants above you, flushed face contorting with pleasure, “A-Are you sure?” Even with his mind entirely clouded by lust he prioritised your comfort.

“As long as it's you, I can never be more sure.”

He smiled in response and placed a chaste kiss on your lips before slowly guiding the tip to your folds. Snaking a hand between your bodies, you helped Sunday position his cock correctly—a few centimetres down—then, you loosely circled your arms around his neck, allowing him to go at his own pace. 

The morning glow surrounded him like a serene aura, it bounced off his pale skin which gave him a heavenly glow. With a shaky exhale, he pushed his cockhead inch by inch which immediately earned a sharp gasp from both of you.

The feeling of you around him was foreign yet oddly comforting, your walls were warm—extremely warm—it almost felt like he was soaking inside a hot tub of water and it made his head spin in a good way.

Sunday met your gaze with his starry ones, a light sheen of tears coating his eyes at how amazing you felt around him.

He couldn’t believe he was inside you, buried deep inside the woman he truly loved; he prayed in the back of his lust-fogged mind hoping that this wasn’t a dream.

You bit your lip as he bottomed out, watching the way Sunday’s body reacted to everything—how his wings curled inwards, how his abdomen tightened and untightened, and how his breathing grew uneven with every passing second. He genuinely looked like he was on cloud nine.

Unwrapping an arm from his neck, you slotted your hand against his jaw—just at the spot below his ear and wing—to caress his cheek, “You okay . . ?”

A small nod, then, his eyes fluttered shut, the tips of his lashes brushing against his rosy stained cheeks. Sunday leaned into your touch with a faint whimper, one that had your brain short-circuiting.

For a minute or two, he stilled inside, allowing you both to adjust to the feeling; this wasn’t your first time but the sheer length of his cock reached spots you didn’t know even existed to the point where you had to count to ten just to steer yourself away from spiraling and cumming right then and there.

“S-So tight—ngh. You feel good.” Sunday slowly pulled back about halfway before thrusting back inside, drawing wanton moans from both of you.

He resorted to languid, deep thrusts which allowed you to feel every inch of him—for your sopping cunt to remember the exact shape of his cock—and each time he bottomed out, his cockhead deliciously kissed your sweet spot.

With the slow rhythm set, the bed creaked and groaned in time with the movements of his hips, sounds of light skin slapping and lewd squelching filled all four walls of the entire room.

Everything felt sinful—from the pornographic moans you let out to the slick that covered his cock and your inner thighs but god was it completely addicting. 

Sunday’s face remained a mere breath away from yours, keeping eye contact, his honeyed gaze pulled you into the depths of warm bliss, akin to a gentle hug that enveloped one’s body.

Every intentional push and pull of his hips knocked out oxygen from your lungs which had you incoherently gasping for his name.

A light sheen of sweat coated your bodies as the morning air grew impossibly thick, the ivory sheets beneath your back clung onto you like second skin, and Sunday’s hair stuck to his forehead but neither of you cared about the filthiness of it, not when your bodies pleasured one another like there was no tomorrow.

Not when he firmly pressed his cock with every thrust inside you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, effectively pulling him closer and allowing him to reach you a little deeper than before; your hands spread across his shoulder blades, curling inwards to decorate his back with rubied streaks.

The sharp sting of your nails sent Sunday forward, his head fell onto the pillows beneath your own, shamelessly moaning dangerously close to your ear.

“Haah—ah! Ah! I’m s-so close, Sunday! God! Please don’t sto—ngh! Don’t stop!”

At the sound of your moans, he picked up his pace, his cock hitting your g-spot a little harder. He also neared his climax and with the way your greedy cunt tightened around him and he knew he wasn’t going to last any longer.

Using all the strength he had left, Sunday lifted himself with trembling arms and gave you an open-mouthed kiss, it was messier than he had intended but the mere feeling of your mouths slotting against one another with your saliva mixing only fuelled the drive of his hips further.

He pulled away slightly, a thin string of spit connecting his lips to yours, “Please cum for me! Ngh—ah! Haah! C-Cum with me!”

With a few more sloppy thrusts, Sunday sheathed the entire length of his cock, firmly pressing into your sensitive spot as he came with a loud, shameless moan, ear feathers shaking from pleasure. You followed shortly after, nails digging into his skin which left red crescent shaped marks all across his back.

Ribbons of thick, warm cum generously coated your walls, you’ve never been this full before but you weren’t complaining, the feeling of Sunday filling you to the brim had you whimpering beneath him.

His cock several times twitched inside you as it emptied itself; he came so much to the point where his cum had started spilling out of you and dripped onto the sheets below, effectively soiling them but he couldn’t just simply stop himself even if he wanted to—it kept coming out in waves ‘til there was nothing left.

Embarrassed, Sunday buried his face at the junction of your neck, prickly heat creeping up his cheeks. A breathless chuckle left your lips, hands soothing over the reddened trails you left on his back, who knew he could actually get embarrassed over something as little as cumming too much?

How adorable.

He rolled over with a grunt and plopped onto the empty spot next to you, you curled next to him, the uneven rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheeks somewhat pulling you back into reality.

One of his arms rested loosely around you, absentmindedly tracing slow, soothing patterns against your back as if he reassured himself that you weren’t just a dream, that you were real and remained right next to him.

For a while, neither of you spoke—the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, just your breaths slowly steadying itself with each second.

A saddened expression washed over your face as reality settled on your shoulders akin to cold seeping through glass—slowly yet adamant—and you were immediately reminded of the predicament you both faced. Your fingers tightened slightly where they rested against him and Sunday noticed immediately,

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” He whispered, confusion painted on his face; his voice was much softer—achingly gentle.

You shook your head, gaze lifting towards the expansive windows and the horizon beyond it, “I just . . I was just reminded of what you and I have to face and I’m scared, Sunday. What—What if The Family finds out you’re here in Planarcadia and—I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do. I’m scared for us because . . I finally have you and I don’t know if that means we’ll be separated again . .”

Really, there was nothing you could do but you wanted to be with Sunday, you wanted to spend your days with him out in the open, not a single care in the cosmos about The Family being after him—you wanted him back home and beside you.

Beside you, he shifted closer, he carefully tilted your chin upward ‘til you had no choice but to look at him. Funnily enough, for all the uncertainty ahead, his gaze remained steady, “We won’t lose one another.”

“Sunday—” “Listen to me.” He softly interrupted, thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye before tears could fully gather.

“I do not know what the next month will look like—or the next year, and I cannot promise you our union either but I can promise you this: when the time comes, I will face it all and I will do everything in my power to rightfully earn the spot beside you.”

Your lips trembled, not only from sadness but from the fragile, terrifying hope that began to bloom beneath your chest.

“The Family won’t stop.” You whispered.

“I know.”

“They won’t forgive easily.”

“I know.”

“There’s a real chance we could be eternally separated.”

Sunday smiled, not because it was funny but because somehow—despite everything—he felt almost fond of your catastrophizing, “Then we shall simply find our way back to one another the same way we did today, no?”

Your laugh came unexpectedly—it was humourless and full of disbelief but purely light hearted, “You make that sound very simple.”

“It won’t be but difficult has never meant impossible.” He murmured, brushing a strand of stray hair from your face with unbearable tenderness. 

Mirroring his smile, you shifted closer to bury yourself against his bare skin as though you were anchoring your heart to him. Sunday’s arm tightened around you immediately, protective without thought before pressing a quiet kiss to your forehead.

And as though all worries dissipated into the skies of Planarcadia, the once lonely suite had transformed into something far more lived-in—the bed remained half unmade, blankets tangled and abandoned, heated remnants of earlier faded into something more wholesome. Room service trays sat on the wooden coffee table, silver lids pushed aside in favour of half-finished lunch.

Sunday was seated on the floor—pants and top messily thrown over his body—eating a fruit. He looked up from where he sat, brows lifting slightly as you eagerly rummaged through your luggage near the entryway. You returned to him with your arms full, a couple of somewhat familiar-looking objects tucked inside.

“What is that?” He blinked

You grinned with entirely too much satisfaction, “Emergency provisions.” 

His confusion turned to suspicion but nonetheless, you carefully set your haul onto the polished floor one by one like priceless contraband:

Sweet dream cloud candies in iridescent wrappers. Golden lullaby honey crisps. Starfall sugar biscuits dusted in edible shimmer. Moondew fruit chews. SoulGlad. And finally, 

“Chocolate pudding tarts.” Sunday breathed out. He stared at the familiar dessert packaging as though it had appeared through divine intervention. 

“I brought these snacks with me so I wouldn’t get homesick while on vacation. I often do the same during press tours—”

Before you could speak any further, the lighthearted atmosphere shifted subtly but you noticed it—the way an expression of sadness crept up his face.

Sunday was homesick.

You hadn’t thought he’d be—no, that wasn’t true, you had thought about it, you just didn’t expect something so minor to make it visible.

Slowly, you opened the packaging and offered the pudding tart. For a second, he simply stared at it but carefully took it nonetheless. He grabbed a silver spoon from one of the trays and scooped a small amount, as if indulging any further was forbidden.

Its familiar sweetness melted on his tongue and you watched as his expression changed into something more nostalgic.

You knew where he had immediately gone—to childhood, to the happier memories where he only worried about how to sneak in more pudding tarts in between music lessons, and what to write in the letter he’d regularly send to Robin (There was just too much to talk about!)

“It tastes the same as I remember . . I—thank you.”

You shook your head, “You don’t have to thank me. I just thought you’d miss some snacks from home.”

You and Sunday spent the entire morning and afternoon holed up in the suite reminiscing about the colourful past, revealing how one deciphered their feelings for the other; he also took the time to give you a proper apology for involving your name and reputation in his affairs to which you accepted.

Maybe it was fate playing a hand.

Once full of worry and fear for the uncertainty that the future held, you learned to slow down and appreciate the present—the fact that Sunday was right beside you, safe and healthy.

For now, you’d cherish this moment in a foreign world, and whatever the future may bring, you knew nothing could pry you and Sunday apart, that was something you were certain of. And this time without any hesitation, you spoke up,

“I love you, Sunday.”

“I love you, too.”

[belchyra]

Let me take care of you

[ SYNOPSIS ] — You try to be the "perfect" partner to Megumi by hiding your own needs and pain so you wouldn’t be a nuisance. This habit becomes dangerous when you get badly hurt on a mission and lie about it, leading to a tearful confrontation when he finds you bleeding in secret. w.c: 4.8k

[ PAIRING ] — megumi fushiguro x people pleaser!reader

[ TAGS ] — gn!reader, established relationship, canon compliant (?), hidden injury, blood, reassurance, hurt/comfort, use of [Name] once, megumi is a sweetheart as usual. Lmk if I missed anything! art by: @/hong_nock

​"You wouldn't mind taking care of these mission reports for me, would you? You're a lifesaver!"

​Satoru Gojo didn't even pause to wait for an answer, dropping a stack of heavily redacted, coffee-stained files onto your already cluttered desk. His iconic blindfold was pushed up, a devastatingly charming smile plastered across his face—the kind of smile that made it entirely impossible for anyone to refuse him.

​Your head was pounding. A dull, rhythmic thud echoed right behind your eyes, a souvenir from a consecutive string of sleepless nights. You had your own reports to file, a history exam to help Yuji study for, and Nobara had explicitly told you to be ready in twenty minutes to carry her bags through Shibuya. Your throat tightened, the word no forming perfectly on your tongue.

It was right there. All you had to do was push it past your teeth.

​"Of course, Sensei," you heard yourself say, the voice sounding entirely detached from your own body. "I'll have them on Principal Yaga's desk by three."

​"Knew I could count on you!" He gave you a cheerful salute and vanished in a blur of limitless space, leaving you staring at the mountain of paperwork. You swallowed the sigh building in your chest, picked up your pen, and started writing.

This was simply how you survived. You made yourself a skeleton key, filing down your own edges, your own needs, and your own exhaustion until you perfectly fit the lock of whatever anyone else required. If you were useful, if you were accommodating, if you smoothed out the friction in the lives of the people around you, they would never look at you and decide you were too much trouble to keep around, that's how it should be, right?

​But nowhere was this exhausting performance more prevalent than in your relationship with Megumi Fushiguro.

Megumi with his quiet nature, Megumi with his storm-clouded eyes, Megumi who shouldered so much— with Tsumiki's curse, with the expectations of having a powerful cursed technique, Megumi who you were so so so afraid of losing.

You still have a hard time believing you two are dating. The way it happened was so casual it almost felt unreal.

It wasn’t a grand confession, just a quiet surrender to everything that made you fall for him. The hallway was still buzzing with leftover energy from Yuji’s and Nobara’s laughter, but at your door, the silence felt heavy. Megumi lingered, hands shoved in his pockets, before his fingers grazed your wrist as you were about open the door. When he leaned in, it was with the soft gentleness of someone who had finally found a place to let his guard down. The kiss was brief, but you both knew exactly where you stood in each other's lives.

Yet, being his partner did not cure your affliction; it magnified it even further. You treated your relationship like fragile glass sculpture you had to constantly balance on your fingertips. You altered your entire existence to fit the mold of what you assumed was his ideal, low-maintenance partner.

You drank your tea unsweetened because he preferred bitter things, forcing the astringent liquid down your throat every morning while secretly craving sugar. You slept rigidly on the absolute edge of his mattress, your muscles cramping by dawn, just to ensure he had the lion’s share of the blankets. When he was exhausted from a mission, you swallowed your own awful, lingering trauma from the day, hiding your bruises beneath long sleeves and painting a bright, serene smile on your face so you wouldn’t add to his mental load.

And Megumi knew.

He was incredibly perceptive, and the forced perfection of your behavior was beginning to wear on him like coarse grit against his skin. He saw the way your hands shook when you agreed to take a double patrol shift. He noticed the barely perceptible flinch when he absentmindedly turned the television to a channel you secretly hated, only for you to vehemently agree that it was a great program to watch. It frustrated him.

Megumi loved you, he loved you so much it pained him, but he felt like he was dating a shadow, only moving when he did. And he did not know how to bring it up without fearing for what you would do.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The mission was supposed to be a standard Grade 2 curse eradication in an abandoned subway terminal. It was a joint assignment for the two of you, a rare opportunity to work together. But the intelligence from the auxiliary managers was flawed, as it so often was. The curse was a Grade 1, a massive, grotesque amalgamation of rusted metal and rotting flesh that moved with terrifying speed.

The battle was chaotic in the claustrophobic underground tunnels. Dust choked the air, illuminated only by the flickering, dying fluorescent lights overhead. Megumi had summoned Nue to provide aerial attacks, the electrical discharge illuminating the grim determination on his face. You were covering his blind spots, your own cursed energy manifesting in sharp and precise strikes.

It happened in a fraction of a second. The curse, recognizing Megumi as the greater threat, lunged toward him with a massive, scythe-like appendage. Megumi was mid-incantation, his hands clasped together, momentarily vulnerable.

Your body moved before your conscious mind could register the decision. The ingrained instinct to protect, to serve, to sacrifice, propelled you forward. You shoved Megumi hard, knocking him out of the trajectory of the blade.

The impact was deafening. The rusted metal sliced through the air and tore into your left side, ripping through your uniform and biting deep into the flesh of your waist. The agony was instantaneous, a blinding flare of white-hot pain that stole the oxygen from your lungs. You hit the concrete floor hard, the taste of copper flooding your mouth.

"Nue!" Megumi roared, his voice cracking with a rare, raw panic. The shikigami descended in a blinding flash of lightning, obliterating the curse in a concussive shockwave of cursed energy.

The dust settled, heavy and silent.

Megumi was beside you in an instant, his breathing ragged, his hands hovering over you as if afraid that touching you would shatter you completely. "Are you alright? Where did it hit you?" His eyes were wide, the usual cold indifference entirely stripped away, revealing the terrified boy underneath.

The pain in your side was excruciating, a throbbing, burning sensation that suggested the curse’s rusted blade had been laced with some kind of venomous energy. Blood was already soaking the fabric of your shirt, hot and sticky against your skin. You needed Shoko. You needed a stretcher.

But as you looked up into Megumi’s panic-stricken eyes, the old, familiar terror clawed at your throat. You caused this panic. You are making him worry. You ruined the mission. You are a burden.

The people pleaser within you seized the reins of your vocal cords.

You forced the agony down, burying it beneath a mountain of sheer, desperate willpower. You pushed yourself up on trembling arms, twisting your torso to hide the worst of the bleeding from his line of sight. You plastered on a smile that felt like it might crack your face in two.

"I'm fine," you lied, your voice painfully steady. "It just grazed me. I knocked the wind out of myself when I fell."

Megumi frowned, his dark brows knitting together in suspicion. He reached out to inspect your side, but you swiftly shifted away, standing up on shaking legs. The world tilted dangerously, black spots dancing in your peripheral vision, but you dug your nails into your palms to ground yourself.

"I swear, Megumi. I'm okay. Let's just report and go home. I'm exhausted." You kept your tone light, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry I got in your way. I should have been more careful."

The apology tasted vile. You had saved his life, yet you were apologizing for being in the way.

Megumi stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. The tension radiating from him was evident, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He knew you were hiding something. He could smell the blood. But your adamant refusal to acknowledge the danger built a wall between you that he didn't know how to breach, yet he trusted your judgment, he trusted that you would tell him if the injury was serious.

"Fine," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with frustration and repressed anxiety. He recalled his shikigami, the shadows swallowing Nue whole. "Let's go."

The car ride back to the college was nothing less than silent torture. You sat pressed against the passenger door, your arms wrapped tightly around your waist, secretly applying pressure to the wound that was continuously oozing blood. Every bump in the road sent a jolt of agony up your spine, but you bit the inside of your cheek until it bled rather than make a single sound. Ijichi drove in stony silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, every now and then apologising for the mistake in the mission logs, and then expressing his relief at your well-being.

By the time you reached the dormitories, you were running purely on adrenaline and the need to lock yourself in your bathroom before you collapsed.

"I'm going to take a shower!" you announced the moment you stepped into his room, your voice breathy and strained. You didn't wait for a response, practically fleeing into the adjoining bathroom and closing the door behind you.

The moment it was locked, the facade crumbled. Your knees gave out, and you slumped against the cold tile door, an agonizing gasp escaping your lips. You peeled off your ruined jacket and the blood-soaked shirt beneath it. The wound was horrific. An angry tear across your oblique, the edges blackened with residual cursed energy. It was deep, bleeding sluggishly but persistently.

