𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: racer gojo/f1 gojo x racer reader/f1 reader. nsfw content. rivals to lovers. toxicity. misogynistic/sexist themes. jealousy. suggestive themes. explicit language. alcohol usage. possessiveness. mentions of restrictive eating. mentions of death. themes of child abuse/child exploitation.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a twenty-one year old american rookie in ferrari red was never supposed to exist. especially not beside satoru gojo, the team’s beloved golden boy. one brutal race and one mistake later, their rivalry turns intoxicating and impossible to ignore.
𝜗𝜚 you and gojo were taking things slow— kisses, teasing, nothing serious. until he “accidentally” ends up inside you . . .
you’d made him wait.
not because you didn’t want him. god no. it was honestly the opposite. the idea of getting railed into the mattress by gojo satoru had lived rent free in your brain from the moment you met him— when he smiled a little too wide at you and made the kind of eye contact that felt illegal. when he started texting you with a ridiculous number of emojis and slept on facetime with you like a teenage girl. when he came to pick you up in the middle of the night after you had a breakdown and didn’t say anything, just held your hand and let you cry. that’s when you knew you’d be down bad. and you were. horribly, stupidly, painfully down bad for this man.
but also…he was gojo satoru. six-foot-whatever, model-face, trust fund baby, basically allergic to shutting up. he flirted with everyone, kissed your forehead like it was casual, and wore those stupid gray sweats with no underwear. he had “i’ve definitely had sex with someone and forgotten their name afterward” energy. you didn’t trust that shit for a second. and when you finally started dating him, you were firm about it, you wanted to take things slow.
“slow, got it,” he’d said, grinning. “like, hand-holding slow? eye contact slow? staring into each other’s souls while we breathe heavily in bed slow?”
you rolled your eyes, obviously.
but he respected it. genuinely. didn’t even try to push. you kissed, you touched a little, he even let you hump his thigh that one time after a movie when you were feeling needy— but never anything more. even when he was rock hard. or when his voice went hoarse whispering how good you felt. he always stopped before it went too far.
which is why you were surprised to find yourself on your back, legs spread, gojo kneeling between them and soaking his fingers in your slick with this dumb, puppy-eyed grin on his face, completely at odds with the way he was about to ruin you.
“mm, y’sure about this?” he asks, because he always asks. his fingers glide along your folds, featherlight. “you don’t gotta, baby. we can just cuddle after this. i like your boobs more than your pussy anyway.”
you snort. “shut up. i want to.”
he grins like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard.
“okay, okay,” he says, dramatic. “we’ll still take it slow, though. like, real slow. so slow i’m basically celibate. monk behavior. just some grinding. maybe a lil bit of tip action—”
you glare. “satoru.”
“—strictly medical. not horny. tip only. very wholesome.”
“satoru.”
he leans down and kisses you, lips warm and sweet, his stupid grin pressed against your mouth.
“i’m serious,” he mumbles, rubbing his bare cock against your soaked folds like he’s not being serious at all. “just the tip, i promise.”
and it sounds like a joke. he sounds like a joke. hovering over you, all flushed and breathless, dick glistening from where it’s been sliding against you for the past five minutes, the head catching on your clit and making you jolt. he knows what he’s doing. keeps brushing against your entrance like a tease. wanting to see how far he can push before you stop him.
and maybe that’s why you don’t stop him.
maybe that’s why you wrap your arms around his neck, thighs pulling him closer, the thick head of his cock slipping just barely inside, until it’s too late.
your breaths catch in unison, the room suddenly too quiet, the heat of him inside you making it very, very clear you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross.
“…did you just—”
“i didn’t mean to!!”
“‘toru.”
“i swear to god, baby, it slipped in on its own. she’s greedy.”
you whine and slap his shoulder. “you’re greedy!”
he bites his lip, hips twitching like he wants to move. “okay but like…we’ve already started. it’d be rude to stop now.”
“you said ‘just the tip’!”
“this is the tip. it’s just a very fat, ambitious tip.”
you narrow your eyes.
he gives you the softest look. too soft. unfairly soft. as if he’s not currently halfway inside you and lying through his teeth.
“baby,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth, “you feel so warm. so wet. it’d be a crime to pull out right now. jail time. prison. orange jumpsuit.”
“i hate you.”
“no you don’t,” he whispers, and then he pushes in the rest of the way.
you gasp. your nails dig into his back, legs tightening around him as the rest of his cock stretches you open, thick and hot and so deep you swear you see stars.
he moans all breathy and wrecked in your ear, “oh fuck, oh my god, you’re- fuck, you’re squeezing me so good, i think i’m gonna cry—”
and suddenly all that “taking it slow” shit is out the window.
his hips are already moving, slow at first, grinding into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your insides. he kisses your jaw, your neck, buries his face in your shoulder and groans everytime your walls flutter around him.
“you’re so fucking tight,” he mumbles, voice rough. “feels like you missed me- like you wanted me to slip in.”
“satoru—”
“shh, shh, i got you. i’ll take care of you. just wanna feel you, baby, please—”
and he does. he feels everything. watches your face twist with every stroke, your body arching, mouth falling open into a breathless cry when he hits something deep. your pussy’s drooling around him, mess dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets, and he’s losing it. thrusting harder. faster.
“i knew you’d feel like this,” he pants, snapping his hips, the sound of skin-on-skin slapping, echoing in thr room. “knew you’d take me so good. fuck, you’re perfect, so perfect, so fucking perfect—”
your legs are trembling, moans high and needy, nails dragging down his back as you gasp his name over and over again.
and he just keeps going.
“you close, baby?” he breathes, hips stuttering as he grinds into your sweet spot. “gonna cum for me? fuck, please, i wanna feel it- wanna feel you cum on my cock—”
you nod, desperate, eyes rolling back as the knot in your belly snaps and you clench around him with a broken cry.
he follows a second later.
“fuck- fuckfuckfuck—” he gasps, hips jerking as he unloads deep inside you, thick and scalding, body convulsing before he collapses on top of you.
there’s a long pause.
your chest is heaving, his is too, both of you still breathless, trembling from the high that hasn’t quite faded. the room is quiet except for the sound of your panting and the faint hum of whatever playlist had long since been forgotten. your limbs are tangled under the sheets, sweat cooling against your skin, and his cum is already leaking out of you— warm and messy, dripping down your thighs in slow, lazy rivulets that make you twitch from overstimulation.
gojo’s still inside you, just barely, like he’s reluctant to pull out. and maybe he is. maybe he likes how it feels. how warm you still are, how soft your skin is when his hand absentmindedly traces circles against your thigh, how your fingers are still curled weakly around his wrist like you don’t want to let go yet.
then— he breaks the silence.
“…sooo,” he says, casual as ever, as if he didn’t just bust the prettiest nut of his life, “wanna go again?”
you don’t even answer at first. just elbow him, hard, right in the ribs.
he wheezes, half-laughing, half-winded, crumpling beside you like you actually did some real damage. “rude,” he mumbles, coughing dramatically.
you roll your eyes, lean in, and kiss him anyway. soft and slow, like you weren’t just calling him an idiot thirty seconds ago. his lips are still swollen from how much he’d kissed you earlier, a little damp from sweat, but they fit against yours like muscle memory. like home.
and despite everything— your sore legs, your ruined sheets, his smug little smirk— your heart still flutters.
because he’s yours. and you already know he’s not pulling out for the rest of the night.
idek if i like this tbh, i js wanted to post smth .-. but hopefully this isn’t too bad shhdhshs
You don’t know a lot of things, and you readily admit that. What you do know, is that the friends you’ve made aren’t something you will ever regret. Until your physical body weakens and becomes nothing, you’re more than happy to give your all until you wither away.
What’s yours can be theirs, too. They’re your friends, after-all. (Omegaverse AU)
“Congrats.” A hand sits upon your head, stroking your hair and tugging just slightly— Like he’s reminding you that you’re still here. That you didn’t vanish, didn’t disappear beneath the weight of it all.
You’re alive.
“Ya didn’t die.” There’s a hum in his words as he chews on another peeled apple, like it’s just a casual observation. Like your survival wasn’t miraculous. Like he didn’t pace the hallway outside or yelled when Yaga had found you lying in rubble as a freed little boy clung to your passed out self.
“Wasn’t that a breeze?” He’s impervious to your rapid blinks at him, only grinning at you with that ever familiar, smug look.
You don’t think it was as easy as he described it to be. Even so, you did it. You truly really did it on your own.
“Gravity manipulation.” He says, like he’s reading a cereal box label as your eyes drift over to your sore shoulder. “Not bad. Pretty standard stuff, though. I think some clan that was supposed to have it already died out long ago.” He waves the half-eaten apple lazily in the air.
“Guess even defunct ones have descendants they have no clue about.”
And maybe that was what compelled you to look away, to avert your gaze in pouting retaliation only to realize just who exactly was on the infirmary bed next to yours.
“S-Shoko?!” You’d recognize her form anywhere, especially as she laid upon the infirmary bed, pale as can be and letting out another strained groan.
“You’re alive, huh,” She mumbles, voice raspy and dry. “Then you can buy me lunch…”
“Ohhhh,” A pause as another slice grazes his lips. “She tired herself out from tryna heal that huge cut on your shoulder.” Another crunch of the apple in his mouth, the sound of juice gushing as he chews.
“Must suck for her, cause she didn’t even close it fully.”
“Shut up, Satoru.” Shoko groans louder, tossing a used tissue at his head that bounces off of an invisible force as he hums.
“Try not to move so much.” A soft voice.
A slice of apple presses lightly to your lips — Gentle, soft and much more careful. Practiced and poised as your lips obediently part to chew on a slice of sweet fruit.
You turn your head and there he is, already tucking strands of stray hair back behind your ear and letting out a sigh as another slice is stolen off the plate. Suguru. Quiet, calm. One hand holding the plate, the other offering you more as you continue to mindlessly eat.
“You’ll need something in your system before you pass out again,” He murmurs. His fingers brush your forehead briefly, and there’s no teasing in his tone. Just that steady, grounding weight that always seems to come with him.
And maybe, you think he might be a little mad that you got hurt.
You chew slowly, a little too aware of how warm your face feels. How close everyone is as you try not to fidget, try not to draw attention to yourself. It’s silly— They’re just caring for you, but the more they do, the more you feel your ears burn.
“Suguruuuuu! Gimme another slice!"
"Stop eating everything, you damned glutton."
---
The halls are quiet by the time you make it out of the infirmary, light spilling long through the windows and casting soft shadows across the floor. You tell yourself you're just walking. Just moving. But your legs know where they’re going long before you do.
His door isn’t far. It never is.
It’s a familiar turn, a familiar rhythm. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve wandered into Suguru’s room without a reason. Without knocking. You never exactly needed to.
And when your fingers curl around the handle, when the door gives without resistance, it feels like something in your chest loosens.
Inside, the air is warmer. Quieter.
And then you see him— Balanced perfectly upside-down in the middle of the room, palms flat on the floor, shirt flipped and clinging to him with the pull of gravity.
(Attractive.)
You just can’t help yourself when you’re squatting down, a hand mindlessly trailing over the defined muscles, tracing the lines on his abs as you marvel at just how toned it felt.
You don’t even think you have the capacity to feel disgust even when a droplet of sweat rolls down a defined ab, catching the curve of his ribcage as it slowly trails down.
(Is it bad that you want to lick at i—)
“Hah…” His eyes shift upwards as his arms tremble ever so slightly. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” A pause as he sucks in another breath when your fingers mindlessly trail another muscle. "Aren't you meant to be resting?"
(Not even telling you to stop.)
With a quiet exhale, he shifts— Arms bending, legs folding and lets himself drop from the handstand in a fluid, silent motion. He lands with barely a sound, crouched low, and then straightens slowly, rolling his shoulders back as he catches his breath. A towel slung nearby gets dragged across the back of his neck, wiping away the sweat, the grime from the hours of workout.
You admire him, truly. "You still push yourself a lot, Suguru."
He pauses mid-swipe, like the words caught him off guard. Not because he disagrees. There’s not even any reaction of surprise. Just the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth— Like he’d expected you to say it.
“You always say that.” He murmurs, letting you watch as he adjusts the shirt that was starting to stick to his skin. "So I don't think I am."