Tears of pain and exhaustion finally spilled over your eyelashes, tracing hot paths down your dust-streaked cheeks. You had to clean it. You had to wrap it. You couldn't bother Shoko this late; she had been pulling all-nighters all week. You couldn't bother Megumi; he was already mad at you.

You dragged yourself to the sink, turning on the faucet. You grabbed a washcloth, soaked it in hot water, and pressed it against the wound.

A choked, pathetic sob tore from your throat. The pain was blinding, a sickening wave of nausea crashing over you. You squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body trembling violently as you tried to scrub away the blackened, infected tissue.

Click.

You froze. The sound of the lock turning from the outside. You had forgotten Megumi kept a spare key on the upper frame of the door for emergencies.

The door swung open, revealing Megumi standing in the threshold. He had changed out of his uniform, wearing only a loose t-shirt and sweatpants. He looked exhausted.

But whatever exhaustion he felt vanished the instant his eyes landed on you.

He took in the scene in a fraction of a second: your pale, shivering form hunched over the sink, the blood-soaked washcloth in your trembling hand, and the gruesome, gaping wound on your side that was currently dripping crimson onto the pristine white tiles.

The air in the bathroom seemed to drop ten degrees. The shadows in the corners of the room physically writhed, reacting to the sudden, violent spike in his cursed energy.

"What," Megumi breathed, his voice barely a whisper, yet it resonated with the force of an earthquake, "is that."

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. You scrambled to cover the wound with your arm, backing away from him like a cornered animal, your eyes wide and terrified.

"It's nothing!" you stammered, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a desperate rush. "I was just cleaning it. It looks worse than it is, Megumi, I promise. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make a mess. I'll clean the floor, just—"

"Stop."

The command cracked through the air like a whip. Megumi stepped into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him. His face was a mask of cold fury, but his eyes—his deep, beautiful, stormy eyes—were wide with an emotion that looked terrifyingly like devastation.

He crossed the small space in two strides, grabbing your wrists. His grip was firm, inescapable, but agonizingly gentle as he pulled your hands away from your side. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as he finally got a clear look at the injury.

"You call this a graze?" he demanded, his voice shaking with a terrifying, suppressed rage. "It's entirely infected with cursed energy. You need reverse cursed technique, immediately. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say anything in the tunnel?"

Your chest heaved as you struggled to pull oxygen into your lungs. The panic was taking over, suffocating you. You were trapped. You had failed. You had made him angry. You had become the burden you fought so hard not to be.

"I—I didn't want to worry you," you choked out, fresh tears welling in your eyes. "You were already stressed about the mission being a Grade 1. I didn't want to slow us down. I'm sorry, Megumi. I'm so, so sorry. Please don't be mad. I can fix it, I'll go to Shoko right now, you don't have to deal with this—"

"Stop apologizing!" Megumi yelled.

You flinched violently, your shoulders instantly hiking up to your ears, your head bowing in an automatic posture of submission. The silence that followed his shout was deafening, broken only by your ragged, hyperventilating breaths and the steady drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the floor.

Megumi stared at your cowering form, the anger draining out of him in a rush, leaving behind a profound, hollow ache in his chest. He realized, with a horrifying clarity, that you were not flinching because of the pain of your wound. You were flinching because of him.

He dropped your wrists as if they burned him, taking a step back, his hands taking place behind his neck.

"Why do you do this?" he asked, his voice cracking, the anger replaced by a desperate, agonizing confusion. "Why do you lie to me? Why do you let yourself bleed out in a bathroom rather than ask me for help? Am I that unapproachable? Am I that terrible of a boyfriend that you think I would be annoyed by you almost dying?"

"No!" you cried, your voice breaking, the absolute terror of him thinking he was at fault tearing at your heart. "No, Megumi, you're perfect. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. It's not you, it's me. I'm just… I'm just trying to be good. I'm trying to be easy. I don't want to be difficult."

"Easy?" Megumi repeated, the word sounding foreign and ugly in his mouth. He stepped forward again, crowding you against the edge of the sink, his hands gripping the porcelain on either side of your waist, trapping you in. He didn't touch you, but his presence was demanding your full attention.

"You think I want you to be 'easy'?" he pressed, his eyes searching yours frantically, demanding an honesty you didn't know how to give. "I want you to be honest! I want you to tell me when you are hurt so I can take care of you!"

You shook your head furiously, the tears flowing freely now, hot and unrelenting. Your entire body was trembling, your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break. You were breaking apart, the foundation of your entire coping mechanism crumbling beneath his gaze.

"You say that now," you sobbed, the ugly, deeply buried truth finally clawing its way up your throat, bitter and raw. "You say that now, but you don't know. You already have so much on your plate, I don't want to make it worse. If I don't do it, you will hate me, I don't want you to hate me."

The confession hung in the humid air of the bathroom, heavy and devastating.

You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the blow. Waiting for the agreement. Waiting for him to step back, to look at you with cold realization, and walk out the door. You had finally revealed the ugly, pathetic core of your soul. You were a coward, terrified of abandonment, buying love with servitude.

But the silence stretched. And then, you felt it.

The gentle, hesitant brush of his knuckles against your tear-soaked cheek.

Your eyes flew open. Megumi was looking at you with an expression that shattered your heart into a million irreparable pieces. It wasn't pity. It wasn't disgust, but heartbreak. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted as he struggled to find words that could possibly combat the magnitude of your self-hatred.

Slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild, frightened animal, Megumi reached out. He didn't grab your wrists this time. He slid his arms around your waist, mindful of the gaping wound on your side, and pulled you flush against his chest.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting over your skin.

"You are so stupid," he whispered, the words muffled against your skin, devoid of any malice, dripping only with a desperate, heavy sorrow. "You are an incredible person, so beautiful, so incredible, but stupid."

You stiffened, your hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch him, terrified to ruin this moment. But Megumi just held you tighter, his strong arms wrapping around you like a shield against the very demons inside your own head.

"Listen to me," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. He pulled back just enough to force you to look him in the eye. The intensity of his gaze pinned you in place."Stop acting like your existence doesn't matter, it matters to me. You don't get to decide that you're expendable."

You let out a choked gasp, your hands finally, tentatively coming to rest against his chest, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt like your life depended on it.

"I care about you, so much," Megumi continued, his voice dropping into that serious, unwavering tone he used when making vows. "I care about protecting the people who matter to me. And you… you are at the very top of that list. If you are hurt, my world stops. If you are in pain, I am in pain. Hiding your suffering from me doesn't protect me; it destroys me."

He raised a hand, his thumb gently wiping away the steady stream of tears falling from your eyes. His touch was warm, grounding.

"You are not a burden," he said, enunciating each word with fierce, desperate clarity. "And I am begging you, please… let me take care of you. Let me be the one who carries the weight for a while. You don't have to earn your place beside me by bleeding in silence. In fact, you don't have to do anything but be here."

You broke down.

You collapsed against him, your legs finally giving out, and he caught you effortlessly, sinking to the bathroom floor with you held securely in his arms.

You wept. You wailed. It was an ugly, guttural, heart-wrenching sound that tore from the very depths of your soul. You buried your face in his chest, clutching at him desperately, crying for the pain in your side, crying for the exhaustion in your bones, crying for the terrified little child inside you who had spent their whole life terrified of being left behind.

Megumi didn't shush you. He didn't tell you to calm down. He sat on the cold tile floor amidst the blood and the discarded bandages, holding you. He rocked you slowly, one hand gently stroking your hair, the other resting firmly against your back. He let you fall apart completely, creating a safe, impenetrable fortress within his arms where you were finally allowed to be shattered, loud, and inconvenient.

Hours seemed to pass before the sobs finally subsided into heavy, exhausted hiccups. Your throat was raw, your eyes swollen and burning. The adrenaline had completely left your system, leaving you weak and painfully aware of the throbbing agony in your side.

You shifted slightly in his lap, sniffing pathetically. Megumi immediately loosened his grip, looking down at you with a softness that made your chest ache.

"Are you done?" he asked quietly, a tiny, sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

You nodded numbly, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I ruined your shirt," you rasped, noticing the dark stains of your tears and blood on the grey fabric.

"I don't care about the shirt," Megumi said softly. He gently shifted you off his lap, standing up and reaching down to help you to your feet. You swayed dangerously, the blood loss finally catching up to you. He caught you around the waist, easily supporting your weight.

"Come on," he murmured, his voice gentle but brook-no-argument firm. "We are going to Shoko. Right now."

The instinct to protest flared up instantly. It's 3 AM. She's sleeping. I can just bandage it tight. But as you looked up at Megumi, at the deep circles under his eyes and the lingering terror in his posture, the words died in your throat.

You swallowed hard, the word feeling foreign and incredibly heavy on your tongue.

"Okay."

Megumi let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. He didn't say anything, but the relief in his eyes was blinding. He practically carried you down the silent, moonlit hallways to the infirmary.

Shoko was awake, smoking a cigarette out the window when Megumi kicked the infirmary door open. She took one look at Megumi’s pale face and the blood soaking your side and immediately crushed the cigarette, immediately tending to you.

The process of healing was agonizing. Shoko’s reverse cursed technique was a miracle, but extracting the foreign cursed energy from the wound before healing the flesh was a torturous sensation. You lay on the sterile white cot, your teeth gritted, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.

Through it all, Megumi sat beside the bed. He held your hand in both of his, his grip tight enough to bruise, grounding you in reality while the pain threatened to pull you under. He didn't look away, even when the wound looked its most gruesome. He stayed exactly where he promised he would be.

When it was finally over, and the flesh was knit cleanly together leaving only an angry pink scar, exhaustion hit you like a physical blow. Shoko handed you a clean t-shirt and kicked you both out, muttering something about needing sleep.

The walk back to Megumi’s dorm was slow. You leaned heavily against him, your body utterly drained. You felt hollowed out, incredibly fragile, like a glass blown too thin.

When you reached his room, he didn't turn on the overhead lights. He guided you gently to the bed, pulling back the heavy comforter. You crawled in automatically, immediately scooting to the absolute edge of the mattress, curling into a tight ball. It was muscle memory at this point.

Megumi stood at the edge of the bed, watching you in the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds. He sighed, a heavy, exhausted sound. He kicked off his shoes, discarded his ruined shirt, and climbed into the bed.

But he didn't lie down on his side.

Instead, he moved to the center of the mattress. He reached out, grabbing you gently by the hips, and physically dragged you away from the edge, pulling you across the sheets until you were flush against him in the very middle of the bed.

You gasped softly in surprise, stiffening. "Megumi—"

"Stop," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He wrapped his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your hair. He tangled his legs with yours, pinning you to him, ensuring there was no physical way for you to retreat to the cold periphery. "You are exactly where you belong. Take up the whole bed if you want. Kick me out if you want. But stop going all the way there."

You lay rigid in his arms for a long moment, your brain struggling to process the sensation of being held so securely, of being allowed to take up space without apologizing for it. The warmth of his body seeped into your cold skin. His heartbeat thudded steadily against your back, a rhythmic, grounding lullaby.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, you forced your muscles to uncoil. You let out a long, shaky breath, letting your weight sink fully into his embrace. You closed your eyes, his scent surrounding you, pulling you down into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of brewing coffee and the sound of birds chirping outside the window. The sunlight streaming into the room felt unnervingly bright.

You sat up slowly, testing the newly healed skin on your side. It twinged slightly, a dull ache, but the agonizing burn was gone. You looked around the room. You were alone in the bed, the covers tangled around your waist. You were dead center in the mattress.

The door to the small kitchenette opened, and Megumi stepped in, carrying two mugs. He looked rested, his dark hair a chaotic mess, his eyes softer than you had seen them in months.

He walked over to the bed and handed you a mug.

"Morning," he mumbled quietly, sitting on the edge of the mattress near your feet.

"Morning," you replied softly, your voice still gravelly from crying the night before. You wrapped both hands around the warm ceramic mug, seeking comfort in the heat. You brought it to your lips, taking a tentative sip.

You immediately paused, your brow furrowing in confusion.

It wasn't black coffee. It wasn't the bitter, acidic brew he drank every morning. It was warm milk, steeped heavily with a sweet, floral chamomile tea, and generously laced with honey. It was incredibly sweet. It was exactly what you actually liked.

You lowered the mug, staring at the golden liquid, a sudden lump forming in your throat. You looked up at Megumi. He was watching you carefully, his dark eyes analyzing your reaction.

"You didn't make coffee," you whispered, stating the obvious.

Megumi looked down at his own mug, taking a sip of the black sludge he preferred. "I know you hate it," he said simply, not meeting your eyes. A faint, barely perceptible pink dusted the tips of his ears. "I noticed a while ago. You always grimace when you take the first sip. And you always buy that sweet stuff when we go to the convenience store, but you never drink it around me."

Your breath hitched. He had noticed. He had known, and he had been waiting for you to say something.

He reached out, his long fingers gently wrapping around your ankle over the blankets.

"I'm not asking you to change everything in one day," Megumi continued, his voice quiet, steady, and infinitely patient. "I know it's a habit. I know you're terrified. But I am asking you to try. With me. Just with me."

He paused, a tiny, teasing glint momentarily breaking through his stoic demeanor. "For example. I was thinking of making eggs for breakfast. But I know you like pancakes, even though you always say eggs are fine. So. What do you want for breakfast?"

It was a test. A small, seemingly insignificant question, but between the two of you, it carried the weight of the world.

The instinct rose up instantly. Eggs are easier for him to make. He likes eggs. Tell him eggs. The familiar panic fluttered in your chest, the fear of demanding too much, of being an inconvenience.

You opened your mouth, the word 'eggs' forming on your lips.

But you stopped. You looked down at the sweet, warm tea in your hands, the tea he had made specifically for you, acknowledging your preferences, honoring your comfort. You looked at the hand resting gently on your ankle, grounding you, keeping you safe. You remembered the desperate way he had held you on the bloody bathroom floor, demanding that you exist loudly.

You closed your mouth. You took a deep breath, fighting the tremor in your voice. You forced yourself to meet his gaze directly.

"I…" you started, your voice barely above a whisper. You cleared your throat, trying again. "I would really like pancakes, Megumi. If that's okay?"

The silence in the room stretched for a single, terrifying second. You braced yourself for a sigh, a roll of the eyes, a sign of annoyance that you had requested the more difficult option.

Instead, Megumi’s face broke into a smile. It wasn't his usual smirk, or a polite curve of the lips. It was a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile that reached his eyes, illuminating his features and making your heart stutter in your chest.

He stood up, taking his mug of bitter coffee with him.

"Pancakes it is," he said softly, turning back toward the kitchen. He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder at you, his eyes filled with a certain amount of serenity that was so rare for megumi.

"And [Name]?"

You looked up, your hands gripping the mug tightly. "Yeah?"

"It's more than okay."

© belchyra. All rights reserved. Do not republish, translate, steal, or feed my work to AI.

[megumios]

overstimulating megumi because he keeps asking for it ୨୧ megumi fushiguro x fem!reader ୨୧ saw a video once...it was hot

you have been pleasuring megumi for hours. he randomly came up to you, needy and whiny, asking you to help him out.

and you did.

you hold the vibrator against his length, watching his tip grow red as precum spills out. megumi squirms all over the place, but never pulls away from the wand.

you're shocked that he's still hard after everything. you gave him the best blowjob of his life, then gave him the trusty handjob, when that didn't help you moved onto the vibrator.

he's cum so many times, yet he's still so hard and whiny. you're not complaining though.

the vibrator feels electric on his cock, it vibrates on him perfectly, making him let out pathetic whines. sweat rolls down his temples as he breathes harshly from the sensitivity he's feeling.

it almost hurts. the delicious type of pain that makes you want more.

you lean down, licking the precum that's leaking from his burning tip. he lets out a whiny moan, gripping your hair harshly as he rubs his tip against your tongue. he tastes so good and you can't help but give a small suck to his tip.

he nearly shoots cum in your mouth. "oh, fuck! don't do that! gonna make me cum."

you laugh at him. "isn't that the goal, pretty boy?"

he doesn't say anything. his chest heaves as he feels his high coming. he tightens his grip on your hair and pushes you closer to his tip. you're still holding the vibrator against his length.

"suck, please!" he whines, whimpers, and cries out. you listen to him, never ignoring his beautiful pleas. you lick his tip softly before sucking his tip harshly. his hips lift off the bed as he cums in your mouth.

he cries out in pleasure, pushing his cock deeper into your mouth, fucking your mouth sloppily.

when he pulls out his eyes are dazed. he pants, slumping against the headboard of the bed. he sighs softly.

"one more time. please. i'll be a good boy."

you can't say no to him.

[haziieeee]

Water Hashira's Favorite?!

Pairings: Tomioka Giyuu x Tsuguko(f)!reader

giyuu having reader as his tsuguko even though he promised to himself he'd never take one. -anon.

Wc: 19k

Warnings: Jealous giyuu, nipple sucking (he loves it), getting caught (almost), making out, kissing, possesive giyuu, oral (f and m), fingering, p in v, loss of virginity, morning sex

The scent of iron and charred wood hung heavy in the midnight air. Rain descended in thin, freezing needles that blurred the edges of the burning village. You gripped the hilt of your Nichirin sword, your knuckles white, your palms slick with a mixture of sweat and blood. Your chest heaved, each breath a ragged scrape against your lungs.

The demon stood ten paces away. It was a spindly thing, its skin the color of a drowned corpse, with elongated fingers that ended in jagged, obsidian claws. Three eyes, mismatched and pulsing with a sickly yellow light, tracked your every tremor. It let out a wet, clicking sound, a mockery of laughter that vibrated in the humid air.

Behind you, a small child huddled in the dirt, sobbing into a tattered kimono. The boy's eyes were wide, reflecting the orange glow of the encroaching fire. You stepped back, your boots sliding in the mud, positioning yourself as the only barrier between the monster and the innocent.

"Water Breathing, Second Form: Water Wheel."

You leaped, twisting your body to create a vertical circle of rushing water. But the form was sloppy. The arc lacked the necessary torque, the water flickering and dissipating before the blade could bite deep. The demon didn't even flinch. A single, lightning-fast swipe of its claw tore through your side.

The impact sent you spiraling across the gravel. You hit the ground hard, the air leaving your lungs in a violent wheeze. Hot blood blossomed across your ribs, soaking through your uniform. You tried to push yourself up, but your arms shook. The demon lunged, its claws poised to shred the child.