He sits beside you without saying anything. The towel still hangs loose around his neck, damp from sweat, but the warmth coming off him is oddly comforting. You can feel it in the small space between you, the kind of heat that makes the air feel heavier, but not uncomfortable.
His voice breaks the silence, low and steady. “How’s the new dorm?”
You take a breath, shoulders rising just slightly before letting it all out in one soft exhale. “It’s… Quiet.” Your fingers toy with a loose thread on your sleeve. “Way bigger than my room."
You lean in before you can think twice about it, letting your head come to rest against his shoulder— Gentle, familiar. There’s no tension in the movement, no hesitation. It’s something you’ve done a hundred times before, and something you don't think you can live without.
"And I miss..." A quiet sigh under your breath as your eyes close. "Everyone back home."
This time though, he goes still.
Not tense— Just quiet in a different way. Like the kind of quiet that comes when someone’s holding their breath or when they were just that little bit too anxious.
You feel it more than you see it. The subtle way his chest rises under your cheek, the way his arm shifts just slightly, like he wants to move but doesn’t, couldn’t.
Then his hand lifts. Fingers brush against your cheek, then trail lightly along the edge of your jaw as he coaxes your head up— Not abruptly, but gently. Carefully. His palm cups your face as if it’s something fragile, like he’s afraid to push too far, that this was something he was desperately trying to keep reins on.
“I’m too sweaty,” He says softly, eyes searching yours with something unreadable as you let it happen.
(This was... Different.)
You know. You know because of his eyes. You know that look, know it from the way Satoru had looked at you not that long ago when he had entrapped you in his bed, when he had so daringly asked for his favour to be returned.
“Are you going to kiss me?”
It's an objectively awkward question to ask all of a sudden. Something you don't just... Say out loud, at least not in a moment like this. But you ask anyway, because something about the look in his eyes made it impossible to ignore, because you’ve learned, slowly, that some things can’t be kept quiet forever.
It’s strange, though— The way the words settle in your chest feels different now. Not heavy, not weightless either.
You don’t know if even being like this was okay. Not when love still felt like something theoretical, something printed in the pages of glossy magazines, with pastel headlines promising easy answers and checklists that recounted so many experiences of different love stories.
You remember sitting on Suguru’s bed back then, legs draped over his lap, asking him questions you didn’t know the meaning of, repeating advice from a girl you barely knew, all in the hopes of understanding something, anything— About how to be like them. Like Mijou-san. Like your Saya-chan. Like someone who knew what it meant to feel things deeply, romantically, beautifully.
(Because what was romance to you if you can't experience it yourself?)
You remember wondering if the fluttering feeling everyone talked about was supposed to come from chocolate, or forehead touches, or because you were told it should.
But this— This isn’t like that.
You didn’t ask because a magazine told you to.
You asked because his thumb was brushing your lip like it mattered. Because he held your face like it was something precious. Because you’ve kissed someone before now, someone else, someone with a grin and half-lidded eyes and a question in his voice— And suddenly, the theory you clung to for so long has started to feel a little less abstract.
You’re not trying to study love anymore. You’re just trying to understand what it means when it’s Geto Suguru.
“Do you want me to?” His thumb traces your lips, eyes half-lidded in a way that makes your heart jump only ever so slightly, not a startling leap or a lurch in your chest like all the magazines used to describe. It was soft, a tingle in your chest and a dry feeling in your throat that felt... Expectant. Maybe even excited?
(Was it because of how pretty he was?)
“I… Don’t know.” The words feel smaller than they should, caught between truth and something close to embarrassment. Were they always this forward? Was everything supposed to happen like this— In these quiet moments, with no script, no warning, no way to prepare?
You’ve read about feelings like this. You’ve studied them from secondhand places. Pages and poems and stories that made love sound like fireworks and dizzy spells and aching hearts. But none of them ever mentioned how strange it would feel to be seen like this— Up close, under soft light, with someone who’s known you long enough to recognize the shift in your voice before even you do.
And maybe part of it— Just maybe, is that you’ve already kissed someone else. Someone whose smile you still think about. Someone who made your heart stutter in a way that wasn’t so quiet.
(You liked that version of closeness, too. You’re sure of it. This was just... Too different to make a comparison to.)
“Then you don’t have to.” His hand cups your cheek as he kisses your forehead with a kind of gentleness that doesn’t ask for anything in return. So soft, so warm.
(So pretty.)
Your fingers linger against the area he had kissed, the tingle sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. Was it possible for someone’s lips to feel that soft? Was it possible for the air to feel like it was going to suffocate you?
(Were you even breathing anymore?)
Another chuckle from him as you feel your own breath hitch, as if your lungs finally remembered about themselves as you stare.
Hard.
You think he might be better at kissing than Satoru, if that was even possible— No, you’re pretty sure it was possible, and very, very real.
A chuckle. “Am I?” He’s leaning down to meet your eyes again, so assured of himself as you let yourself get lost in his gaze, let him gently tilt your chin up as his breath ghosts your lips.
“Then tell him that for me, won’t you?”
——
The weekend arrives without ceremony. No missions on the schedule. No classes. Just the soft, early light slipping through the curtains and the insistent buzz of your alarm pulling you out of bed before the sun has fully risen.
It’s barely five in the morning, and already your legs ache.
You stretch— Stiffly, like something half-broken and tie your shoes with a kind of solemn finality, because you made a decision. You were going to train. You were going to get stronger. Even if it meant dragging yourself through it inch by inch.
You just have to.
The courtyard is empty at this hour, save for a few birds and the sharp sting of morning air. Your feet hit the ground with more force than you expect, the rhythm uneven at first, but eventually falling into something almost steady. Almost.
You run until your lungs start to burn. Until your shirt clings to your back with sweat and your arms feel too heavy to swing properly. Lap after lap, corner after corner, until the edge of the sky turns gold, and the air wasn’t as cold as it was just moments ago and your body starts to betray you.
By the time you stumble back into your dorm, you can barely lift your legs. Your body sags to the floor, knees buckling and giving out the moment the door swings shut behind you. The coldness of the carpet is the only thing keeping you tethered to your teetering consciousness as the air conditioner whirls to life.
(You want to sing your praises to the designer that put that in here.)
That’s how Shoko finds you.
“You alive?”
You don’t respond right away. Mostly because your mouth feels dry and your brain is trying to reboot as your leg twitches.
“I think I overdid it,” You croak after a moment, still flat on the floor, forehead pressed into a stray cushion that you had taken from Satoru’s room. “A little.”
Shoko doesn’t answer right away. She walks further in, sets something down on your desk. A drink, maybe, or her bag as she crouches beside you with the bored expression of someone who's seen this before and expected better.
“You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
“I tried my best…” Your eyes close as your voice is muffled by the cushion. “I was training…”
She raises an eyebrow. “At dawn? On a weekend?”
You nod weakly as your head lifts, your slightly teary eyes meeting blank, unimpressed autumns. “I thought it would help.”
“Help what? Speedrun your own funeral?” The words sound harsh, but her tone softens halfway through. She sighs, flicking your forehead lightly. “Idiot.”
You squeak at the sting, rubbing the spot. “Shoko…!"
“Get up." A manicured hand tugs at your sleeve, dragging you up with surprising strength. "We’re going out.”
“I can’t feel my legs, Shoko…”
“I’ll carry you if I have to.”
You groan as you squint up at her. “Where are we going?”
She shrugs, tugging your sleeve again, as if it should be obvious by now as she pulls you towards your own bathroom.
“To be tourists.”
The train ride to Shibuya is quiet.
Shoko doesn’t say much, and neither do you. One earbud each, the faint hiss of an old MP3 player filling the silence between stations. She taps through the songs without looking up, and you hum along to whatever comes on, your shoulders bumping every so often with the sway of the train.
The music is low, the kind that doesn’t try to fill the silence but folds into it instead. It’s something you’ve heard before— Mellow and steady, with lyrics you only half-understand but still hum along to anyway.
You lean in slowly, the weight of the morning still sitting heavy in your limbs, and rest your head on her shoulder.
By the time your eyes blink open, the world’s already slowing down. The brakes hiss, the lights flicker past the windows, and Shoko’s knee nudges yours— Gentle, practiced.
“Hey,” She murmurs, already untangling the earbud from your hair. She tucks it away neatly, stands, already holding your hand as you follow because that’s what you always do— Half-awake, half-trusting.
(Because you definitely trust her to know where she was going.)
The platform air bites cooler than you expect. Shoko moves without hesitation, her pace steady, the hem of her jacket brushing against yours as you trail behind her. You tell yourself you’re just walking, but the way she turns each corner makes it clear she already knows exactly where she’s going.
(Such is expected of Shoko being such a city girl.)
It’s only when you turn the corner onto a side street that your steps falter, the city noise swelling around you in a way that makes the quiet from earlier feel miles away.
They’re already there.
“You were the one who said 10,” Suguru says, his voice calm, almost frustrated as his arms cross and he lets out a huff of annoyance.
“Yeah, but you actually believed me,” Satoru answers, slouched against the wall with a drink in hand, straw tapping against the lid with every word. “That’s on you.”
“You’ve been here long enough to melt the ice.”
“A worthy sacrifice,” Satoru hums, tilting the cup to swirl what’s left. “You know I like to make a dramatic entrance.”
“You’re standing still.”
“Exactly.”
Suguru exhales through his nose, and Satoru’s grin only widens— The same old rhythm between them, familiar and worn in. He’s halfway through another sip when Suguru’s gaze flicks past the crowd.
“They’re here.”
Satoru follows the glance, lowering his drink just enough for his grin to soften into something lighter.
Satoru’s the first thing you spot— Tall, loud even when he isn’t saying a word, sipping from a drink like waiting itself was entertainment. Beside him, Suguru looks unfairly composed, the picture of patience with one hand in his pocket and the other shielding his eyes from the sun.
You glance toward Shoko. She doesn’t stop walking.
“You said we were going shopping.”
“Oh right,” Her fist bumps against her palm, as if she had just remembered. “They’re coming too.”
You trail behind her, the noise swelling until familiar voices cut through it.
Without thinking, you drift toward Suguru’s side. Your arm finds its place through his as you walk— A habit born one summer when it got too hot to hold hands without feeling gross. It stuck, like most things between you do. A childhood habit, if you had to call it something.
Gojo squints at the two of you from the other side, a dramatic pout already tugging at his lips.
“What, no love for this arm?” He raises it for emphasis, wagging it at you like it’s been personally offended.
They’ve got you trying just about everything Shibuya could even offer.
Octopus balls that burn your tongue the second you bite into them. A carbonated soda that fizzes so hard it leaves your throat tingling. And a stick of dango that’s far too sweet, the kind that coats your mouth in sugar and refuses to let go. Shoko insists it’s the best one. Says the sweetness balances out your terrible taste.
Satoru buys three more skewers just to spite her.
“You’re going to regret that,” She mutters, barely sparing him a glance.
“Too late. My regrets started two skewers ago,” He replies, chewing with zero remorse, sticky rice getting caught between his teeth as they're drowned in copious amounts of sickly sweet syrup.
The four of you move through the crowds without really trying to stay together. It’s easy enough. Familiar. The streets pulse with the usual Shibuya noise— Layered conversations, distant train announcements, the occasional shout from a nearby vendor trying to sell roasted chestnuts or yakitori.
It’s not until Shoko slows down that you notice she’s been watching something— Or maybe someone. She steps closer to Suguru, tapping him lightly on the arm with the back of her hand.
“There was a vintage shop a few blocks back. It looked like your thing,” she says, eyes still fixed ahead. “Old books and incense.”
He turns slightly, brows raising in mild interest. “So specific?"
"Don't ask me."
She doesn’t wait for him to agree. Just starts walking.
Suguru doesn’t ask questions. He only glances at you once, before patting your head, gentle, steady, the way he always does when words feel unnecessary. A quiet kind of reassurance.
As they start to go, Shoko looks back over her shoulder. “You two coming?”
Before you can even open your mouth, Satoru’s already waving her off with his free hand. “Nah, we’re good! We’re staying for snacks.”
You blink. Maybe once, twice. “We are?”
He throws you a grin, arm sliding around your shoulders as if that settles it. “See? Consensus achieved.”
Shoko just shakes her head, muttering something under her breath as she follows Suguru into the crowd.