You screamed, a raw sound of desperation, and threw yourself forward. You didn't have the strength for a form, so you simply thrust the blade upward, blocking a lethal strike with a jarring clang of steel. The force drove you into the earth, the blade vibrating painfully in your grip. You stared up at the demon, seeing your own reflection in its yellow eyes—small, broken, and failing.

Then, the air changed.

A sudden, oppressive stillness descended, as if the rain itself had frozen in mid-air. A blur of deep blue and mismatched haori flickered in your peripheral vision. There was no sound of a footstep, only the sudden, sharp whistle of a blade cutting through the wind.

"Water Breathing, Eleventh Form: Dead Calm."

The world went silent. The demon's claws, which had been inches from your face, stopped instantly. A ripple of crystalline water expanded outward, a perfect circle of tranquility that neutralized every attack. In a heartbeat, the demon's head slid from its shoulders, the cut so clean the creature didn't even realize it was dead until its body began to crumble into ash.

You blinked, staring at the man standing before you. He wore a haori split down the middle—one side a solid, deep red, the other a geometric pattern of green, yellow, and orange. His back was to you, his posture rigid, his eyes distant and cold as a winter lake.

"Is... are you a Hashira?"

Your voice was a fragile whisper, barely audible over the crackle of the fire. The man didn't turn. He didn't nod. He simply sheathed his sword with a clinical click. The silence he left behind was heavier than the battle. As the adrenaline ebbed, the pain in your side surged, a white-hot iron searing through your flesh. The world tilted, the orange flames of the village blurring into a haze of gray, and you collapsed into the mud.

When consciousness returned, it came with the smell of antiseptic and dried lavender. You opened your eyes to a ceiling of polished wood and white linens. The light was soft, filtered through paper shoji screens. Every muscle in your body felt as though it had been tenderized with a hammer.

A woman leaned over you, her purple eyes shimmering with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. She wore a butterfly-wing haori that fluttered with every slight movement. A small, permanent smile played on her lips, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Good morning, sleepyhead. You really pushed your luck, didn't you?"

You tried to speak, but your throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. You managed a small cough, your gaze drifting to the bandages wrapped tightly around your torso.

"Where..."

The Butterfly Mansion, Shinobu Kocho replied, her voice an airy, melodic chime. "I am the Insect Hashira. You were brought here in a state that would have made a coroner blush. Truly impressive that you managed to keep a demon at bay for that long with such... underdeveloped forms."

You winced, the sting of her words mirroring the ache in your ribs. You looked down at your hands, still shaking slightly.

"The man... the one who saved me..."

Shinobu tilted her head, her smile widening."Ah, Tomioka-san. The Water Hashira. He is a man of very few words. In fact, he barely speaks at all. He mentioned that you held your ground to protect a child. "

You closed your eyes, the image of that effortless strike flashing through your mind. The way the water had obeyed him, the absolute certainty in his movement. It wasn't just strength, it was a perfection you had spent years chasing and never touching.

"I want to be like that," you whispered.

Shinobu chuckled. "A daunting goal. Most people find Tomioka-san's personality as repellent as a wet blanket, but his skill is undeniable. Now, stay still. If you rip those stitches, I will have to use a much larger needle."

Days passed in a blur of bitter medicines and grueling physical therapy. You pushed yourself harder than the nurses recommended, desperate to return to your training. You spent your afternoons in the gardens of the mansion, practicing your swings with a wooden sword, imagining the fluid grace of the Eleventh Form.

Meanwhile, at the headquarters of the Demon Slayer Corps, the atmosphere was far less serene. The Hashiras stood in a semi-circle on a pebbled courtyard, the sunlight filtering through the canopy of ancient trees.

The air was thick with the distinct personalities of the strongest slayers. Sanemi Shinazugawa, the Wind Hashira, stood with his arms crossed, his scarred chest heaving with a restless, aggressive energy. Beside him, the others waited in a silence that was broken only by the distant call of a crow.

Oyakata-sama entered the courtyard, his presence acting like a cooling balm on the tension. The Hashiras immediately knelt, their heads bowed in absolute reverence.

"My children," he began, his voice a soft, soothing melody that commanded attention. "I have something to share with you. A young slayer recently defended a village with great courage. Despite her lack of mastery over the Water Breathing style, she held a demon at bay until Giyuu arrived. It is a rare thing to find such spirit in a female water user of her rank."

The Hashiras shifted. Giyuu stood at the edge of the group, his expression a mask of indifference, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the horizon.

"I believe," Oyakata-sama continued, "that she possesses a spark that could be nurtured. Giyuu, I suggest that you take this girl as your Tsuguko."

A sudden, sharp burst of laughter erupted from the group. Sanemi snorted, a jagged sound of derision.

"Are you kidding me?" Sanemi barked, glancing sideways at Giyuu. "Tomioka doesn't even like people. He thinks he's too good to stand next to us, let alone teach some brat how to swing a sword. He's not fit to guide anyone because he doesn't believe he belongs here in the first place."

Giyuu didn't flinch. He didn't even look at Sanemi.

"I am not like you," Giyuu replied, his voice flat and devoid of inflection.

Sanemi's face contorted, a vein pulsing in his temple." What the hell is that supposed to mean? You arrogant piece of trash! Say it to my face!"

The tension spiked, the air vibrating with Sanemi's growing rage. But Oyakata-sama spoke again, and the wind seemed to die down instantly.

"Now, now. I respect Giyuu's decision, but I also believe that it is never too late to see what a dedicated student can achieve. Giyuu, the choice is yours, but I ask you to consider the potential of a soul that refuses to break."

Giyuu remained silent for a long moment. His internal world was a storm of doubt and old ghosts, a crushing weight of perceived failure that told him he had no right to lead anyone. He looked at his hands, then back at the distant trees.

"I have nothing to teach her," he said softly.

The meeting adjourned shortly after, leaving a lingering sense of frustration in the air.

Later that evening, you were sitting on the porch of the Butterfly Mansion, watching the moon climb the sky, when Shinobu approached you. She carried a tray of tea, her steps silent on the wooden floor.

"You'll never guess what happened at the meeting today," she said, setting the tray down.

You looked up, blinking. "What meeting?"

"The Hashira meeting. Oyakata-sama suggested that you become Tomioka-san's Tsuguko."

The tea cup in your hand nearly slipped. You felt a jolt of electricity run down your spine, a sudden, soaring hope that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"Me? His Tsuguko? But I'm... I can barely execute the Third Form correctly."

Shinobu smiled, though there was a hint of pity in her eyes. "Indeed. And Tomioka-san rejected the idea. He claims he has nothing to teach you."

The hope didn't vanish, it curdled into a fierce, burning determination. You remembered the way he had sliced through the demon—the absolute, effortless power. The fact that he didn't think you were worthy only made you want his recognition more.

"I'll prove him wrong," you said, your voice gaining strength.

Shinobu tilted her head. "Oh? And how do you plan to do that? He is a very stubborn man."

"I'll train until I can't stand. I'll copy every movement he makes. I'll become someone he can't ignore."

For the next month, your life became a cycle of agony and repetition. You woke before the sun, your muscles screaming as you pushed your body to the limit. You begged Shinobu for every scrap of information she had on Giyuu's fighting style, his preferences, and the way he breathed.

You spent hours in the woods, hacking at bamboo stalks, trying to mimic the fluid, sweeping motions of the Water Breathing styles. You visualized the water not as a tool, but as an extension of your own blood. You failed. You fell. You bled. You bruised your shins and blistered your palms until the skin peeled away in raw, red strips.

But you didn't stop.

You didn't know that Giyuu was watching.

He would appear at the edge of the clearing, hidden by the deep shadows of the cedar trees. He watched you struggle, watched your form buckle under the weight of your own desperation. At first, he felt a flicker of annoyance. Why was this girl wasting her time? He saw his own younger self in your frantic movements—the same blind drive, the same refusal to accept limitation.

One evening, as the sky turned a bruised purple, you were attempting a complex rotation. Your foot slipped on a damp root, and you went down hard, your wooden sword clattering across the stones. You stayed there for a moment, face-down in the dirt, your chest heaving.

"Why do you want to be my Tsuguko so badly?"

The voice was sudden and cold. You bolted upright, spinning around to see Giyuu standing five feet away. He looked like a ghost in the moonlight, his expression unreadable, his eyes two dark voids.

You scrambled to your feet, nearly tripping over your own sword. You bowed deeply, your forehead almost touching the grass.

"Because I want to be like you!" you exclaimed, your voice cracking. "I want to be a strong slayer! I want to be able to protect people without failing!"

Giyuu stared at you. He didn't see a student, he saw a mirror of a grief he had spent years trying to bury. He simply sighed, a sound of profound weariness, and turned his back on you.

He walked away without another word, leaving you alone in the darkening woods.

The rejection stung worse than the demon's claws. Over the next week, you tried to approach him three more times. Once, you tried to show him a corrected stance,he walked past you as if you were a piece of furniture. Another time, you brought him a small offering of ohagi, hoping to break the ice, he looked at the sweets, then at you, and told you that you were wasting your time.

You began to believe that the Water Hashira truly had no room in his heart for anyone else. The fire in you didn't go out, but it simmered down into a quiet, aching persistence.

One night, during a torrential downpour that turned the training grounds into a swamp, you were practicing the Fourth Form: Striking Tide. You were exhausted, your vision blurring, your movements becoming sluggish. You swung the sword, but your wrist was too loose, causing the blade to wobble and lose its momentum.

A hand suddenly gripped your wrist.

The touch was firm and calloused, the grip like a vice. You gasped, freezing in place. Giyuu was standing behind you, his chest nearly touching your back. He didn't say a word. He simply shifted your grip, rotating your wrist two inches to the left and straightening your elbow.

"Feel the flow," he whispered, his voice right next to your ear. "You are fighting the water. Stop fighting it. Become it."

Before you could even breathe, he released you and stepped back. He didn't look at you. He didn't explain. He simply vanished back into the rain, leaving the scent of cold ozone and old fabric behind.

You stood there, drenched and shivering, but your heart was racing. You tried the swing again, applying the correction he had given you. The blade sliced through the air with a sharp, clean hiss, the movement fluid and effortless.

For the first time, you felt it. The ripple.

The next day, you returned from a low-ranking mission. You had tracked a swamp demon through a muddy ravine, and while you had won, you had returned with a deep gash across your forearm and a fever that made your head swim.

As you limped toward your room at the Butterfly Mansion, you noticed something sitting on the wooden ledge beside your door. It was a small, ceramic jar of high-grade medicinal salve and a bundle of clean linen bandages.

You stared at the medicine, a strange warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the fever.

Unaware, Giyuu had stopped a Kakushi in the hallway an hour earlier.

The Kakushi had been trembling, bowing frantically as the Water Hashira loomed over him.

"Listen," Giyuu had said, his voice low. "That girl... the one training under the Water style. She is clumsy. She gets injured too often. Assign someone to assist her with her recovery after every mission. Ensure she has the proper salves. Do not tell her I ordered this."

The Kakushi had nodded vigorously, terrified and confused, and hurried away.

Giyuu watched from the rooftops, his silhouette blending into the gray sky. He watched you find the medicine, watched the way your shoulders relaxed and the small, hopeful smile that touched your lips. He didn't understand why he was doing it. He told himself it was merely to ensure a corps asset wasn't wasted due to poor self-care. But as he watched you, the void in his chest felt slightly less empty.

A few days later, Giyuu was perched on a thick branch of a wisteria tree, his eyes narrowed as he observed your training from a distance. You were moving better now. Your forms were tighter, your breathing more synchronized. You were no longer just mimicking him, you were starting to find your own rhythm within the water.

"Ara ara, Tomioka-san."

Giyuu didn't jump, but his shoulders stiffened. Shinobu appeared beside him, landing as lightly as a feather on the branch. She leaned in, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Are you attached to someone?" she teased, her voice a playful purr. "I didn't know you had it in you to be so... attentive. Watching her from the shadows like a lonely crow. It's almost romantic."

Giyuu turned his gaze back to you. He saw you slip, laugh at yourself, and immediately get back up to try again. He saw the grit in your eyes and the way you refused to give up, even when the world seemed to tell you that you weren't enough.

"No," Giyuu replied.

The word was short, clipped, and final. He stood up and leaped from the branch, disappearing into the forest in a single, fluid motion.

But as he walked away, his hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. For the first time in years, he didn't feel the crushing weight of the ghosts behind him. Instead, he felt the pull of the current, and the quiet, steady presence of someone who refused to let him stay alone in the cold.

You sat on the edge of the engawa, your toes digging into the polished wood, watching a single leaf spiral down toward the koi pond.

Shinobu Kocho drifted beside you, her footsteps nonexistent. She held a tray of medicinal tea, the steam curling upward in lazy ribbons.

"He hates me, doesn't he?"

The question slipped out before you could catch it. You didn't look at her, you kept your gaze fixed on the orange fish darting beneath the surface of the water.

Shinobu let out a light, tinkling laugh that sounded like wind chimes in a breeze. She set the tea down with a soft clink.

"My, such a gloomy thought. Why on earth would you think Tomioka-san hates you?"

"He doesn't talk to me," you whispered, your shoulders slouching. "He looks through me like I'm a ghost. When I try to help, he tells me I'm wasting my time. If he actually liked me, or even tolerated me—he wouldn't be so... cold."

Shinobu leaned in, her purple eyes shimmering with an amused, knowing glint. She tilted her head, a stray lock of hair brushing her cheek.

"Tomioka-san is a man of very specific settings. He is either 'completely indifferent' or 'intensely focused.' There is no middle ground for him."

She paused, her smile widening.

"Believe me, if he truly hated you, he wouldn't look at you at all. To Giyuu, the things he dislikes simply cease to exist. The fact that he bothers to tell you that you're wasting your time is, in his own strange language, a form of engagement."

You frowned, unconvinced. "That's a very depressing way to be liked."

"Welcome to the experience of knowing Giyuu Tomioka," Shinobu chirped, patting your shoulder before gliding away.

The uncertainty followed you into the night, and later, into the depths of a mountain forest where the air tasted of damp earth and rot.

The mission had seemed routine—a series of disappearances in a logging village. But as the moon reached its zenith, the atmosphere curdled. The trees seemed to lean inward, their branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the silver sky.

Then, the pressure hit.

It wasn't a gradual increase, it was a physical blow, an oppressive weight that slammed into your lungs. From the shadows emerged a creature with skin the color of bruised plums and eyes that glowed with a predatory, iridescent sheen. Etched into its iris was the kanji for Lower Moon.

Panic flared, a cold spark in your gut, but you suppressed it. You remembered the wooden sword, the blisters, the hours of failing in the rain. You remembered the way Giyuu’s blade had looked—absolute and unwavering.

I have to prove it, you thought, your grip tightening on your Nichirin sword. I can't be the girl who needs saving.

"Water Breathing, Third Form: Flowing Dance!"

You leaped, your blade carving a serpentine path through the air. The demon laughed, a sound like grinding stones. With a flick of its wrist, it unleashed a wave of solidified blood—jagged, crystalline shards that tore through the underbrush.

You pivoted, the movement fluid, but your timing was off. A shard sliced through your shoulder, the pain a sudden, white-hot spike. You gasped, stumbling back, but you didn't stop. You lunged forward, ignoring the blood soaking through your uniform, throwing yourself into a flurry of strikes.

The demon was too fast. It moved in a blur, its claws raking across your ribs, sending you spiraling into a cedar tree. The impact knocked the wind from your lungs, leaving you gasping, your vision swimming in a haze of red and gray.

You tried to push yourself up, your arms shaking violently. Your sword lay a few feet away, glinting in the moonlight. The demon loomed over you, its iridescent eyes wide with hunger.

"Such a spirited little thing," it hissed, its voice a wet rattle. "I'll savor the way your hope breaks."

As the demon raised its claw for the killing blow, the world suddenly went silent.

The rain, which had begun to fall in a light drizzle, seemed to freeze. A sudden, violent gust of wind swept through the clearing, carrying the scent of cold ozone and ancient grief.

Water Breathing, Ninth Form: Splashing Water Flow.

The demon’s strike didn't just stop, it vanished. A ripple of crystalline water expanded from a central point, neutralizing every ounce of the demon's momentum. In a single, seamless motion, a blur of mismatched fabric flickered.

The demon’s head slid from its shoulders before it could even blink.

Giyuu stood there, his back to you, his blade already halfway back in its sheath. The silence that followed was heavier than the battle.

As the demon crumbled into ash, Giyuu turned. His blue eyes weren't cold this time, they were turbulent. He looked at your broken form, the blood staining the dirt, and for a split second, the present vanished.

He wasn't seeing you. He was seeing a boy with a peach-colored haori and a smile that had been extinguished too soon. He was seeing the ghosts of everyone he had failed, the crushing weight of a survival he felt he hadn't earned.

Not again, a voice screamed in his head.

He realized then that his silence wasn't a shield, it was a weapon he had been accidentally wielding against the only person who had looked at him with genuine admiration in years. By trying to protect you from his world, he had left you to face it alone and unprepared.

The rage that flared in him wasn't directed at the demon, or even at you. It was a cold, searing anger directed inward.

Without a word, he knelt beside you. He didn't ask if you were okay—the blood on your chest answered that. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you with an effortless strength that made you feel suddenly, terrifyingly small.

You leaned your head against his chest, hearing the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart.

"I... I almost had it," you whispered, your voice a ragged scrape.

Giyuu didn't respond. He simply tightened his grip and leaped through the canopy, heading back toward the Butterfly Mansion.

When you woke up, the world was soft. The smell of antiseptic and dried lavender filled the room. You were lying on your back, your torso wrapped in tight, clean bandages.

You expected the door to slide open and for Shinobu to enter with her teasing smile. Instead, the silhouette in the doorway was rigid and familiar.

Giyuu stepped into the room. He didn't speak. He didn't scold you for your recklessness or tell you that you had been foolish to challenge a Lower Moon alone. He simply walked to the side of your bed and sat down on a low stool.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the bandages on your arm. His touch was surprisingly gentle, the callouses of his palms grazing your skin. He began to check the dressing, his movements methodical and precise.

You watched him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The silence stretched, thick and expectant.

"I wasn't strong enough," you whispered, a tear escaping and tracing a path down your temple. "I tried so hard, but I'm just... not enough."

Giyuu stopped moving. He didn't look up, his gaze remaining on the white linen of the bandage. For a long time, he said nothing. Then, his voice broke the silence, low and steady.

"You didn't break."

You blinked. "What?"

"Your spirit," he said, finally meeting your eyes. His gaze was no longer a winter lake, there was a flicker of something warm there, a spark of recognition. "You fought a Lower Moon and you didn't break. Most slayers would have collapsed in terror. You fought until your body gave out."

He tied the knot of the bandage with a clinical click of efficiency.

"From now on, you will train under me."

The breath left your lungs in a violent wheeze. "You... you'll take me as your Tsuguko?"

"I will," he replied, standing up. He regained his stoic mask, his expression returning to its usual indifference, but he didn't leave immediately. "Be prepared. I am not a patient teacher."

The training that followed was a descent into a special kind of hell.

Giyuu did not believe in gradual progression. He believed in immersion. He pushed you through the grueling process of Total Concentration Breathing, demanding you maintain the state not just during combat, but every second of every day.

"Again," he would say, his voice flat.

You would be drenched in sweat, your lungs burning as if you had swallowed hot coals, your muscles trembling with exhaustion. You would execute the form, your blade slicing through the air.

"The wrist is too high," he'd remark. "Again."

You would repeat the motion a hundred times, a thousand times, until your arms felt like lead. And then, just as you felt you were about to collapse, you would nail the movement—a perfect, fluid arc of water that mirrored his own.

"Good."

That single word was like a reward of gold. You would beam at him, your face flushed and beaming, and he would simply turn away, though you noticed he didn't tell you to keep going for another ten minutes, giving you a moment to breathe.

He also developed a strange, silent obsession with your nutrition. Before every training session, a bowl of hearty rice and grilled fish would appear on the porch. After every mission, he would ensure you ate until you were full, often standing silently by the door, watching you with an unreadable expression until the last grain of rice was gone.

As the months passed, you began to notice the cracks in his armor.

You noticed that he barely slept. You would see him in the early hours of the morning, staring at the moon with a look of profound longing, his posture sagging just a fraction. You realized he carried a weight that no amount of training could lift, a grief that lived in the marrow of his bones.

The other slayers began to gossip. You’d overhear them in the hallways of the headquarters.

"Why did Tomioka-san take a Tsuguko?" one would whisper. "He doesn't even like us. Why her?"

"Maybe she's just a tool for him," another would suggest. "Or maybe he's just bored."

You didn't care. You knew the truth in the quiet moments—the way he would subtly shift his position to block the wind when you were resting, or the way he would linger a second longer than necessary when correcting your stance.

One afternoon, after a particularly brutal session on the fifth form, you flopped onto the grass, staring up at the canopy of cedar trees.

"You know," you panted, "normal teachers usually encourage their students. They say things like 'Great job!' or 'You're doing amazing!'"

Giyuu, who was standing perfectly still beside you, didn't blink.

"I corrected your fifth form yesterday," he replied.

You sat up, blinking in disbelief. "That's encouragement?"

Giyuu went silent. He looked away, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. And then, it happened.

It was barely a movement—a slight softening of the corners of his mouth, a ghost of a curve that lasted for less than a second. It wasn't a full smile, but it was the closest thing to one you had ever seen.

Your heart leaped. "Did you just smile? You smiled! Giyuu, you actually—"

In an instant, his face snapped back into a mask of stone. He turned on his heel and walked away, his haori fluttering behind him.

"I did not," he called back, though there was no heat in his voice.

On missions, the dynamic shifted into a comfortable, unspoken rhythm. Giyuu always walked ahead, his pace brisk and purposeful. To an outsider, it looked like he was leaving you in the dust, indifferent to your struggle to keep up.

But you noticed the nuance.

Every few dozen paces, he would slow down—just a fraction, an almost imperceptible deceleration. He would stop abruptly by a tree or a bend in the path, pretending to scan the perimeter or examine a footprint in the dirt.

"Looking for something?" you'd ask, catching up to him and breathing hard.

He wouldn't look at you. "The scent of the demon is faint here."

You laughed, a bright sound that seemed to startle the birds in the trees. "You could've just said you were waiting for me, you know."

Giyuu didn't answer. He simply started walking again, but this time, he stayed exactly one step ahead of you, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours.

The culmination of your hard work came during a joint exercise with the other slayers. You executed a perfect Water Breathing form, the movement so seamless it looked like a ribbon of silk dancing in the wind.

"Good," Giyuu said.

You beamed, but the moment was punctured by a sneer from a nearby slayer.

"Tch. Look at her," the man whispered, loud enough for you to hear. "She's only improving because the Water Hashira favors her. It's pathetic, really. I bet she does whatever she has to do to get that kind of attention."

You felt a sting of annoyance, but you brushed it off. You didn't need the approval of someone who spent more time talking than training.

However, over the next few weeks, something strange happened. The insults stopped. Completely.

Whenever you walked toward the group of slayers who had been mocking you, they didn't sneer. Instead, they froze. Their eyes widened, and they scrambled backward as if they had seen a Upper Moon in the flesh.

One afternoon, you approached a group of three slayers. As you got closer, they stopped talking mid-sentence, their faces turning pale. They looked terrified, their gazes fixed on something just behind your shoulder.

You turned around.

Giyuu was standing there. He wasn't saying anything. He wasn't even drawing his sword. He was simply... staring. His eyes were narrowed, his expression one of absolute, freezing intensity. He looked like a predator deciding exactly where to bite.

The slayers bolted, scattering in three different directions without a word.

Later, during your evening training, you leaned against your sword and looked at him.

"Did you scare them?"

Giyuu continued to polish his blade, his movements rhythmic and calm.

"Maybe," he answered.

You felt a warmth spread through your chest, a flutter of something that felt like a thousand butterflies taking flight. You stepped closer to him, the space between you shrinking.

"You're actually kind of scary when you want to be," you teased.

Giyuu stopped polishing. He looked at you, and for the first time, the distance in his eyes was completely gone. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers were cold, but the gesture was searing.

"I don't like people talking about my Tsuguko," he whispered.

The world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you, the scent of the forest and the sound of your synchronized breathing. You realized then that Giyuu hadn't just accepted you as a student, he had let you into the fortress of his heart, a place he had kept locked for years.

Shinobu noticed it first, of course.

She found Giyuu sitting on the porch of the Butterfly Mansion, watching you practice your forms in the courtyard. He wasn't just observing, he was relaxed. His shoulders weren't hunched, and the permanent crease between his eyebrows had smoothed out.

"Ara ara," Shinobu purred, leaning against a pillar. "You've become quite the softy, Tomioka-san. I've never seen you look at anyone with such... tenderness."

Giyuu didn't pull away. He didn't deny it.

"She is persistent," he replied simply.

"And you are fond of her," Shinobu countered, her eyes sparkling. "The Kakushi are talking, you know. They say the Water Hashira actually talks now. That he's almost human when she's around."

Giyuu looked back at you. You had just finished a form and were laughing, wiping sweat from your forehead with your sleeve. You caught his eye and gave him a wide, triumphant grin.

For the first time in his life, Giyuu didn't feel the need to look away. He didn't feel the ghost of Sabito telling him he didn't belong. He felt the pull of the current, steady and strong, drawing him toward a future where he wasn't alone in the cold.

He didn't smile—not fully—but the look in his eyes was enough. He was no longer just the Water Hashira, he was a man who had found something worth protecting, someone who had taught him that the water didn't just wash things away—it could also sustain life.

The forest air tasted of copper and ozone, the lingering afterglow of a battle that had stretched into the gray hours of dawn. You slumped against the gnarled root of an ancient cedar, your lungs whistling with every breath. Your Nichirin sword lay beside you, the blade chipped, reflecting the pale, sickly light of the waking sun.

Your hands shook. It wasn't just the cold, it was a deep, systemic tremor born of sheer exhaustion. You had fought the demon for six hours, a grueling dance of evasion and desperate strikes that had pushed your Total Concentration Breathing to its absolute limit.

A shadow fell over you.

Giyuu didn't speak. He never did when the silence was already heavy enough to drown in. He simply sank onto the damp earth beside you. The scent of cold rain and cedar followed him, a grounding presence in the haze of your fatigue.

Without a word, he reached for the medical kit at his hip. He took your wrist in his hand. His grip was firm, his skin cool against your feverish heat. He began to unwind a fresh roll of bandages, his movements methodical and precise.

"I can do it," you whispered, your voice a dry rasp.

"Your hands are unstable," he replied.

His voice was a low drone, devoid of judgment but absolute in its observation. As he wound the linen around your forearm, his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your wrist. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it sent a jolt through you that eclipsed the pain of your wounds.

The silence shifted. It was no longer the silence of exhaustion, but something thick and electric. You looked up at him, and for a moment, Giyuu didn't pull away. His blue eyes, usually as stagnant as a frozen pond, seemed to ripple. He lingered, his thumb grazing the pulse point of your wrist, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of your heart.

The air between you tightened, the space shrinking until you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. You leaned in, drawn by a gravity you didn't understand.

A twig snapped in the distance.

Giyuu recoiled instantly, his hand dropping as if he had touched a hot stove. He stood up in one fluid motion, his gaze snapping toward the tree line where another slayer was approaching, calling out a greeting.

Giyuu turned away, his haori fluttering like a warning flag.

That felt dangerous, he thought, his jaw tightening. He didn't know what 'that' was, only that the sudden urge to pull you closer had been more violent than any strike he had ever delivered.

The weeks that followed were marked by a return to the grueling rhythm of training. Giyuu was a shadow that loomed over every movement, every breath, every failed strike.

One afternoon, while you were catching your breath by the training dummies, a young slayer—a boy with a bright, eager smile and a penchant for talking too much—approached you.

"You're the one Tomioka-san took as a Tsuguko, right?" the boy asked, leaning in with an open, friendly expression. "I've seen your forms. They're incredible. Maybe we could train together sometime? I've been working on a variation of the Wind Breathing style that might complement your fluidity."

You blinked, surprised by the sudden attention. You gave a small, polite laugh, stepping back slightly.

"That's very kind of you," you replied, your voice soft. "But I'm a Tsuguko. My schedule is entirely managed by Tomioka-san. I don't think I have the time."

It was a polite decline, a standard boundary. But you didn't notice the figure standing twenty paces behind you, partially obscured by the shade of a maple tree.

Giyuu had seen everything. He had seen the boy's eager lean, the brightness of his smile, and the way you had laughed—a sound that usually belonged only to the quiet spaces of his estate.

The next training session was a descent into a different kind of hell.

Giyuu was silent. More silent than usual. The air around him felt pressurized, as if a storm were brewing just beneath the surface of his skin.

"Again," he commanded.

You executed the Fourth Form, the blade carving a graceful arc.

"The angle is off," he said, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. He stepped forward, his hand gripping your wrist to correct your stance. He didn't just guide you, he shoved your arm into position with a harshness that left a red mark on your skin.

"Giyuu, that hurt," you gasped.

He didn't apologize. He didn't even look you in the eye.

"If a demon strikes you with that much force, you'll lose the arm. Again."

The session ended two hours early. Giyuu simply turned his back on you and walked toward his quarters without a word of critique or a single "good."

You stood in the center of the courtyard, your chest heaving, confused and stung.

"Are you angry?" you called out to his retreating back.

He paused, his silhouette rigid against the setting sun.

"No," he said.

But that night, the sound of a sword slicing through the air echoed from the training grounds long after midnight. Giyuu trained alone, his strikes vicious and erratic. He hated it—the irrational, searing irritation that had clawed at his gut the moment that boy had spoken to you. He didn't understand the feeling, he had spent years perfecting the art of indifference. To feel this—this possessive, jagged edge of jealousy—felt like a failure of his discipline.

The young slayer never approached the estate again.

The tension remained, a simmering current beneath the surface, until the summons came. A joint mission. A village in the northern peaks where the air was thin and the shadows were long.

You had barely entered the village when the atmosphere curdled. The scent of rot was overwhelming, a thick, cloying sweetness that signaled something far more dangerous than a standard demon.

Then, the pressure hit.

It was a physical blow, a weight that slammed into your lungs and forced you to your knees. From the canopy of the pines, a figure descended. He was pale, with eyes that burned like dying stars. Etched into his iris were the kanji for Upper Rank.

The battle was a blur of violence. Giyuu moved like a tidal wave, his blade a blur of blue and white, but the demon was a whirlwind of jagged obsidian shards.

The demon ignored Giyuu.

With a guttural laugh, the creature focused its entire predatory intent on you. It saw the bond, the subtle lean of Giyuu's posture toward you, and it exploited it.

"A little pet," the demon hissed, its voice like grinding glass. "Let's see how the stoic Water Hashira reacts when his favorite thing is torn to pieces."

You snarled, leaping forward. "I am not a pet!"

"Water Breathing, Seventh Form: Drop Ripple Thrust!"

You lunged, but the demon was faster. A shard of obsidian sliced through your thigh, and another tore through your side. You gasped, the world tilting. You tried to pivot, to find an opening, but the demon's speed was otherworldly.

Suddenly, Giyuu was there.

He didn't just intervene, he threw himself in front of you, his blade clashing against the obsidian with a sound that shook the earth. His expression was no longer stoic. It was a mask of raw, unfiltered fury.

"Get back!" he roared.

You felt a surge of frustration, a hot flare of anger in your chest. "I can fight! Don't protect me like I'm some fragile doll!"

Giyuu didn't listen. He fought with a desperation you had never seen, his forms becoming more aggressive, more violent. He was a man possessed, driven by a terror that far outweighed the danger of the Upper Moon.

The fight lasted until the first sliver of gold touched the horizon. The demon, realizing the sun was its enemy, retreated into the depths of a nearby cave, vanishing into the darkness before Giyuu could deliver the final blow.

But the victory was hollow.

You collapsed. The blood loss was too great. Your vision swam, the blue of the sky blending into the blue of Giyuu's haori as he slid across the dirt to catch you.

"You idiot," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Why did you push yourself so hard?"

You tried to answer, but the world went black.

When you woke, the world was the color of sterile white and lavender.

The ceiling of the Butterfly Mansion blurred into focus. Aoi stood over you, her expression a mix of sternness and concern as she changed your dressings.

"You're lucky to be alive," Aoi remarked, her voice crisp. "Another inch to the left and that shard would have punctured your lung."

You looked toward the door. It remained closed.

The first day passed. Then the second. Then the third.

Giyuu didn't come.

You lay in the bed, staring at the sliding door, waiting for the sound of his footsteps—that specific, light cadence that always signaled his arrival. But there was only the distant sound of other slayers training and the humming of the nurses.

A hollow ache formed in your chest, one that had nothing to do with your physical wounds. You missed him. You missed his silence, his harsh corrections, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching.

It's stupid, you told yourself, staring at the ceiling. To like the Water Hashira. He's a wall of ice. He's a man who doesn't know how to be loved.

One afternoon, Shinobu drifted into the room, her purple eyes shimmering with a knowing glint.

"Still awake and brooding, I see," she chirped, setting a tray of medicine on the table.

"Shinobu," you whispered, "how is Giyuu? Have you seen him?"

Shinobu paused, her head tilting. "My, such a direct question. Is Tomioka-san avoiding you?"

You looked away, your throat tightening. "I don't know. He hasn't visited."

Shinobu let out a soft, melodic laugh, though there was something sympathetic in it.

"Believe me, he isn't avoiding you because he doesn't care," Shinobu said, leaning in. "When the two of you were brought back here, I saw his face. For the first time in the years I've known him, Tomioka-san looked truly panicked. He looked like the world had ended."

You blinked. "Panicked?"

"He was shaking," Shinobu confirmed. "He couldn't even speak. He just stood there, staring at your blood on his hands. He's a man who handles grief by pushing everything away. He's terrified, you see. He's terrified of how much it would hurt if you actually died."

The words settled in your heart, a warm, heavy weight.

But as the days turned into weeks, the silence continued. You returned to the Tomioka estate to resume your duties, but Giyuu was a ghost. He was always on a mission, always in a meeting, always just out of reach.

The other slayers, sensing a shift in the wind, began to whisper again.

"I told you," one slayer murmured in the hallway, loud enough for you to hear. "The Water Hashira just lost interest. The 'favorite' slayer isn't so special after all."

"Probably realized she's more trouble than she's worth," another added with a sneer.

You kept your head down, the words stinging like salt in a fresh wound. You didn't believe them, but the silence from Giyuu was a powerful weapon.

One afternoon, Shinobu arrived at the estate with a mischievous spark in her eyes.

"Ara ara! Guess who's here for a report?" she purred. "Tomioka-san is currently in the main hall. I suggest you go talk to him before he vanishes back into his shell."

You didn't need to be told twice. You stood up, your heart hammering against your ribs, and ran toward the hall.

When you slid the door open, Giyuu was already looking at you. He stood rigid, his blue eyes scanning your face, searching for the scars, the lingering pain, the signs of weakness.

You didn't stop. You smiled—a wide, triumphant grin—and ran toward him.

But as you reached him, Giyuu stepped back. He didn't embrace you. He didn't even reach out. He placed a hand on your shoulder, not to pull you in, but to keep a distance between you.

"You should be resting," he said, his voice cold, distant. "Your recovery isn't complete."

The sudden rejection hit you like a physical blow. The smile vanished from your face. You looked at his hand on your shoulder—the distance he was intentionally maintaining—and something inside you snapped.

The frustration of the weeks of silence, the loneliness of the recovery room, and the cruelty of the other slayers' words all surged to the surface. Your vision blurred. A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down your cheek. Then another.

You didn't sob, you just stood there, leaking tears, your shoulders shaking.

Giyuu froze. The moment he saw the tears, the mask of indifference shattered. His eyes widened, and he actually stumbled backward, his hands hovering in the air, completely lost.

"Why... why are you crying?" he asked, his voice cracking.

He looked around frantically, as if searching for a manual on how to handle a crying woman. He looked genuinely panicked, his composure evaporating in seconds.

"I thought you hated me," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I thought I was just... a tool. Or a burden."

"No," he gasped. He stepped forward, his hesitation vanishing. He grabbed your arm, not harshly this time, but with a desperate urgency. "No, that's not it. Come. We're going back to my quarters. We need to talk."

He didn't wait for an answer. He began pulling you along, his grip firm, leading you away from the prying eyes of the other slayers, who watched in absolute shock as the frozen Water Hashira practically dragged his Tsuguko away.

The door to his private room slid shut with a definitive click.

The silence returned, but this time it was different. It was heavy with things unsaid, a pressurized chamber of emotion. Giyuu didn't let go of your hand. He led you to the center of the room and finally stopped.

He wouldn't look at you. He stared at the tatami mat, his chest heaving.