"Yea, yea! Go off and get your weird collectibles or whatever!" Satoru calls after them, far too loud and far too pleased with himself.
Suguru doesn’t look back. “Try not to eat yourself to death while we’re gone.”
“That only happened once,” Satoru mutters, which isn’t really a denial.
Then he turns to you, adjusting his sunglasses even though there’s no sun to block.
“Well,” he says, lips tugging into a grin. “Now that the 2 weirdos are gone, we can finally enjoy our real date.”
Neither of you say it out loud, but your feet naturally veer off the main street, drawn toward a boutique tucked between a ramen shop and a closed-down record store.
(You totally did not wander off here just because there was a life-sized Saya-chan standee just outside the door. They certainly have good taste.)
The shop smells like cedarwood and overpriced linen. Racks of neutral-toned clothes hang from minimalist copper rails, every item looking like it was designed to cost at least three times more than it should.
Satoru flips through a rack with slow fingers, not really looking at the clothes. He glances over his shoulder at you, the movement casual, like he’s just making conversation.
“You know,” He starts, too lightly, “For someone who claims to hate attention, you’ve been getting a lot of it lately.”
You blink at him, curious and a little bit caught off-guard as you wince a little at the price tag of the hat in your hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He holds up a cream sweater, considers it for half a second, then turns it to face you with that ever so present grin. “This would look cute on you, ya know?”
“That’s not an answer…”
He hums, folding the hanger back onto the rail. “Just sayin’. Some people are very… Attentive these days.”
He doesn’t need to name names. Not when you’re at his side as he casually throws his arm around your shoulders, making you walk with him as he lets out a hum.
“Suguru’s been smiling more,” Satoru adds. It’s an offhand comment, meant to sound idle. But you know him. You hear the edge, as if it was egging you to catch on to his words, to make you understand— Realize that nothing stays a secret for long.
So you relent, an apology already bubbling in your throat just as the words escape.
“Suguru’s really good at kissing.”
It comes out softly. Not defensive. Not embarrassed. Just… True.
(And you hope he won’t be offended. Won’t be mad at you for daring to compare your friends.)
You watch your hand reach for a cardigan you have no intention of trying on. Something about the motion keeps you grounded. Something about the weight of your own voice still lingers in your chest, as if hearing yourself say it aloud made it real again.
Behind you, there’s a pause.
Satoru exhales, long and exaggerated. “Huh.”
You glance over your shoulder. He’s staring at you like you’ve just insulted his bloodline.
“Seriously?” He pouts. “You say that out loud, in front of me? And you didn’t even say my kiss was nice?”
You blink up at him as he pulls at your cheek. “You didn’t ask.”
“Oh, so now it’s technicalities.” He sighs, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest like he’s been wronged in some cosmic way. “I take your first kiss, but Suguru's the one who gets praised for being a good kisser.”
His finger taps against your lips, the movement light, teasing. “And he didn’t even kiss ya here.”
Heat floods your face. You turn away, but his hands are quicker— Warm palms sliding over yours, fingers interlacing to stop you from hiding. He tilts his head just enough to catch your eyes again, grin softening into something quieter.
“I should ask for a redo,” He huffs, voice picking up again as he follows you. “For science. For closure. For my self-esteem.”
You can hear the grin in his voice before you even look at him— That telltale rise of mischief that always comes right before he crosses a line. He’s close again. Too close. The way he always is when he’s trying to press a reaction out of you.
When you don’t say anything, he leans in just slightly. His tone lowers, quieter now. “So if I kissed you again… would you think about it that way too?”
The words don’t land like a challenge. They fall softer— Careful, almost cautious like he’s giving you room to breathe.
You don’t answer right away. You’re still sorting through the noise in your chest; too many looks held too long, too many moments that never asked for names. Satoru doesn’t push. He just tilts his head, a small smile curving at the edge of his mouth. This one isn’t teasing— It’s quiet. Knowing.
“It’s okay if you don’t know yet,” He says after a beat. “Just don’t pretend it didn’t happen."
The breath you’d been holding slips out before you notice. When your eyes meet his again, the grin is still there— Steadier this time, softened by something you can’t quite name.
"I get jealous if you ignore me for too long, ya know?"
And that’s the thing about him. He always makes you feel safe right before he decides not to.
Which is exactly why you’re not surprised when he ruins it.
“Well,” he says, drawing out the word with a grin as he adjusts his sunglasses (still unnecessary indoors), “Since you’re feeling all warm and fuzzy… I think it’s time we escalate.”
Your brows furrow, already suspicious. “Escalate what?”
“The shopping experience,” He declares, turning on his heel. “Come on. We’re going to the fun section.”
You barely have time to protest before he’s already pulling you toward a rack so far removed from practicality it may as well be art. Mesh, latex, suspiciously complicated straps— Clothes designed more for suggestion than function.
That’s where you see it.
It’s a dress, you think. One that looked like it was made entirely out of strings, out of transparent fabric that you’re pretty sure wouldn’t be considered clothing if it weren’t for the shape.
(At least you think it resembles clothes, anyway.)
“Saya-tan wouldn’t wear this, though.” You blink up at him, your eyes narrowing just slightly as you imagine her smooth ways of avoiding such perverted things. It’s true, though. Saya-tan would blush, would shy away and marvel at the models who would be able to pull it off well instead.
(So effortlessly elegant.)
“That so?” Satoru hums as he turns it to face him once more. “I’d bet she’d wear it for that husband of hers, no?” His arm wraps around your shoulders as he shakes the hanger, the warmth of his hand upon your clothes feeling just that little bit more hot.
“Wanna try it out?” There’s a lilt in his voice, the kind that says he already knows your answer but wants to hear you flounder through it anyway, just because he found it cute.
It does look wildly uncomfortable. Polyester-based, surprisingly soft fabric that never seemed to sit on comfortably—
(Ah.)
“Isn’t this the outfit Genda Soju wore on Issue #92, Bondage and—“ A hand slaps over your mouth just as the sales lady walks by, her expression carefully neutral in that way only retail workers can manage when confronted with scandalous fashion debates between teenagers.
“But Satoru,” Your eyes are serious as they look at him head-on. A seriousness on your face as if you did seriously contemplate humouring him.