"It's my fault," he said, his voice a low murmur.

You looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

Giyuu let out a long, shuddering sigh. The sound was jagged, breaking the oppressive quiet. He finally turned, meeting your eyes, and the vulnerability there was staggering. The stoic mask he wore for the world hadn't just slipped, it had shattered.

"I shouldn't have taken you as my Tsuguko," he whispered. His voice was a dry rasp, stripped of its usual composure. "I knew the risks. I knew the world we live in. I thought I could keep you at a distance... that I could teach you to survive without letting you... without letting myself..."

He stopped, his throat bobbing as he struggled to find the words. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.

"Without letting yourself what?" you asked softly.

"Attach like this," he confessed. The words sounded as if they were being ripped from his throat, raw and bleeding. "When I saw you hurt in that fight... when I thought the demon had actually..."

He closed his eyes, a violent shudder passing through his frame. He looked less like a Hashira and more like a drowning man reaching for a surface he couldn't find.

"I was scared. I have never been so fucking scared in my entire life. I couldn't look at you because every time I did, I remembered the sight of your blood. I thought if I stayed away, the fear would go away. I thought if I pushed you back, I could protect you from the part of me that can't handle losing anyone else."

The admission hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. The distance he had meticulously built between you—the cold shoulder, the curt orders, the avoided glances—wasn't born of dislike, but of a terrified, suffocating love.

You stepped closer, closing the gap he had fought so hard to maintain. The heat radiating from him was a contrast to the cool evening breeze.

"I was scared too," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I was afraid of the demon. I was afraid of the pain."

You reached up, your fingers grazing his jaw before cupping his face. His skin was cool, but he leaned into your touch with a desperation that bordered on agony.

"But I was more afraid of leaving you. I was more afraid of a world where you didn't know I..."

Giyuu's breath hitched. The admission seemed to break the last remaining seal on his heart. His eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. He didn't find any.

"Don't say things like that," he groaned, the words a low vibration against your palm.

He didn't move at first. He stayed frozen, his gaze dropping to your lips. You could see the war raging inside him—the instinct to protect you by pushing you away clashing with a starving, primal need to hold you. His chest heaved, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He looked like he wanted to run and scream and pull you into his skin all at once. His hand rose, hovering near your waist, fingers twitching, fighting the urge to grab you.

The tension between you became a living thing, thick and electric. You could hear the frantic thrum of his heart, a drumming rhythm that matched your own. The silence was no longer empty, it was filled with everything he had suppressed for months.

Then, the dam broke.

Giyuu lunged forward, his mouth crashing against yours.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision, a desperate, starving release of weeks of tension and fear. It tasted of salt and longing. Giyuu's hands found your waist, his fingers digging into your hips with a strength that bordered on bruising, pulling you flush against him as if he were trying to merge your two bodies into one.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the dark, unruly silk of his hair. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more feral. Giyuu groaned into your mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated hunger. His tongue slid against yours in a rhythmic, demanding dance, tasting of peppermint and desperation. The sound of your mouths meeting was wet and sloppy, the exchange of saliva a frantic dialogue of need.

With a sudden, powerful movement, he pivoted, pushing you back until your shoulders hit the wooden wall with a soft thud. He didn't stop kissing you, he only pressed harder, his heavy frame pinning you in place. He felt like a mountain of muscle and heat, trapping you in the most delicious way possible.

The world outside the room ceased to exist. There were no demons, no Hashira, no duties. There was only the heat of his skin, the scent of cedar, and the desperate, heavy sound of synchronized breathing. His lips moved from your mouth to the sensitive curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. He sucked a patch of flesh near your collarbone, creating a loud, wet squelch as he drew your skin into his mouth, leaving a dark, blossoming mark that would be impossible to hide.

"Giyuu..." you gasped, your head falling back against the wall.

He didn't answer with words. His hand traveled upward, sliding under the fabric of your demon slayer uniform. His palm was hot, calloused from years of swordplay, as it brushed against the underside of your breast. You arched your back, a soft moan escaping your lips, your heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his chest.

He fumbled with the buttons of your uniform, his fingers shaking with a sudden, renewed urgency. Once the fabric parted, he cupped your breast, his thumb circling your nipple through the thin layer of your undergarment. You whimpered, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. Giyuu groaned, his breath hot against your skin, and he tugged the fabric down, exposing you to the cool air and his burning gaze.

He stared at your breast for a heartbeat, his eyes dark with lust. Then, he leaned in, his mouth enveloping your nipple. The sensation was overwhelming—the wet heat of his tongue swirling around the peak, the suction creating a rhythmic pull that made your toes curl. He sucked greedily, the sound of his mouth on your skin a wet, rhythmic shlicking that echoed in the quiet room. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his haori, as he alternated between sucking and nipping at the sensitive bud.

Giyuu shifted his weight, his thigh sliding between your legs, pressing firmly against your center. You could feel the hard ridge of his cock through the thick fabric of his trousers, pulsing against you. The friction was intoxicating. You wrapped your leg around his waist, pulling him deeper into the crook of your thighs, wanting more of that oppressive, wonderful weight.

His other hand slid down, gripping your backside and lifting you slightly, forcing your pelvis to grind against him. A low, guttural growl ripped from his throat, a sound of pure animal need. He returned to your lips, his kiss now more frantic, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth as if he were trying to consume you whole.

Suddenly, a voice drifted from the hallway, slicing through the haze of pleasure.

"Tomioka-san? Are you in there? I have the updated reports from the south village!"

The voice was unmistakable. Murata.

You froze, your eyes widening, the sudden shock snapping you back to reality. You tried to push Giyuu away, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

"Giyuu—" you whispered, panic flaring. "Someone's here!"

The door slid open with a sharp clatter.

Murata stepped in, his expression helpful and bright, clutching a stack of papers. "I thought I heard someone—"

In a flash of movement, Giyuu shifted. His reflexes, honed by years of combat, were instantaneous. He didn't let go of you, but he pivoted his body, using his broad shoulders and the sweeping expanse of his oversized haori to completely shield you from view. He effectively pinned you against the wall, his back acting as a living curtain that blocked Murata's line of sight entirely.

Murata blinked, staring at Giyuu's back. The Water Hashira was standing in a strange, rigid posture, his breathing still noticeably ragged.

"Uh... Tomioka-san? Why are you standing like that? Is everything okay?"

Giyuu didn't turn around. He didn't even flinch. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, dangerous growl that sounded like a warning from a predator protecting its mate.

"Leave the reports on the floor," Giyuu commanded. "And get out."

Murata jumped, nearly dropping the papers in surprise. The sheer intensity of Giyuu's tone was enough to make anyone flee. "Right! Yes! Sorry! I'll just... I'll go now!"

The door slammed shut with a definitive thud.

Giyuu didn't move for a long moment. He remained there, shielding you, his chest heaving against your back. Slowly, he turned back to you.

The sight was chaotic. Your lips were swollen and reddened, your hair a wild nest of tangles, and the collar of your uniform was skewed and open, revealing the dark, purple hickey he had branded onto your collarbone. Your face was flushed a deep, burning crimson, your eyes wide and shimmering with a mix of adrenaline and lingering desire.

Giyuu looked at you, his gaze scanning the marks he had left. The usual coldness in his eyes was gone, replaced by a simmering heat and a strange, newfound softness. He didn't laugh—that wasn't his way—but a slow, rare smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. It was a look of possession, a silent acknowledgement that you belonged to him just as much as he belonged to you.

The smirk made your heart leap, a fresh wave of shyness washing over you. You looked down, unable to maintain eye contact with the intensity of his gaze.

"You're red," he noted, his voice returning to its low, calm drone, though it held a playful edge you had never heard before.

"Shut up," you muttered, though there was no heat in it.

Giyuu sighed, but it was a contented sound. He reached out, his fingers gentle as he began to fix your uniform. He carefully buttoned the fabric back up, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending small sparks through your nerves. He smoothed the collar over the mark on your neck, though he knew it wouldn't hide the evidence of his hunger.

As he finished, he paused, his hand lingering on your shoulder. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes finally, completely at peace. The storm had passed, leaving behind a profound, grounding stillness.

"I'm still pissed at Murata," he whispered, the smirk returning.

You let out a soft, breathless giggle, leaning into him. "I think he's just doing his job, Giyuu."

"His timing is abysmal," Giyuu replied, his voice dropping an octave.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you in a tight, protective embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He breathed you in—the scent of your skin mixed with the lingering aroma of his own cedar. For the first time in years, the void in his chest felt full. He didn't have to push you away to keep you safe; he just had to hold you close enough that the world couldn't tear you apart.

You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against your ear.

The Water Estate had long been a monument to solitude, a place where the only sounds were the rhythmic drip of eaves and the distant murmur of the stream. But the silence had shifted. It was no longer a void, it was a shared breath. In the weeks following that desperate night against the wooden wall, the air between Giyuu and you had transformed from a frozen tundra into a simmering, quiet warmth.

The training continued, the clash of wooden swords still echoing through the courtyard, but the nature of the lessons had changed. Giyuu no longer stood as a distant mountain, unreachable and cold. He was closer now, his hand lingering on your shoulder to correct your stance, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered instructions. He had become a sentinel, his protectiveness bordering on the obsessive.

The shift had culminated in a rare, formal request to Oyakata-sama. Giyuu had knelt before the Master, his voice steady but infused with an underlying urgency that few had ever heard. He had asked that you, his Tsuguko, no longer be dispatched on solo missions. He argued that your growth required his direct supervision, but the truth lived in the way his heart hammered against his ribs whenever you left his sight. He could not stomach the thought of a world where he might return to an empty estate. Oyakata-sama, with his usual serene wisdom, had granted the request, recognizing the bond that now anchored the Water Hashira to the living world.

One evening, the scent of rain lingered in the air as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and deep indigos. You had spent the day in a haze of exhaustion, your muscles aching from a rigorous session of forms. You were drifting in that heavy, golden space between wakefulness and sleep, your head resting on a soft pillow, when the sliding door creaked open.

You rubbed your eyes, blinking away the sleep, and saw him. Giyuu stood in the doorway, his haori dusted with the grime of travel, his expression weary but softening the moment his eyes landed on you.

A smile bloomed across your face, effortless and bright. You pushed yourself up and walked toward him, your bare feet padding softly on the tatami mats. Without a word, you collided with him, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in the cool fabric of his uniform.

Giyuu let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension leaving his shoulders in one fluid motion. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against him, his grip possessive and tight. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin—a mix of soap and the faint, metallic tang of training. He didn't speak, he didn't need to. The way he pressed his forehead against your collarbone told you everything.

Slowly, he shifted his weight, sliding one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. He lifted you in a seamless bridal carry, your head lolling against his chest. You could hear the steady, thrumming beat of his heart, a rhythm that felt like home. He carried you back to the futon, laying you down with a tenderness that felt almost fragile, before sliding in beside you.

The room was dim, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the shoji screens. You began to talk, your voice a sleepy murmur, recounting the small details of your day—the way a bird had perched on the training fence, the frustration of a missed strike, the quiet longing you had felt while he was away. Giyuu listened in his customary silence, but it was a living silence. He watched your lips move, his gaze tracing the curve of your jaw, his fingers lightly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead.

When you noticed he hadn't spoken for a long time, you shifted, looking up at him with a flicker of confusion.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice a low, velvet rasp.

"You're very quiet tonight," you whispered.

"I am always quiet," he replied, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

He paused, his eyes searching yours. He reached out, his calloused thumb grazing your cheek.

"Do you want a haori?" he asked softly.

The question caught you off guard. A haori was more than just a garment; it was a symbol of status, of identity, and in the context of your relationship, a mark of belonging. You nodded excitedly, a small gasp escaping you as you buried your face back into his chest, your heart racing. He held you close, his chin resting atop your head, and together you drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The following morning, the estate was filled with the scent of grilled fish and steamed rice. Giyuu sat across from you, his movements methodical and calm. As you ate, he spoke up, his tone matter-of-fact.

"Your uniform will be changed," he announced.

You paused, a piece of fish halfway to your mouth. "Changed? Why?"

"The current one is worn. I have already assigned someone to tailor a new set for you, along with the haori."

You beamed, the thought of a custom haori making your stomach flutter. But as the meal ended, you noticed him preparing his gear. A frown tugged at your lips.

"Do you have a mission?" you asked, your voice dropping.

"Yes," he replied. "A demon sighting in the northern peaks. I leave shortly."

You pouted, the expression instinctive. The thought of the estate returning to its oppressive silence while he was gone felt like a physical weight. You didn't want to be alone in the vastness of the Water Estate, counting the hours until his return.

Giyuu noticed the slump of your shoulders and the way you avoided his gaze. He stood up and walked toward you, his presence enveloping.

"You can stay at the Kocho estate while I am away," he suggested. "Shinobu will keep you occupied, and you will not be alone."

The pout vanished, replaced by a bright smile. You nodded vigorously, leaning into him. Before he stepped out into the morning air, Giyuu leaned down and planted a slow, lingering kiss on your forehead. It was a promise, a silent vow that he would return.

The Butterfly Mansion was a stark contrast to the Water Estate. Where Giyuu's home was a study in minimalism and silence, Shinobu's was a whirlwind of activity, smelling of medicinal herbs, wisteria, and the sharp tang of antiseptic. You spent the first few hours talking with Shinobu, the Insect Hashira listening to you with her perpetual, enigmatic smile.

"And Tomioka-san arranged this?" Shinobu asked, her voice tilting with amusement. "How very... attentive of him. I suspect he's become quite the doting master."

You flushed, glancing away. "He's just being helpful."

"Of course," Shinobu replied, her eyes twinkling.

As you helped her organize some vials, the topic of your new uniform came up. You looked at her, a sudden wave of anxiety hitting you.

"Shinobu-san, do you know who is working on my uniform?"

"I'm afraid I don't. Tomioka-san handled the arrangements privately," she answered.

You bit your lip, your expression clouded. You had heard stories about the tailor who worked on some of the more... unconventional uniforms. Specifically, the one Mitsuri Kanroji wore. The thought of a chest-baring uniform made you shiver.

"I just hope it's not the person who made Mitsuri's," you muttered.

Shinobu paused, her gaze landing on you. She knew exactly who you were talking about. She also knew Tomioka's temperament—his quiet, intense desire to keep you shielded and modest. The idea of Tomioka allowing someone to make you a revealing uniform was laughable.

"I think you can breathe easy on that front," Shinobu said, though she didn't elaborate.

Suddenly, the sliding door crashed open with a violence that nearly knocked over a tray of medicine.

"Is this where the flashy festivities are happening?!"

Tengen Uzui strode into the room, his presence filling the space instantly. He was a mountain of muscle and gold, his gemstones catching the light and his expression one of arrogant confidence. He stopped in front of you, leaning down so his face was mere inches from yours, his eyes scanning you with a playful, predatory curiosity.

"So, this is the little bird Tomioka has been hiding in his nest," Tengen declared, his voice booming.

You jumped back, your face heating up. "Uzui-san!"

"Don't be so modest!" Tengen laughed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He looked at Shinobu, then back to you, a smirk playing on his lips. "I've heard the rumors. The stoic, frozen Water Hashira has finally melted. Tell me, is he as boring in the bedroom as he is at the Hashira meetings, or does he actually have a flashy side when the doors are closed?"

"Uzui-san, please!" you squeaked, your face now a deep, burning crimson.

Shinobu sighed, though she didn't look particularly bothered. "Tengen, please try not to traumatize her. She's already stressed about her wardrobe."

Tengen let out a loud, boisterous laugh, leaning in closer to you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial stage-whisper. "Don't let him fool you with that 'I'm not liked' act. A man who guards his Tsuguko that fiercely is a man with a very specific kind of hunger. I can see it in the way you're blushing. You've been well-tended to, haven't you?"

You couldn't even find words to respond, your brain short-circuiting under the intensity of his teasing. For the next hour, Tengen remained in the estate, ostensibly to deliver a report to Shinobu, but mostly to poke fun at your relationship with Giyuu. He asked about the "secret looks" Giyuu gave you and teased you about the possessive way the Water Hashira clung to you.

When you finally returned to the Water Estate that evening, the house was dark. Giyuu had not yet returned from his mission. The silence felt heavier now, an empty space that longed for his presence. You climbed into the futon, the scent of cedar still clinging to the sheets, and fell into a fitful sleep.

In the middle of the night, a soft sound woke you. The sliding door opened, and a silhouette stepped into the moonlight. Giyuu.

He stood there for a moment, watching you sleep. A slight, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips—a look of pure, unadulterated devotion. He moved silently, shedding his haori and sliding into the futon beside you.

You stirred, rubbing your tired eyes as you felt the sudden shift in warmth. You looked up and saw him, his eyes dark and filled with a longing that made your breath hitch.

"Giyuu..." you whispered, your voice thick with sleep.

He didn't answer with words. He simply reached out and pulled you against him, burying your face in his chest. His heart was beating a steady, welcoming rhythm.

"It's okay," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your temple. "I'm here."

The next morning, however, the peace was short-lived. Giyuu had another mission—a follow-up to the first—and he had to leave almost immediately. But before he departed, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The tenderness of the night evolved into a starving, electric tension.

He pinned you against the futon, his body a heavy, burning weight atop yours. His hands found your waist, gripping you with a strength that bordered on bruising.

"I don't want to leave," he groaned, the words muffled against your skin.

He crashed his mouth against yours, and the kiss was not gentle. It was a collision of need. His tongue slid into your mouth, seeking yours in a rhythmic, demanding dance. You could taste the salt of his skin and the peppermint of his breath. The sound of your mouths meeting was wet and sloppy, the exchange of saliva a frantic dialogue of desire.

Giyuu's tongue pushed deeper, swirling against yours, sucking on your lower lip with a greedy intensity. You groaned, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer. He shifted, his thigh sliding between your legs, pressing the hard ridge of his cock through his trousers against your center. The friction was intoxicating, sending jolts of electricity through your core.

He broke the kiss to trail his lips down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. He found a sensitive spot just below your ear and sucked hard, creating a loud, wet squelch as he drew your skin into his mouth. You arched your back, a sharp moan escaping your lips, your toes curling against the sheets.

His hand slid under your uniform, his palm hot and calloused as it cupped your breast. He squeezed, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric, making you whimper. He tugged the garment down, exposing your breast to the cool morning air and his burning gaze.

Giyuu leaned in, his mouth enveloping your nipple. The sensation was overwhelming—the wet heat of his tongue swirling around the peak, the suction creating a rhythmic pull that made your vision blur. He sucked greedily, the sound of his mouth on your skin a rhythmic shlicking that echoed in the quiet room. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, as he alternated between sucking and nipping at the sensitive bud.

He moved back up to your lips, his kiss now more frantic, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth as if he were trying to consume you whole. He groaned into your mouth, a guttural sound of pure animal need, his body trembling with the effort of not taking you completely right then and there.

When he finally pulled away, he was breathing in short, ragged bursts, his eyes blown wide and dark with lust. He leaned in one last time, pressing a firm, possessive kiss to your lips.

"Wait for me," he whispered.

By the time you arrived at the Kocho estate an hour later, you were a walking disaster. Your face was the color of a ripe tomato, your hair was a wild nest, and your lips were visibly swollen and reddened from Giyuu's intensity.

As you stepped into the ward, Shinobu looked up from her notes. She blinked, her smile widening.

"My goodness," she said, her voice dripping with mock concern. "Did you run into a swarm of bees on your way here? Or perhaps a very aggressive demon?"

You nearly screamed, bringing a hand up to cover your mouth. "What... what happened to my lips?"

"They look quite swollen," Shinobu noted, standing up to examine you. "Are you okay? You look like you've been through a war."

"I'm fine!" you squeaked, though you were vibrating with embarrassment.

As if on cue, the door slid open, and Tengen Uzui stepped in, holding a stack of reports. He stopped dead, his gaze landing on your swollen lips and flushed face. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.

"Well, well, well," Tengen purred, stepping closer. "Look at that. It seems Tomioka isn't as subtle as he thinks. Those are some very flashy lips you've got there. I didn't know the Water Hashira had it in him to be so... thorough."

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. Shinobu simply sighed and excused herself, leaving you alone with the flamboyant Hashira.

Tengen leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "So, tell me. Does he get like that often? Or did he just miss you that much? I bet he was practically clawing at you before he left, wasn't he?"

"I'm not talking about this with you!" you snapped, though there was no real heat in it.

Tengen laughed, the sound booming in the small room. He spent the next few minutes teasing you, his voice a constant stream of flamboyant commentary on your romantic life. As you both began to walk toward the garden, Tengen suddenly slowed his pace.

He looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing. He saw a figure standing in the shadow of the estate's outer wall—Giyuu.

Giyuu had returned early from his briefing, and he was watching the two of you. His expression was a mask of cold, simmering jealousy. His eyes were fixed on Tengen, specifically on how close the Sound Hashira was standing to you.

Tengen noticed Giyuu's gaze and a mischievous glint entered his eyes. He decided to push the button.

"You know," Tengen said, leaning in close to you, his voice dropping to a whisper that he knew would carry. "I have a secret. A very flashy secret. Would you like to know it?"

You looked at him, confused. "What secret?"

Tengen didn't wait for a response. He leaned in, his mouth brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin. He whispered something—completely nonsensical, likely just a joke about Giyuu's lack of friends—but the action was calculated. He did it while staring directly at Giyuu, a triumphant, mocking smile on his face.

The air suddenly turned frigid. The atmosphere shifted from playful to predatory in a heartbeat.

"Oh? You're here!" Tengen shouted, straightening up and waving.

You spun around and saw him. Giyuu was walking toward you, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. The coldness in his eyes was staggering, a frozen glare that could have turned the garden to ice. He didn't look at Tengen, his eyes were locked onto you, scanning your face, your lips, and then shifting to Tengen's position.

Giyuu stepped between the two of you, his broad shoulders effectively cutting Tengen out of your line of sight. He was like a wall of muscle and repressed rage.

Tengen started yapping, his voice loud and oblivious. "Ah, Tomioka! I was just telling your Tsuguko about a few flashy techniques! We were having a very productive conversation about—"

"Shut up," Giyuu interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

He didn't look at Tengen. He reached out, his hand gripping your wrist—not painfully, but with an absolute, unwavering firmness.

"I need my Tsuguko back at the estate," Giyuu commanded. "For practice."

Tengen paused, then let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed through the courtyard. He looked at Giyuu's rigid posture and the possessive grip on your arm.

"Practice, huh?" Tengen chuckled, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Sure, Tomioka. Whatever you say. Go on then, run along to your 'practice.' Just make sure she can still walk tomorrow!"

Giyuu didn't respond. He simply turned and began leading you away, his pace swift and his grip tight. You looked back at Tengen, who was still laughing, and then up at Giyuu's profile. His jaw was set, his eyes still cold, but you could feel the heat radiating from him.

As you crossed the threshold of the Water Estate and the door slammed shut behind you, Giyuu didn't let go. He spun you around, pinning you against the door with a sudden, violent intensity.

"Practice," you whispered, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips.

Giyuu's gaze dropped to your mouth, his eyes darkening.

"Yes," he rasped, his voice thick with possession. "Practice."

The silence that followed was heavier than the rain that often plagued the estate. It wasn't the peaceful silence of their shared mornings; it was a predatory stillness, the kind that preceded a landslide. Giyuu’s gaze remained locked on your lips—those lips that Tengen had mocked, the ones Giyuu had swollen with his own desperation only hours before.

Slowly, deliberately, Giyuu reached for the knot of his haori. He never took his eyes off you. The mismatched fabric slid from his shoulders, pooling on the tatami mats like a discarded skin. Without the garment, the breadth of his shoulders seemed to expand, filling the narrow entryway and leaving you with nowhere to retreat.

"The bed," he commanded.

His voice wasn't a shout. It was a low, velvet rasp, stripped of its usual indifference. It carried the weight of an order that brooked no hesitation.

Your knees trembled. The air in the room felt thick, charged with an electric tension that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. You stepped away from the door, your movements mechanical, and walked toward the futon. Every step felt like a descent into a beautiful, terrifying unknown. You knelt on the soft fabric, your breath hitching as you looked back at him.

Giyuu didn't rush. He walked toward you with a slow, predatory grace, his footsteps silent on the mats. The moonlight filtered through the shoji screens, casting long, jagged shadows across his face, carving his features into something stark and primal.

"Explain yourself," he said.

He stopped inches from you, his presence an overwhelming force. The scent of him—cold mountain air and the faint, metallic tang of a nichirin blade—swirled around you.

"I... I didn't..." you started, your voice cracking. You looked up at him, seeing the storm in his sapphire eyes. "He was just... talking, Giyuu. He was just being flashy. I didn't do anything."

Giyuu leaned down, his hand slamming into the futon beside your head. The impact jolted you. He didn't touch you yet, but the heat radiating from his body felt like a physical brand.

"He was whispering in your ear," Giyuu murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "He was touching you with his breath. You let him."

"I couldn't stop him!" you stammered, your hands clutching the sheets. "You know how Uzui-san is. He does it to provoke you, not me."

"And did it work?"

"What?"

"Did it provoke you?"

He shifted, his thigh sliding between yours, forcing your legs apart. The friction of his uniform against your skin sent a jolt of lightning straight to your core. You gasped, your head falling back against the pillow.

"We... we should be training," you whispered, a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of order. "You said... practice."

Giyuu’s lips curved into a ghost of a smirk, though his eyes remained dark with a possessive hunger. He reached down, his calloused fingers gripping your chin and forcing you to look at him.

"We will train," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after. Right now, there is a different kind of discipline required."

He moved with a suddenness that stole your breath, pushing you flat onto your back. He didn't kiss you—not yet. Instead, he shifted his weight, sliding his trousers down with a fluid motion. When he rose above you again, the sight of him, hard and pulsing in the dim light, made your stomach flip.

He didn't ask. He simply guided your head forward, his hand curling into the hair at the nape of your neck. It wasn't a violent grip, but it was absolute.

"Take it," he commanded.

You obeyed, your heart racing as you leaned in. The first touch of your lips against him was an electric shock. He tasted of salt and heat. As you took him into your mouth, Giyuu let out a long, shuddering groan that vibrated through your entire skull. He remained nonchalant in expression, his face a mask of stoicism, but the way his fingers tightened in your hair betrayed him.

The sounds of the room shifted. The rhythmic, wet slides of your mouth against him filled the silence, a sloppy, desperate dialogue. Giyuu’s hips began to twitch, a subconscious reaction to the suction. He let out a low, guttural sound—not a moan, but a growl of approval. He pushed deeper, his movements becoming more demanding, guiding you to the limit of your endurance.

When he finally pulled away, he was breathing in ragged bursts. He didn't give you time to recover. He shifted, his body sliding over yours, pinning you beneath him.

"You're shaking," he observed, his voice a low vibration.

"I've... I've never..."

Giyuu paused. The realization hit him—the purity of the territory he was about to claim. His expression softened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of the tenderness he usually reserved for the quietest hours of the night. But the image of Tengen’s lips near your ear flashed in his mind, and the softness vanished, replaced by a simmering need to mark you as his.

He slid his hand beneath the hem of your uniform, his palm hot against your thigh. He moved upward, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you whimper. When he reached the center of your heat, he found you already drenched, your body betraying your nervousness with a desperate longing.

"So wet for me," he whispered.

He pressed a single finger inside you. You gasped, your back arching off the futon. The sensation was overwhelming—a sharp, invading pressure that felt like it was splitting you open. You were a virgin, and the sudden fullness made your eyes water.

"Giyuu... it hurts," you whimpered.

He froze instantly. He didn't pull out, but he stopped moving. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

You opened your eyes, seeing the raw intensity in his gaze.

"Breathe," he whispered. "Just breathe with me."

He waited. He stayed perfectly still, allowing your muscles to relax, allowing the initial shock to fade into a dull throb. Once your breathing steadied, he began to move. It wasn't a fast motion; it was a slow, agonizingly deliberate slide. He added a second finger, stretching you, his calloused skin creating a friction that began to turn the pain into a searing, liquid heat.

He began to curl his fingers, seeking the small, sensitive knot of nerves at the entrance. When he found it, he flicked it with a precision that made you scream. The sound was muffled against his shoulder as you clung to him, your nails digging into the muscle of his back.

"Do you like this?" he rasped, his voice thick.

"Yes... please... Giyuu, please..."

"Please what?"

"I don't know! Just... more!"

He didn't need to be told twice. His fingers became a blur of motion, diving deep into you, mimicking the act of penetration. He was relentless, his thumb grinding against your clitoris while his fingers hammered against your walls. You were lost in a storm of sensation, your vision blurring, your breath coming in short, sharp sobs.

Just as you reached the precipice, just as the first wave of a climax began to crash over you, he withdrew.

You let out a cry of frustration and longing, your hips twitching upward, searching for the touch he had stolen.

"Not yet," Giyuu whispered.

He positioned himself between your thighs, the head of his cock brushing against your opening. He entered you with an agonizing slowness. He was careful, his jaw set in a hard line as he felt the resistance of your hymen. He stopped every few inches, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids, whispering promises of devotion that sounded more like claims of ownership.

When he was finally buried deep within you, you both froze. The fullness was staggering, a pressure that filled every void in your existence. You whimpered, your eyes closing tight.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, though he didn't move. "I'm sorry, my love."

He waited for the ache to subside, his heart hammering against your chest. Then, he began to move. The first few thrusts were shallow, cautious, almost tentative. He watched your face, searching for any sign of genuine pain. But as the friction built, as the natural lubrication of your body eased his passage, your whimpers changed.

The pain dissolved into a heavy, throbbing pleasure. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him to forget the caution.

"Harder," you begged, your voice a broken whisper. "Giyuu, please, harder."

The request snapped the last thread of his restraint. The cautious lover vanished, replaced by the possessive Hashira. He gripped your hips, his fingers bruising your skin, and slammed into you with a sudden, violent intensity.

The sound of their bodies meeting—a wet, rhythmic slapping—filled the room. Giyuu was no longer holding back. He drove into you with a primal hunger, each thrust designed to leave an indelible mark on your soul. He wasn't just taking your body; he was erasing every other presence from your mind, replacing every memory of the day with the sensation of him.

"You are mine," he groaned, the words muffled against your neck. "Only mine. Do you understand?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm yours!"

You were sobbing now, the pleasure too intense to bear. Every time he hit your cervix, a jolt of electricity shot through your spine, making your toes curl and your head thrash against the pillow. Giyuu’s pace became frantic, his breathing a series of guttural grunts. He was lost in you, his eyes blown wide, the sapphire depths turned to a dark, stormy void.

When the climax hit, it was like a supernova. You screamed his name, your internal muscles clamping around him in a series of violent spasms. Giyuu let out a loud, raw roar, his body stiffening as he spilled himself deep inside you, filling you with a warmth that felt like a seal of ownership.

He collapsed onto you, his weight heavy and comforting. For a long time, the only sound was the synchronized thrumming of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again. You felt drained, your limbs like lead, your eyes fluttering shut as a deep, heavy exhaustion washed over you.

You were drifting, slipping into a dreamless sleep, when you felt something.

A sudden, wet warmth between your thighs.

Your eyes snapped open. Giyuu had shifted. He was kneeling between your legs, his head lowered. The sensation was electric—the flick of a tongue, the suction of lips. He was eating you, his tongue swirling around your clitoris with a hunger that seemed impossible after such a bout of exertion.

"Giyuu... no," you moaned, your voice weak. "I'm... I'm too tired... please..."

He didn't stop. In fact, he became more aggressive. He gripped your thighs, manhandling them wider, pinning them against the futon so you couldn't escape. He drank from you, his tongue probing deep into your folds, tasting the mixture of his own seed and your arousal.

"I can't stop," he muttered against your skin, his voice distorted. "I can still see him on you. I have to get rid of it."

The sheer possessiveness of the statement sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, despite your fatigue. You arched your back, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer even as you begged him to stop. He ignored your pleas, his tongue working with a rhythmic, relentless intensity that pushed you toward another peak.

Just as you began to tremble, he pulled away. He didn't give you a second to breathe before he rose over you again. He was hard once more, his eyes flashing with an unquenchable fire.

"Again," he commanded.

He slammed into you, the impact jarring your entire frame. This second round was different—it was rougher, faster, devoid of the tenderness from before. He treated you like a conquest, his movements jagged and demanding.

You were no longer the virgin he had carefully navigated, you were his partner, his Tsuguko, his obsession. He fucked the breath out of you, his body a piston of muscle and heat. You could only moan, your voice reduced to a series of broken whimpers as he drove you further and further into the mattress.

The world narrowed down to the point of contact—the wet, sliding friction and the sound of his ragged breath in your ear.

When he finally finished for the second time, he didn't immediately pull away. He stayed inside you, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. But as he began to withdraw, he didn't stop there.

He slid two fingers back into you.

You let out a sharp, startled cry, your body shaking. You were overstimulated, your nerves raw and screaming.

"Giyuu, stop... please, it's too much," you begged, your voice trembling.

He didn't stop. He began to finger you again, but this time, he was searching for something. He pushed deep, his fingers stretching you, twisting slightly. You were sobbing, your head shaking from side to side, your body vibrating with a mixture of pleasure and exhaustion.

"Look at me," he whispered.

You opened your eyes, seeing the absolute devotion and madness in his gaze.

"You're shaking," he noted, his voice almost tender, yet his fingers remained relentless. "You're so sensitive now."

He increased the speed, his fingers blurring. You were on the edge, a thin line between ecstasy and agony. You begged him to stop, your voice a frantic whisper, but the more you begged, the more he pushed. He wanted you broken, wanted you completely undone, wanted you to know that there was no part of you that didn't belong to him.

As you finally shattered, your body convulsing in a powerful, toe-curling orgasm, Giyuu didn't let the moment fade. At the very peak of your release, he replaced his fingers with his cock.

He slammed into you one last time, the transition so seamless and sudden that it felt like a physical explosion. You screamed, a long, loud sound that echoed through the empty estate, your body clamping around him in a final, desperate grip.

Giyuu groaned, his voice a guttural sound of victory. He hammered into you a few more times, his movements frantic, before he finally collapsed against you, his seed flooding you for the third time.

The silence returned to the Water Estate, but it was no longer hollow. It was full—filled with the scent of sex, the sound of labored breathing, and the heavy, oppressive weight of a love that bordered on obsession.

Giyuu rolled to the side, pulling you flush against his chest. He wrapped his arm around you, his grip still possessive, even in his exhaustion. He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering on your skin.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, his voice finally returning to its usual quietude, though a hint of the predator remained. "We will train."

You didn't answer. You couldn't. You simply closed your eyes, drifting off to sleep in the arms of the man who had claimed every inch of you, knowing that you would never be alone in the silence again.

The first light of dawn filtered through the thin shoji screens, casting a pale, milky glow across the tatami mats of the Water Estate. It was a cold light, one that clung to the corners of the room and highlighted the dust motes dancing in the stagnant air. Giyuu lay motionless, his arm draped heavily across your waist, pinning you to the futon. He had been awake for an hour.

He did not move, fearing that any sudden shift would break the spell of the moment. His sapphire eyes, usually as flat and impenetrable as a frozen lake, were wide and focused. He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of your shoulders, the way your breath hitched in the deep currents of sleep. He felt a tightening in his chest, a pressure that had nothing to do with the restrictive training of the Breath of Water and everything to do with the woman trembling slightly in his hold.

His gaze drifted lower, tracing the map of his own desperation written across your skin. Deep, plum-colored bruises blossomed across the curve of your shoulder and the column of your throat. He had been relentless. The memory of your screams, the way your nails had carved crescent moons into his back, and the guttural roar he had let out when he finally claimed you, pulsed in his mind like a second heartbeat. He remembered the smell of you—salt, sweat, and the metallic tang of arousal—and the way your body had clamped around him, desperate and undone.

You shifted, a soft moan escaping your lips as you began to surface from the depths of exhaustion. Your eyelids fluttered, the long lashes casting jagged shadows on your cheeks. When your eyes finally opened, they were hazy, unfocused, and brimming with a vulnerability that made Giyuu’s grip tighten instinctively.

"Giyuu," you whispered, your voice a raspy ghost of itself.

He didn't answer immediately. He simply watched you, his expression a mask of stoicism, though his pupils were blown wide. He leaned in, his nose brushing against your temple. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of his own seed still clinging to your skin, mixed with the natural sweetness of your warmth.

"You're awake," he said.

The words were short, clipped, but they carried a weight of possessiveness that made your stomach flip. You tried to sit up, but a sharp jolt of soreness shot through your hips, making you gasp and sink back into the pillow.