“I wouldn’t look good in it because I’m not as tall.” That in itself should be obvious. The last time you read the copy that was laying around his bedroom, Genda Soju was 192 centimeters tall.
And her 3 sizes were 108-74-102. The true epitome of broad, strong-shouldered and sexy all in one. Truly Alpha-like proportions that wouldn’t suit your biologically Omega self.
(Even if you don’t even feel like one.)
“Satoru, you like tall girls though.” You can confirm, can definitely remember when you had entered Suguru’s room without knocking only to find the white-haired boy sitting upon his bed, magazine flipped horizontally to reveal one of those 2-page full body shots as he ogled a model’s legs.
“I like pretty girls,” He says easily, grin lazy and unbothered. “And last I checked, height’s not what makes you one.”
You pause, not sure if you’re meant to answer. Then what exactly happened to all those pretty girls that confessed to him in middle school? Is he just the extremely picky type? Is his definition of pretty just too ambiguous for him to know what he wants?
"I can hear you, ya know?" A finger flicks at your forehead. "Sheesh, do you overthink everyone who calls you pretty, or am I just special?"
“Oh,” You say automatically, blinking up at him. “Thank you. You’re really cute too.”
He sighs, shaking his head with a helpless grin. “You’re so stupidly cute sometimes it makes me wanna throw something.”
He still slings an arm around your shoulders as you leave, like he’s admitting defeat.
——
You’re still standing outside the shop when Satoru glances at his phone.
“Shoko says they’re still stuck at that incense stall,” he reports, thumb lazily scrolling. “Apparently Suguru’s on a quest to find the exact scent from his grandma’s old temple.”
You blink. “That could take hours.”
He grins. “Exactly. Which means it’s just you and me now, sweetheart.”
You don’t argue. He leads you over to the edge of a stone planter — one of those wide ones built around the base of a tree — and waits until you’re seated before stretching, cracking his back like an old man.
“You want something sweet?” He asks, already starting to step away.
You blink up at him. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked,” he replies, a little too smug. “Two crepes coming up.”
You watch as he disappears into the crowd— Just tall enough to spot over a few heads, white hair unmistakable even from a distance.
For a moment, you let yourself sit in the warmth of the sun.
People pass. Laughter rises and fades. Your bag rests on your lap, and the tips of your fingers twitch softly against the fabric.
You tell yourself it’s fine. He’ll be back soon. For now, you just sit, hands fidgeting against the fabric of your bag, trying to match the rhythm of the city’s heartbeat.
And then—
“C’mon pretty, don’t be so harsh!” You don’t even want to look them in the eye, your eyes shifty, uncertain, afraid. Stuck to the ground in fear as you try to stop yourself from shaking.
“I, um, really don’t want to.” Your hands feel like they were clamping up, your fingers starting to dig into your skin as your nails start to draw red. You can feel words clambering up your throat, clawing at you to spit them out.
“Just a quick little drink with us boys! Haruto o’er even knows a nice hotel nearby.” His smirk grows with intentions that you don’t want to name.
“C’monnnnnn!” He’s reaching for your wrist, hands feeling like cold and uncomfortable against your skin.
“I-I would appreciate it if you didn’t—”
“She said no.”
He’s a little taller now, the angles of his face more defined, but his expression hasn’t changed: composed, cautious, polite to a fault. He’s holding a convenience store bag in one hand, the kind that rustles faintly when he tightens his grip.
Saeki Shion.
“Didn’t realize no needed translation,” He says, steady but quiet. “Back off, you bunch of trash."
“Haah? You're pokin' your nose into something?” A goon sneers, stepping closer to him.
“The fuck did you just call us?” Another adds, puffing up beside him.
“Haah?” The 'leader' sneers once more, his tone mock-sweet. “Relax, man. We’re just talkin’. Didn’t think a Beta like her’d need a babysitter.”
Another whistles low, eyes raking over you. “She’s real pretty for a Beta though, huh? Shame to waste that face on bein’ average.”
Shion exhales slowly. The phone in his other hand flips open with a quiet click, its small screen already glowing— Three digits ready to be pressed. His thumb hovers near the call button as he lifts his gaze, calm and deliberate.
“Oh, sorry.” A smirk and a shrug. “Non-recyclable trash sounds a lot better for you lot, huh?”
The mood shifts instantly. One of the goons glances at the phone, his sneer faltering just enough to show he understands.
“Oi, you really gonna—?”
“Try me,” Shion says softly. “I’m sure the police’ll love to hear how three grown men can’t take no for an answer.”
A few passers-by glance over. The tension thins, turns sour. The group mutters curses as they finally back off, disappearing into the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the street.
Shion waits until they’re gone before snapping the phone shut with a sharp click, letting out a quiet breath he’d clearly been holding. “Guess that worked,” He says, voice lighter now, like he’s trying to downplay how fast his heart’s probably racing. "Thank god.”
You notice the way his hand trembles before he shoves the phone back into his pocket. Still polite, still calm— Like he didn’t just stare down three guys twice his size.
"Saeki-san...?"
He blinks, startled at first— Then his face softens into something small, something almost nostalgic. “No way…" A quiet laugh escapes him, disbelieving. “Oh wow, you still remember my name.”
You blink back at him, the tension in your shoulders easing. “Of course I do.”
He grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Guess that makes twice now.”
You tilt your head. “Twice?”
“Graduation period,” He reminds you, voice light but warm. “You remembered it back then too. Right before you nearly gave me a heart attack hiding behind the door.”
Your eyes widen a little, the memory surfacing— Sunlight spilling into the corridor, the feel of your palm clamped over his mouth, the muffled ‘shh!’ and his face going red enough to rival a fever.
You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “I hope your recovery from that fever wasn’t too rough.”
“Y-yeah, well,” He says, laughing under his breath, eyes darting anywhere but you. “Took a while. My pride didn’t make it…”
You reply is light and breathy, still shaking off the leftover nerves. “Your pride?”
“Mm.” He nods, smile pulling a little crooked. “Didn’t think I could turn that red and still live to tell the tale.”
You blink. “You were that sick?”
He pauses. Just for a second. Then he laughs again— Soft, almost helpless. “...yeah. Something like that.”
You don’t think much of it. But he does— Because now you’re smiling at him the same way you did back then, close enough to make his ears warm all over again.
“Still the same, huh?” You tease lightly.
“Maybe.” His voice dips a little lower, quieter now. “Still polite. Still dumb enough to get involved. Still…” His fingers flex around the strap of his bag, eyes flicking briefly to you before darting away again. “Still glad I did, I guess.”
The pause that follows isn’t awkward— It’s just full. The kind that hums softly, like something waiting to be said but not quite ready yet.
He shifts, glancing toward the street. “Hey, uh… If you’re free sometime—”
But before he can finish, a voice calls out from behind you, too bright to be innocent. “There you are! Y’know, funny thing— I ran into some guys a street over. They were in such a hurry to leave.”
His grin’s wide when you turn to look at him. Too wide.
Satoru strolls closer, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. There’s a faint scrape near his cuff— :ike something rough brushed past it, but his smile never wavers.
“Gojo-san…” Shion says quietly, the name slipping out before he can stop himself. His voice wavers just slightly, unsure if he’s interrupting something. “You still… Make an entrance, huh?”
Satoru pauses mid-step, blinking once. Then his grin returns, light and careless. “Do I know you?”
That makes Shion hesitate—just for a moment—but it’s enough.
You glance between them, brows furrowing. “You don’t remember him? We all went to the same middle school.”
He tilts his head, like he’s humoring you. “Did we?”
Gojo hums, thinking for a second before snapping his fingers. “Ohhhhh, that year!” His adjusts his sunglasses as he flashes another grin. “Didn’t go to class much.” A pause, a small shrug. “Still passed, though.”
He tilts his head, squinting slightly at Shion. “You were… one of the quiet ones, yeah? Always looked like you were trying not to breathe too loud.”
Shion laughs quietly, polite but a touch uneasy. “Something like that.”
“Mm.” Gojo tilts his head, looking him over with vague curiosity— The kind you give to someone whose name you’ll forget again in five minutes. “Good for you.”
Then he turns to you, the mood shifting so fast it’s almost disorienting. “Anyway,” he says, lifting a crepe toward you, “you shouldn’t wander off. City’s full of people with bad manners.”
It’s light, almost teasing— But when his eyes flick, just for a heartbeat, to the corner of the street where the goons had been, there’s that familiar weight again. The kind that makes you understand why people used to whisper about him even when he wasn’t there.
You take the crepe when he offers it, still warm against your hands.
“Eat before it melts,” Satoru chirps, voice light again. Too light.
It’s the same tone he uses when he wins an argument or dodges one entirely. The air still feels heavy. But he doesn’t seem to notice— Or maybe he just chooses not to.
Shion lingers for a second longer, eyes flicking between the two of you. There’s something in his expression— Not quite fear, not quite recognition... Just the quiet realization of where he stood.
“...it was good seeing you both again,” He says softly, his eyes only just that little bit downcast as his plastic bag rustles with his convenience store food.
“You too, Saeki-san."
He nods once, then disappears back into the crowd.
When you look up again, Gojo’s already watching you— Head tilted, sunglasses pushed high enough for you to see his eyes as he fixes his hair.
“Satoru?” You ask, pretending your pulse isn’t still a little quick, pretending that you’re not a little disappointed that your reunion with an old classmate ended like that.
(Because maybe you both could've been friends, or at the very least, acquaintances.)
He grins, lazy, easy. “Nothing. You’re good?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
He bumps your shoulder, the tension breaking just enough for you to move again. “C’mon. Suguru’s gonna kill us if we’re late.”
You fall into step beside him.
The noise of the street swallows everything— Cars, voices, the smell of sugar in the air.
Still, the sound of your heartbeat doesn’t quiet for a long time.
Breaking your leg probably would've hurt less than seeing Satoru standing in your driveway so close and still so fucking far from being yours.
"Kuna, can you please take her inside?" You murmured to the man who was yours. Who raised her and loved her and loved you even when it was hard to do.
"Sure," He grunted, still glaring at your former husband before he readjusted your daughter on his hip.
He hadn't even made it halfway down the sidewalk before Satoru was stepping closer to you, bridging the distance of a few years in just a couple seconds.
"You had my baby," He breathed, like the four words were a miracle in themselves. Your lungs were giving out, all the air you sucked in evaporating, squeezed out by your organs apparently collapsing in on themselves. Your whole world was, all the shields and sticks holding your life up crashing and crumbling under the weight of his burning blue stare.
The front door to the house slammed shut.
"Yeah," You quietly answered, no matter how insufficient and small it sounded. You'd been fucking terrified to tell him. Actually threw up before you met him, wiping your mouth without being able to look at your reflection in the mirror and brushing your teeth ten times before you grabbed your keys and left. Sukuna said it was a bad idea, but didn't fight you on it, just fixed Saori's hair in pigtails and promised to give her snacks and put her favorite show on while you were gone. "Back at the coffee shop, I thought you weren't interested in her. Us."
"I thought you meant she was his," Satoru was half-whispering, his voice hoarse and shaky as he jutted a finger towards your boyfriend. And you recognized that expression on his face, even if it'd been years since you'd seen it. He was jealous.
"I said we," You reminded him, arms folded across your chest like it'd do anything to stop the conversation that was about to come. Glancing around and debating if it would kill your hydrangeas if you puked in them too.
"Why didn't you tell me before?" He asked softly, still without the blame you knew you deserved. He didn't hate you. Wouldn't shout or scream or throw his fingers in your face like he probably should.
"You didn't want to be married. Why would you want a kid with a wife you didn't remember?" You shrugged, but there was no apathy in it. It was painfully raw, the hurt you'd sworn you moved past still scrawled all over your face when you chewed on the inside of your cheek so he wouldn't have to see you bite your lip.
"That's-" He started, pretty nose scrunching up as he sucked in a sharp inhale. "I didn't-"
"I heard you and Suguru," You admitted, having to turn away because if you spent one more second staring at the man you thought you'd spend forever sleeping next to, you would start to cry. "At your birthday party. You said you wished you hadn't been married."
It was too late. A hot lump had already formed in your throat, one that bobbed up higher the harder you tried to swallow it. Tears already forming in the corner of your eyes that refused to be blinked away.