Giyuu’s eyes darkened. He shifted his weight, sliding his hand down to the junction of your thighs. He felt the dampness there, the sticky residue of their third encounter. He let out a low, humming sound in his throat, a vibration that you felt deep in your marrow.

"It hurts," you murmured, though there was no real complaint in your voice.

"It will fade," he replied.

He didn't move his hand. Instead, he began to trace the edge of your heat, his fingers grazing the swollen folds of your pussy. You arched your back, a small, broken sound escaping you. The sensitivity was staggering, every touch felt like a lightning strike.

"Giyuu, please," you breathed, not sure if you were asking him to stop or to continue.

He knew. He always knew. He slid his hand further, his fingers dipping into the slick, warm channel he had spent the previous night expanding. He felt the way your internal muscles leaped to greet him, the desperate, rhythmic pulsing of your walls. He didn't use a finger; he shifted his body, his leg sliding between yours to force them wide.

He was already hard. The sight of him, thick and pulsing against your thigh, sent a surge of heat straight to your core. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't whisper sweet nothings. He simply gripped your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and pushed.

The entry was a wet, squelching sound that filled the quiet room. You screamed into the crook of his neck, your body shaking as he filled you once more. Because you were already stretched, the friction was different—more intense, more raw. Every slide of his cock against your walls felt like it was scraping against your very soul.

"Look at me," he commanded.

You opened your eyes, seeing the raw, predatory hunger in his gaze. He began to move, his thrusts slow and agonizingly deep. He wanted you to feel every ridge, every pulse of his vein against your cervix. The sound of their bodies meeting—the slapping of skin on skin, the wet shlicking of lubricant and seed—echoed through the hollow halls of the estate.

"You're so tight," he groaned, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "Even after everything, you still grip me like you're afraid I'll leave."

"I am," you sobbed, your fingers clawing at his shoulders. "Don't... don't stop."

He accelerated. The rhythm became frantic, a desperate collision of flesh and need. He hammered into you, his balls slapping against your perineum with a rhythmic thud. He wasn't gentle, he treated you like a conquest, his movements jagged and demanding. He watched your face, the way your eyes rolled back and your mouth hung open in a silent plea for release.

He reached down, his thumb finding your clitoris, grinding against the engorged nub with a precision that made you shatter. You let out a long, piercing cry, your internal muscles clamping around him in a series of violent spasms. Giyuu let out a raw roar, his body stiffening as he spilled himself deep inside you for the fourth time, the warmth of his release flooding your womb.

He collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the synchronized thrumming of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again.

Eventually, Giyuu withdrew. The sound of him sliding out of you was a wet, suctioning pop that left you feeling suddenly cold and empty. He rolled to the side, his eyes returning to their usual calm, though the possessive glint remained.

He stood up, his movements fluid and silent. He didn't look back as he walked across the room, his naked form a testament to the grueling training of a Hashira—lean muscle, scarred skin, and an aura of absolute authority. You watched him, your limbs feeling like lead, your mind floating in a haze of afterglow.

Giyuu reached for a lacquer chest in the corner of the room. He retrieved two bundles of fabric, carefully folded and smelling of fresh dye and cedar. He walked back to the futon and knelt beside you.

He held out a haori. It wasn't the mismatched pattern he wore, nor was it the dull colors of the standard corps attire. It was a deep, vibrant red—the color of a setting sun, the color of fresh blood, the color of a passion that burned too hot to be contained.

"Your haori," he said.

You stared at the fabric, your breath catching.

"And this," he added, handing you a new demon slayer uniform. It was tailored perfectly to your measurements, the black fabric crisp and smelling of newness.

You reached out, your fingers trembling as you touched the red silk. You looked up at him, a small, genuine smile breaking through your exhaustion.

"Thank you, Giyuu. It's beautiful."

He didn't smile back, but the tension in his jaw relaxed. He reached out, his calloused thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead.

"It suits you," he murmured. "The red. It marks you."

You knew what he meant. He didn't want you to blend into the background. He wanted the world to see you, and he wanted them to know exactly who you belonged to.

"I have to get dressed," you whispered. "We're supposed to train today."

Giyuu’s expression shifted. A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, though his eyes remained dark.

"We will train," he said. "But not yet. You can barely stand."

"I can stand," you protested, attempting to push yourself up.

A sharp wince crossed your face as your sore muscles protested. Giyuu caught you by the waist, pulling you back down with a sudden, firm motion.

"You cannot," he corrected. "Rest. I will bring you tea."

He left the room, his footsteps fading into the distance. You lay there for a moment, clutching the red haori to your chest. The fabric felt warm, almost as if it held the heat of his touch. You felt a sense of belonging that you had never known before—a terrifying, consuming kind of love that stripped you bare and rebuilt you in his image.

By the time Giyuu returned with a tray of steaming tea and simple rice cakes, you had managed to dress. The uniform fit like a second skin, and the red haori draped over your shoulders like a royal mantle. You felt a surge of confidence as you looked at your reflection in the small mirror by the door. The hickeys were still there, stark and vivid against your pale skin, but you didn't try to hide them. They were his marks.

As you stepped out onto the engawa, the morning air hit you with a refreshing chill. The Water Estate was quiet, the only sound the distant trickle of a bamboo water fountain. But the silence was broken as a loud, abrasive voice echoed from the front gates.

"Tomioka! You lazy bastard! I know you're in there!"

You stiffened. You recognized that voice. Sanemi Shinazugawa, the Wind Hashira, was not known for his patience or his subtlety.

Giyuu didn't flinch. He stood beside you, his presence a grounding force. He didn't say a word as Sanemi stormed into the courtyard, his white haori fluttering behind him like a storm cloud. Sanemi’s eyes were wide and manic, his face a map of scars and aggression.

He stopped dead when he saw you. His gaze traveled from your face, down to the vibrant red haori, and then lingered on the dark bruises marking your neck.

Sanemi’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at Giyuu, then back at you, his expression shifting from irritation to genuine confusion.

"What the hell is this?" Sanemi barked, pointing a scarred finger at your haori. "Since when do you give out fancy clothes, Tomioka? And what happened to her neck? Did a demon get a hold of her while you were napping?"

Giyuu’s expression remained flat. He stepped slightly in front of you, a subtle movement that signaled a boundary.

"She is my Tsuguko," Giyuu replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "And she is under my protection."

Sanemi let out a harsh, barking laugh. He stepped closer, his aura radiating a violent energy that made the air vibrate.

"Protection? Is that what you call it? She looks like she's been chewed up and spit out," Sanemi sneered. He looked at you, his eyes narrowing. "Hey, girl. You alright? Or has the Water Hashira finally lost his mind and started treating his students like chew toys?"

You felt a flush of heat creep up your neck. You looked at Giyuu, seeing the way his jaw tightened.

"I am fine, Shinazugawa-san," you replied, your voice steady. "The haori was a gift. I appreciate it."

Sanemi scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at Giyuu with a mixture of disdain and a strange, begrudging curiosity.

"A gift, huh? You're getting soft, Tomioka. I never thought I'd see the day you actually cared enough about someone to buy them a piece of cloth. What's next? A poem? A bouquet of flowers?"

Giyuu didn't take the bait. He didn't even blink.

"The training session is scheduled for noon," Giyuu said, effectively ending the conversation. "You are early."

"I'm not early, you're just slow!" Sanemi yelled, though the edge of his anger seemed to have dulled into a sort of bewildered annoyance. He glanced at you one last time, his eyes lingering on the red fabric. "Red, huh? Flashy. Uzui would probably love it. Just don't let that color get too stained with blood, kid. It's a pain to wash out."

With a final, disgruntled huff, Sanemi turned on his heel and marched toward the training grounds, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.

As he disappeared from view, the silence returned to the estate. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

"He's... intense," you whispered.

"He is a storm," Giyuu replied. "Storms are loud, but they eventually pass."

You looked up at him, noticing the way the sunlight caught the blue of his eyes. For the first time, you saw a flicker of something other than stoicism. There was a quiet pride there, a satisfaction in the way Sanemi had reacted to your appearance.

"Do you like that he noticed?" you asked.

Giyuu looked away, but not before you saw the slight curve of his lips.

"I like that he knows," he murmured.

He reached out, his hand sliding around the back of your neck, his fingers grazing the hickeys he had left. He pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours.

You closed your eyes, leaning into his warmth. The soreness in your body was still there, a lingering reminder of the night's intensity, but it no longer felt like pain. It felt like a map—a guide leading you back to the only person who truly saw you.

The morning continued in a slow, languid rhythm. Giyuu led you back inside, insisting that you eat a full breakfast before any thought of training entered your mind. He moved with a quiet efficiency, preparing a meal of grilled salmon and miso soup. You watched him, admiring the way he navigated the kitchen, his movements precise and controlled.

As you ate, the conversation remained sparse, but the silence was no longer heavy. It was a shared space, a sanctuary they had built out of broken pieces and desperate needs.

"Finish your meal. Sanemi will not be patient for long, and if you perform poorly in training, he will never let me hear the end of it."

You laughed, a bright, clear sound that seemed to light up the dim room.

"Are you worried about your reputation, Giyuu?"

He stood up, clearing the plates with a swift motion. He stopped beside you, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your temple.

"My reputation is irrelevant," he whispered. "Only your progress matters."

The walk to the training grounds was a slow process. Your legs still felt like jelly, and every step was a reminder of the way Giyuu had claimed you. But as you walked, you felt a strange sense of power. You weren't just a student, you weren't just a Tsuguko. You were the center of Giyuu Tomioka's world, the only person allowed behind the wall of ice.

When you arrived at the training field, Sanemi was already there, swinging his sword in a blur of violent motion. Each strike created a miniature whirlwind, the air whistling with the force of his attacks. He stopped the moment he saw you, his eyes immediately darting to the red haori.

"Finally! I thought you'd decided to take a nap in the middle of the courtyard!" Sanemi yelled.

Giyuu stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his nichirin blade.

"Begin the sparring," Giyuu commanded.

The training was brutal. Sanemi did not hold back, his attacks fast and unpredictable. He pushed you to your limits, forcing you to dodge and weave through the chaos of his Wind Breathing. You struggled at first, your body still recovering from the night's exertion, but the red haori seemed to lend you a strength you didn't know you possessed.

Every time you stumbled, you felt Giyuu's gaze on you. He didn't offer words of encouragement, he didn't shout instructions. He simply watched, his presence a silent anchor in the storm.

At one point, Sanemi lunged forward, his blade a streak of silver. You reacted instinctively, sliding beneath his guard and delivering a sharp strike to his ribs. The impact wasn't enough to injure him, but it was enough to surprise him.

Sanemi leaped back, a wide, manic grin spreading across his face.

"Not bad, kid! You've actually got some bite to you! Maybe Tomioka hasn't spent all his time keeping you in bed!"

You flushed crimson, the color matching your haori. You glanced at Giyuu, who remained expressionless, though you noticed the way his fingers tightened on his sword.

"Focus, Sanemi," Giyuu said coldly. "Your footwork is sloppy."

"My footwork is fine, you arrogant prick!" Sanemi roared, launching himself at Giyuu.

The two Hashira collided in a clash of steel and elements. The courtyard became a battlefield of crashing waves and howling winds. The sound of their blades meeting was like thunder, the shockwaves rippling through the air and kicking up clouds of dust.

You stood back, watching them. You saw the way Giyuu moved—fluid, effortless, and precise. He was the ocean, absorbing Sanemi's aggression and redirecting it with a lethal grace. But there was a difference in Giyuu's fighting style today. He was more aggressive, more decisive. He fought with a renewed sense of purpose, as if he were proving something.

As the spar ended, both men were breathing hard, their uniforms dampened with sweat. Sanemi let out a loud, booming laugh, sheathing his sword with a sharp click.

"Fine! You win this round, Tomioka! But don't think I'm going easy on the girl next time!"

He turned to you and gave a mock salute.

"Keep wearing that red, kid. It makes it easier to see where you're failing!"

With that, Sanemi stormed off, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

Giyuu walked toward you, his chest heaving. He stopped inches away, the scent of ozone and salt clinging to him. He didn't say anything at first; he simply reached out and adjusted the collar of your haori, his fingers lingering on the skin of your neck.

"You did well," he said.

"I felt like I was dying for a few minutes there," you admitted, leaning into him.

"That is how you grow," he replied.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his side. As you walked back toward the Water Estate, the sun high in the sky, you felt a profound sense of peace.

The world outside the estate was filled with demons, blood, and the constant threat of death. The Corps was a place of sacrifice and sorrow. But within the walls of the Water Estate, in the quiet moments between the storms, there was something else.

There was a love that was as deep and crushing as the ocean, a passion that burned like a red flame, and a devotion that defied the silence of the world.

As you entered the house, Giyuu stopped you in the hallway. He turned you around, pinning you against the wooden wall. His eyes were dark again, the predatory hunger returning.

"The training is over," he whispered, his voice a low vibration.

"Is it?" you asked, a playful smile touching your lips.

"For the day," he murmured, his hand sliding down to the hem of your uniform. "But I believe we have some unfinished business from this morning."

a/n: first post on this account ><

[bloomflix]

deflowered!

abstract: fire lord zuko has faced the most intimidating of fighters throughout his life and is a great leader! only problem is? he doesn’t know how to even hold hands, let alone fuck. luckily for him, his personal handmaiden knows just how to help his dilemma!

tags: firelord zuko x handmaiden! reader, 4.9k wc, smut + fluff, inexperienced zuko + reader, angst if you squint | art by boketto_X on twt <3

“The council has decided; we need an heir, sir.” The annoying chamberlain kept droning for the last hour or so, and Zuko was beginning to get irritated.

It’s been a few years since his coronation, and a few years of the council trying to set him up with any refined lady the Fire Nation had to offer.

“But I’m not married,” he replied.

It clearly hasn’t worked.

An advisor cleared their throat. “We know that and… actually there’s a new fine miss in our radar who happens to—“

Zuko could feel his patience running thin and abruptly stood up.

“Dismissed.” “B-But, sir!” Zuko turned to the chamberlain and advisors behind him, tone evidently laced with malice.

“I said this meeting is dismissed.”

The men scurried along like rats, leaving Zuko in his study… contemplating.

Aang and Katara are engaged to be married, Sokka is currently with Suki—even Toph has someone!

Zuko is a prideful man; he’s the Fire Lord for crying out loud… But even he can admit that he lacks in areas. Specifically…when it comes to being charismatic and a particular insecurity he has.

Zuko sucks at flirting and specifically being brazen.

He’s been on approximately 45 dates in the past year… and not one lady has been interested. Or rather they have been, until he opens his mouth.

But not even that; if there was one thing Zuko was absolutely embarrassed about, it was his lack of experience when it comes to sex. He was a virgin, a prude, and shuddered at the thought of having to have his first with some random woman he never met.

There was even one time the council suggested concubines due to his lack of courting success… but there was no way in hell he’d do that (since… as disgustingly sweet as it is… he wanted to be an intimate relationship with someone he considered close).

Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that he’s put off so many of those candidates, but a small part of him sulked at the fact that he’s going to have to have a wife sooner or later, and then have an heir. He sulked at the idea that it would be rushed and he wouldn't even love this person he was to marry.

“I can help you.”

Zuko’s lips pressed to a fine line, looking at your direction to see any reaction. Your face was completely neutral. There you were, sipping your tea while looking down, all with the most neutral expression in the world as if Zuko, the Fire Lord, didn't just tell you about his embarrassing celibacy.

He’s always told you his dilemmas, and this was no different. You’d always come up with a solution or compromise, but for some reason, he felt especially… on edge.

You’ve known Zuko since you two were children, as he attended the same school as you did for a few years before you and your father were officially promoted to head staff, and you, Zuko’s handmaiden.

Zuko remembers how you always followed him back in his childhood—answering to every beck and call; he remembers how sweet you were, how compassionate too, and how you’d encourage him when it came to Fire Bending.

You never showed a sign of protest when it came to anything, always a neutral look on your face.

And he couldn’t lie, you were absolutely stunning (despite said neutral look), but he couldn’t help but be put off even more. To be honest, you were more attractive than any of the candidates he's encountered (but who is he to say anything...).

“R-Really?” His skin turned flushed.

“Mhm,” you hummed, sipping your tea calmly like you didn’t almost cause for Zuko mentally break. You were currently sitting across from him, drinking tea with just him in the room while you listened to his problems like always. “I’m not some random woman, aren’t I? I can teach you.”

You were too damn casual.

He nodded hesitantly. “No, you’re not.”

He’ll admit, he has to get with the times. Not many people are saving their chastity and he has to stop being scared. Especially when it comes to wanting to romance others.

“And how so? How would you teach me?”

You shot him a smile. “Trust in me, my Lord. Everything shall be situated.

Zuko cleared his throat, glancing once more at your neutral face and nodded gently. “When do you suggest we start?”

You looked up and smiled. “Whenever you’d like, my Lord.”

lesson one: foreplay

Zuko thought it over, coming to a conclusion two days later and then asking you to come to his chambers later at night where the rest of the staff wouldn’t see you.

He sat there, robe hastily put on and sat there awkwardly at the corner of his bed, waiting. And then he began thinking.

Zuko’s known you for a while—you’ve been at his service for a long time. Hell, there was even a moment in time where he had a crush on you.

It was back when he would stride alongside his mother around the palace, constantly meeting your eyes every time he glanced over where your father would be working. Then you’d smile at him and his heart would be pounding; his mother knew, maybe even Azula knew—she’d certainly mess with you sometimes, but overall respected you (more than him at least).

Sure, you were a “servant”, but it’s obvious that you were a great Firebender. He remembers how he’d have trouble sleeping as a kid and walk off to the courtyard where you’d be there in a small corner, practicing Fire Bending and moving so graceful, it appeared almost like you were dancing.

Even when he got banished, he’d think of you. When he’d look at the stars, he’d think of how your eyes would shine every time you made eye contact.

And now you’re in this situation? He feels sheepish for almost exposing this vulnerability to you…

Zuko jumped at the sound of a knock at his door being knocked, walking fast towards it and swinging it open rather quickly.

“Get in, get in.” He turned around all too fast, his back facing you in sheer embarrassment that he’d even have to ask this of you.

And of course you could tell; you always could. “My Lord, please don’t be embarrassed about this. It is simply educating you on your sexuality; nothing wrong with that.”

“Right…” He walked to the bed slowly and sat down, his eyes following your figure slowly approaching him.

He can’t deny it; you looked beautiful. Your nightly robes were a pretty white, its sheer fabric covering your body nicely and your nipples poking out in the fabric.

But as much as Zuko’s eyes were on your breasts, he quickly averted his eyes to you the moment you cleared your throat. You were holding a book…

“And that?” You smiled at his question.

“This is erotic literature. Clear source material in order to work as an example on what to do.”

He blinked awkwardly, whereas your smile was still glued onto your face. You opened the book to a specific page, being bookmarked by a folded piece of parchment.

Perhaps Zuko was out of his mind—or maybe he already was (because why the hell else would he even be in this situation in the first place?), but he couldn’t stop staring at you reading. God, he knew he was a prude but to get aroused by watching you lick your index finger every time you flipped a page? He felt his pants get tight and his mouth dry.

“Do I have permission to proceed?” He looked away, his face burning with embarrassment. “I guess.”

“So… first, you hold their face and look into their eyes.”

Before he knew it, you leaned closer, holding his face and  looking deep into his eyes. Your eyes softened and the moonlight peeking through the curtains hit your irises—the color almost instantly becoming more vibrant.

“After that, lean closer…”

Then you just began kissing him. Zuko’s eyes felt like they were going to pop out; your lips were warm, plush and soft. You tasted sweet, like the pastries you’d make him on occasion.

Then your tongue slowly went in his mouth the sloppier the kiss went. Your hands cupping his face pulled him closer to you the more you kissed him.

But as Zuko was starting to get used to the pace of your lips, you stopped, pulling back.

He felt his heart race, blinking profusely like he was embarrassed.

The Fire Lord? Getting like this over a measly kiss? He can already imagine Aang and Sokka making fun of him should he ever accidentally tell this about this encounter.

“That was good, my Lord,” you smiled. “Maybe you don’t even need my teachings.”

“O-Oh…” He panicked, mouth going dry. “Um… I believe I still do…”

And damn, you smiled so kindly. “Okay then please position yourself and sit against the headboard, my Lo—“

“Zuko.”

He winced—God, did he really just say that? Your eyes widened a fragment and you blinked. “Sir, are you sure I can refer to you by your name?”

“We are practicing intimacy,” he looked away while saying this and was glad the moonlight wasn’t hitting him or else you’d see how absolutely flustered he was.

“Referring to each other by our given names is one of the most intimate things. I’d like to try it with you too.”

Only then he looked at you when he heard a light laugh slipping from you. “Okay, Zuko.”

Fuck, you said his name so pretty too… You said it like it was something precious; softly enunciating the consonants and not spewing it harshly like how he’s known for almost all his life.

He felt his heart race faster, observing how you slowly got on the bed and planted your knees on the sides of his thighs, straddling him. You then sat on his lap, your crotch against his, and from your small smile forming on your face, he can tell you’ve taken note of his evident hard-on.

“Now let’s try what we did again, but in this position!”

You sounded far too enthusiastic about this…

He blinked, awkwardly. He didn't know what to do. Hell, if he were to compare being in a room full of generals and his finest soldiers, he would consider that much easier than being stuck between your body and the wall.

Your eyes followed his hands, which were placed beside your thighs and you could sense how shaky they were. He let out a small gasp the moment you grabbed his forearms and led them to wrap around your waist.

“You can touch me, sir.” He nodded slowly and grabbed at your waist hesitantly.

Your lips met his again, except with more fervor. Like you were trying to get a taste of a candy you haven't tasted in years, with your head slightly rotated. Your hands roamed around his upper torso, with your slim fingers caressing on the scar on his chest; it was as light as a feather on his skin.

Zuko could feel his heart beat so. Damn. Fast. So much so that he felt overwhelmed and light-headed and aroused, but also nervous if he was doing this right.

Your hips began grinding against his, hands tangled in his hair while you let his hands travel across your skin. His callous fingertips lightly brushed on your warm skin under your shirt, on your hips.

But when he was kissing you, he couldn’t help but still feel so nervous—to be at such proximity to you and to be able totally touch you like this.

Then you pulled back and got off of him. As soon as he was in bliss, you quickly ended it. He couldn’t atop the quite upset expression he had on his face, noted by you.

“Don’t worry, sir. I must stop now since we are only at the beginning. According to this book, kissing intensely while grinding against one’s gene—“

“Okay… I get it. You’re dismissed.”

He laid on his bed, attempting to catch his breath before you spoke again. This time, without a blank look on your face and tone. You smiled so sweetly…

“It’s cute, but we have to work on your hesitation, sir. Please keep that in mind for our next lesson.”

He nodded, finally relaxing his body the minute you shut the door. You stole his first “make-out”. Sure, he’s kissed girls (and by girls, he means just Mai), but not like this.

Not like you wanted to practically taste them while caressing their face and pulling hair.

“Fuck…” he groaned. “What am I going to do with you..?”

And… he grimaced. He was still hard.

lesson two: fellatio + cunnilingus

For the next lesson, you had him sprawled out on the canopy bed of his chamber. Zuko swore he could fucking hear his heartbeat…

He glanced over at you, once again reading your "source material" pornographic novel, and felt his heart beat into his chest. Your previous lesson didn't inherently lead to any sex, rather it was foreplay that left him all hot and bothered the moment you left. 

All you did was grind against him and kiss, and you had him practically burning for more. And now, here he was, at your mercy. You were kneeled on the bed beside him while you really examined what to do. He could tell how your expression shifted from one of amusement to one of slightly shock, and then you closed the book.

“Now we are trying oral sex!” Once again, he couldn’t help but be nervous at your demeanor.

“Okay…”

“Actually, oral sex is also considered foreplay for some before penetrative sex! But, I didn’t want to rush you and also considered how flustered you got after last session, I decided it was enough!”

Zuko stared at you blankly. “Right…”

You spoke so academically? Blankly? You’re kind and listen to his dilemmas, but he feels unsure. When the both of you were making out, he was the one that was all hot and bothered while you simply left. Was he that terrible at this? Granted, it was his first time making out with someone while touching their body like that, but really?

He wonders how you get during sex… if you’re just as blank or if you—

“Okay! I will strip myself, then you now.”

You then began to peel off your upper half, where Zuko made eye contact with your pretty breasts. He’s never seen a woman’s breasts before like this, but yours looked beautiful. Really beautiful. Like a nice dumpling... Is that even a good comparison? What the hell is he thinking?

His eyes widened at how quick you leaned over, sliding his pants fast and exposing his dick, all hard and resting on his abdomen.

“Now please let me show you how to indulge in fellatio.”

You took his tip in your mouth, tongue swirling on his leaking tip and pressing on his shaft. It was too quick.

“Hahh—fuck…” Zuko closed his eyes, almost in disbelief that you were actually doing this.

You then took him whole in your mouth while stroking him at the base of his cock. You looked so cute, just cheeked hollowed out while you sucked him off.

You stopped for a moment, still stroking his cock while looking up at him with those damn pretty eyes of yours. “Now, if you want, you can also push my head a bit in case you would like a more pleasurable experience according to the book!”

And just like that, you latched your lips on his length, bopping your head up and down while your tongue dragged on his sensitive veins. He was itching for a release, and clearly you could tell too.

“You can also ejaculate in my mouth if you so choose!”

And just at that moment, he did, with spurts of cum unloading in your mouth. Then you swallowed… Shit…

Zuko took a moment to catch his breath, panting a bit before speaking again.

“Now let me do it to you.”

And for the first time, you looked hesitant. “Ca-Can you repeat your question again—?”

“Can’t I indulge in oral sex with you?”

Your eyes widened like they were going to pop out of your skull. “I-I mean yes…but it isn’t necessarily proper.”

Zuko pushed you on the bed by your shoulders, making you lie down, where he got off the bed and stood over you.

“If you are to educate me on my sexuality, not only would I like to learn how to receive but to give.”

He leaned towards you and grabbed the book beside you, flipping to the page you bookmarked talking about cunnilingus.

“Here we go…” He couldn’t lie that he felt nervous, but for some reason, just being in such an intimate situation where you were nervous as well, made him want to act more brazen. To take some type of authority.

“Do I have your permission to proceed?”

You blinked, your face feeling like it’s on fire, and nodded. “Only if you want, my Lo—Zuko.”

He kneeled on the floor, taking off your pants and underwear down and being face to face with your cunt.

Of course, Zuko’s taken anatomy during school and has gotten a diagram on how female and male anatomy look like: all technical.

But as he’s kneeled down, he can’t help but marvel at how pretty you look. Your sex was dripping with your arousal and as soon as you took note on how he was staring, you instinctively attempted to shut your thighs. Like a flower, almost. His eyes traced your body, all stiff and hesitant like you were anxious.

“Please don’t do that; let me make you feel good…”

Zuko grabbed your thighs, dragging you closer to him, and slowly kissed at your inner thighs, leading to your cunt.

Your breathing was shallow, shaky—and you were so evidently shy.

He lapped at your cunt, tasting your essence and going insane off it. He took one hand and placed it above your abdomen, two fingers spreading your labia apart and went at it.

Zuko was almost technical with his movements, kneading your plush thighs like bread dough and cupping his mouth around the top of your slit. His tongue began to piston inside you, going side to side and in figure-8 motions. He attempted to heat up his tongue even, to make the experience maybe a bit more pleasurable, all the while your thighs were crushing his head and you were…crying?

“O-Ohh my God…! Zuko—!” You were whining, your voice so high pitched that he had to do a double take. Your voice usually was derived of emotion, but you were in absolutely bliss. “Hahhh… that’s so so good—!”

He began rubbing your clit with the bridge of his nose, feeling how you twitched every time he was grinding his nose against it.

And then you pulled on his hair, shoving his face in your cunt further. Your back arched from the bed, rotating your hips against his face and tangling your fingers within his hair further.

It was too much; you were practically crying out, tears streaming down your face while Zuko ate you out in such a sloppy manner, eliciting the most lascivious sounds to anyone who may walk in. He was practically making out with your pussy, savoring your taste. You were in a trance, practically almost reaching your climax.

Which is why, when the two of you were under your own euphoric state together, did you barely notice a councilman and his entourage barge in his chambers. 

“My Lor—Oh my goodness!”

“Fuck!”

Zuko looked up, already seeing you covering your face with the covers while the councilmen were looking anywhere but the direction of you two.

“W-We shall leave you be…” one spoke, turning abruptly. 

“Wait!”

Zuko abruptly put on his robe, following the councilman and his entourage.

“What is the meaning of this?! You dare infringe on my privacy?”

The councilman turned around, his expression going from embarrassed to slightly relieved.

The great Fire Lord was on his knees eating a woman out scandalously while he was supposed to be on the look-out for a wife.

The Fire Nation needs an heir now, and Zuko has a lover!

And the thing was, you were from a fine family. Your grandfather was an esteemed military officer to his grandfather and father; your mother taught at the military academy, your brother was a current general in the army.

This was perfect… An absolutely perfect candidate for a wife.

“That woman… That woman is to be your betrothed.”

final exam: the night of his wedding

Zuko sat beside you on his bed, looking away. He bit his lip all anxious and afraid to meet your gaze.

It happened too quick. It was uncharacteristic of the council, however apparently someone snitched and you soon became his betrothed, and were to get married in two weeks after he was caught indulging in oral sex with you.

And now, you officially have gotten married, with you being the Fire Lady.

Yeah... You're now the Fire Lady.

He could seriously scream (in rage because he couldn’t court you? In happiness because he actually likes you? In pure disbelief?).

His head turned to your direction, where you were blankly staring at the window. The moon was out and it was shining directly at your face, sporting a rather melancholic expression.

“I-Is everything alright?”

You were biting your lower lip and your eyes looked glossy, almost like you were stopping yourself from crying.

“Y-Ye—“ “Be honest with me.”

Your eyes met his and then, did the tears slip down your face and your lip quivering.

“I’m so—hic—so sorry… I can’t begin to express how sorry I am to you, Zuko.”

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, a pit settling in his stomach at the thought of being the reason for your tears. “What do you mean? Why are you apologizing?”

“I-I—Your wife! I s-stopped you from marrying your true love! A-And I’m so so sorry!” You were bawling at this point, lightly clutching Zuko’s robes and head crouched down in shame.

“Wait what?” He lifted your head up by your chin and saw how you were looking up at him with apologetic eyes.

Your breathing was shaky and you couldn’t look him in the eyes, making Zuko’s heart hurt. 

He hesitated. He didn’t know how to make someone feel better if they were sad—let alone a woman and someone he feels strongly about. His everything hurts looking at you cry. 

So he tried something he’s never done, but reminded him of his mother.

“Here,” he whispered, holding your shaky hands. His thumbs caressed small circles on your palms, and you slowly looked up at him with eyes that were still overflowing with tears. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong. At all. Don’t ever think that…” He held eye contact that made you cry even more. “My wife.”

At that moment, it felt so natural. You slowly leaned in, caressing his scarred cheek and running your fingertips through his skin, and kissed him. 

It felt all too natural, to be undressing you from your new formal nightly gown, and to lay you down on the bed beneath him.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to… We don’t have to consummate this marriage.”

“I do. I want to.” You said it all too quickly, looking away like you were flustered and destroying whatever nonchalant neutral façade you had been building. 

The truth of the matter was that you love him and have been for years. And to think that you almost stopped him from “getting his true love”, you felt terrible during the two weeks the council forbid you see your husband until your wedding ceremony.

“I want to see you, Y/N.” It was the first time he’d ever say your name so gently while being face to face with you, and he felt a pit in his stomach just looking at your soft smile.

He kept eye contact while he stroked himself, hesitant on touching you.

“Okay…” you whispered quietly.

He began rubbing your slit with his cock, spreading your arousal on his length and paying attention to your clit. 

“I… I learned something from the book during these two weeks I haven’t seen you.”

You blinked and suddenly gasped. 

Zuko placed a hand above your abdomen and began plunging his index and middle finger into your pussy and thrusting them in and out, eliciting a string of lewd shlick! sounds that echoed around your chambers. 

Your eyes tightened, holding his muscular forearm as he continued. Your gummy walls clenched on his thick, quick fingers curling inside of you and hitting that spot. 

“Hahh… keep going. So so…good.” 

A sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeak slipped from your lips at the sight of Zuko sticking his middle and index fingers into his mouth, sucking on them. 

“My Lord—!”

He smiled, a sense of pride overtaking him at your sudden shock. “Can’t I know how my wife tastes like? You taste simply divine, my wife.”

“Oh my—!” You squeaked, using your forearm to hide your flustered expression and beginning to roll your hips against nothing. Your clit still ached in anticipation for that friction he gave.

Zuko’s nimble fingers traced your goosebump-ridden skin and he cupped your left breast while his lips went further down to your other one. “You’re so damn beautiful, my wife. All mine...”

The pit in your stomach grew and you looked away, embarrassed and aroused. 

“Please…touch me further.”

It was silent between the both of you for a moment; the wing in which the both of you were at was silent, and you could hear your heavy heartbeat in your ears the longer you kept eye contact with your husband’s golden eyes, pleading with you. 

“Let me pleasure you…Y/N. Please.”

You nodded your head slowly and bit your lip, your gaze trailing down onto your husband’s cock again, practically on the verge of cumming. 

“Darling—please,” his golden eyes gazed at you, your flushed face and hesitant expression, and he smiled softly. 

He felt nervous. What if he didn’t like sex? What if you didn’t like it? As much as he can call you darling, he was a nervous wreck internally.

“L-Let me know if it hurts. Please. I will stop.”

You nodded and dug your nails on his gentle skin, creating crimson crescents in their wake.

And just like that, your husband penetrated you while holding you so gently. Your lips pursed and your eyes followed where his were: at your cunt. The skin of the base of his cock wrinkled the moment he bottomed out in you and gleamed with your arousal when he moved his hips. Zuko hissed, his breathing becoming jagged and heavy.

“M-Move…Faster, Zuko!” He rocked his hips into you, holding your arms down against the sand. Your supple breasts bounced with every harsh thrust. 

Oh, Zuko appeared as if he was going to lose it. You were just so beautiful and you were all his now.

Your eyebrows pinched together, lower lip bitten down, and tears welling up in your eyes. 

“Oh my God!” Every move of his was fast, pistoning himself into you with ferocity that you slapped your hand on your mouth to stop squeaking. You felt bad for whatever maid or guard was outside hearing you cry out your husband’s name.

Zuko leaned towards you, latching his lips onto your jawline, where he left soft kisses in their wake. His cock dragged lazily against your velvety walls, clenching against him like a damn vice.

“Ahh—nghh…Z-Zuko—!” Your legs clung onto his hips lazily, body arching onto his while your arms covered your face. He’d slowly pull his hips away and slam into you so lasciviously.

Even if he did not replicate the same growing emotions you had for him, you still found yourself wanting more. Your hips bucked against his and you wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him again.

“You feel so good, my Lord…” you whispered, against his lips as you tasted him.

Your legs clung onto his waist, feeling his hips buck and thrusts slowly become less consistent. “Let me make you feel good forever, my love…”

Oh…

He flipped you, to be on top of him. The moment he bottomed out inside you, you let out a cry, pressing down on his lower stomach and bounced yourself on his dick.

“Fuck! Oh my—!” God, you looked fucking stunning, with the moon hitting your upper torso and your breasts bouncing with every harsh thrust of his hips upwards. 

“Let me make you mine, Y/N. I beg of you…” He groaned, hissing at how your cunt tightened around him oh so good.

You were crying—like actually crying—rocking your hips and fucking yourself on him back and forth. Zuko felt like he was on cloud nine; you were just too damn perfect.

“Nghh-more! Please!” A wave of euphoria washed over you; it was amazing…something you’ve never experienced before. 

“Are you alright, Y/N?” He paused, noting your labored breathing and maw slack.

Your body felt damn feverish and you could feel how Zuko’s cock twitched inside you, spilling his hot, warm load inside your hole, making you full. 

“F-Fuck…” Zuko wrapped his arms around your waist and slowly tugged you down on him, his head on the crook of your neck as he burried his seed inside you deeper. All warm and filling. 

Your weight was on him and you could hear his heartbeat, both of you breathing heavily. 

“We should… We should do that again. That was nice.” God, you really are perverted.

Or maybe he’s the perverted one for having one hell of a time right now.

“Tomorrow?” “Tomorrow.” He sighed, running his fingers through your hair and feeling your legs’ hold against him become tighter.

But one thing’s for certain: he wouldn’t give this up for the world.

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a/n: hey y'all.... I'm back... deflowered is back... if you guys have any ideas for zuko fics lmk...