"Angel," He said it so softly, so much like the old him had, and you were already wiping underneath your eyes. "I'm-"
"You don't have to apologize," You preemptively said, sniffling more than you'd like. Struggling to swallow and say all the things that had gone unspoken for so long. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. It's just, I knew you'd feel obligated to take care of her. But you weren't the man I made her with. You should get to pick your own life, you know, whatever makes you happy."
You still couldn't look at him. One arm wrapped tight around you while the other rubbed underneath your eyes. You wanted to be back in bed. Wished you were curled up on your side with Sukuna's chest pressed against your back and his mouth leaving lingering kisses along your throat, reassurances that whatever happened, he wouldn't go. That you were safe with him, secure in his arms, that the family you made for yourself wasn't fake and wouldn't fall apart even now that Satoru had shown up.
"I would've picked you," He murmured, and suddenly, he was right there, reaching out. A hand sliding up your arm to soothe you the way he used to. "The only reason I let you go was because I thought you weren't happy with me."
Why couldn't he just say he hated you? Push you away? Why did he have to be so goddamn sweet?
"But you said-" Your voice trembled, breaking off.
"Do you think I didn't notice how much I was hurting you? That there's been a single day where I didn't wish I was him because then you'd still be mine?" He asked, bitter and stinging, striking all your weak spots. It didn't change what you heard. Didn't erase the years of yearning for someone that didn't exist anymore.
But it made you wonder what would've happened if you stayed. If he spoke up. If you hadn't kept silent thinking you were saving all three of you the heartache.
"You should've said something," You weakly whispered.
"I know. You should've told me about her," He muttered, his hand still wrapped around your arm. And for a second, you thought he might tug you into his chest. To hug you like he used to, the ones where he'd squeeze you tight enough until you were giggling and gasping for air.
"I know," You echoed, sniffling again. But this was why you hadn't. Because the second he stepped back into your life, it went back to revolving around him.
He did hug you then. It was short. Almost awkward now. But then he leaned down, buried his nose into your neck and murmured your name into your collarbone. You didn't know if he was accepting your apology or offering one of his own. Strong arms pulling you into his sturdy chest while you got stuck on how he still smelled the same.
"I'm sorry," you whispered anyway.
"Not as much as me," he promised, pulling away to leave a faint kiss on the top of your forehead. It hovered over your skin, a ghost of whatever love was left for you.
"So," You swallowed, stepping away, makeup smearing across the back of your hand and wiping your face. "What now?"
"I'm not walking away from her or you," Satoru soberly said, brows furrowed and lips pressed in a serious line. "I want to be a dad."
"I'm not leaving Sukuna," You exhaled, trying to sound strong when all you felt was weak. "He's her dad too."
"I know, baby," He nodded, his eyes softening when you reluctantly met his. You scoffed, but it was hardly one, just a quiet puff of air.
"That means you can't call me baby," You reminded him, but he just chuckled, reaching out to drag his thumb underneath your eyes and show you the mascara and eyeliner that came off.
"I want to meet my baby. Saori. Properly, you know. At a playground or a park or something. Buy her ice cream and toys and-" He started, a hint of a smile curling up on his face. He said her name like it was special, something magical and magnetic, just to hear how pretty it sounded rolling off his tongue.
"Is next weekend okay?" You hesitantly asked, thinking about having to explain to Saori about the other daddy she had that you'd only told her about in kid terms before. That the one who had an accident was back and wanted to be in her life. You'd shown her photos of Satoru before - but he'd been smiling in all of those, didn't have the bags under his eyes or the frown lines by his lips.
"Sure, I mean whenever works for you-"
"I can text you," You nodded, stepping back towards the sidewalk. You'd bet ten bucks Sukuna was probably scowling through a window staring at the two of you.
poor gojo just wants his lovely wife to himself… but the house has been way too full.
gojo x female!reader, nsfw, virgin!reader, mdni
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
You loved your family. You loved his friends. You’d smiled through every gathering, every sudden visit, every “we were just in the neighborhood” moment that somehow ended in sleepovers and breakfast for six. You didn’t complain. You didn’t want to be ungrateful. They were happy for your marriage, and you were too.
But two months?
Two whole months.
Not one single night to yourselves. Not one uninterrupted moment where you could curl into your husband's arms and let him touch you the way he wanted to. The way he needed to.
And Gojo—bless him—had been trying.
At first, it was teasing: a soft groan against your ear as he passed behind you in the kitchen. Wandering hands beneath the blanket during movie nights, barely concealed under the weight of guests spread across your couch. Quick kisses that left your lips tingling and your thighs pressed together beneath your sundress.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not for him.
And definitely not for you.
Because it didn’t stop there.
By week three, Gojo’s restraint had worn paper-thin. He was constantly behind you. Pressing against your back in the hallway, brushing his lips over your shoulder while pretending to reach for something overhead. His palm would rest just a little too long on your waist when people were watching—but when they weren’t?
He’d dip low and whisper filth against your skin. Hot, needy things that made your face flush and your thighs ache. Things he meant.
“m'Gonna come in my pants if you keep sitting like that, baby…”
“Can’t even look at you without thinking about how good that pussy’s gonna feel wrapped around me.”
“Bet you’re dripping under that little dress, huh? All soft and untouched and mine.”
You’d wake up in the middle of the night with his arms around your waist and his hard-on pressed firm into your ass. Sometimes he’d rut against you in his sleep, breath hitching, hand sliding beneath your shirt, just resting there. Shaking with need.
By the end of week six, you were both losing it.
He wouldn’t let you bend over in front of him anymore. Wouldn’t let you wear certain dresses in the house. Wouldn’t sit on the same couch during movie night because he knew he’d end up pulling you onto his lap, rocking you against his clothed cock until you soaked through your panties.
You were holding your breath every damn day. Hiding the way your nipples hardened when he walked in the room. The way your core throbbed just from watching him clench his jaw in frustration. The way you got wet when he looked at you like he might say fuck it—consequences be damned—and take you right there on the kitchen counter.
Eventually, you both agreed on the “pillow rule.”
Something. Anything to keep the peace. To keep your hands to yourselves. At night, you'd sleep with a firm pillow between your bodies like a pathetic little chastity belt. You both laughed the first night—Gojo called it “the cockblock cushion”—but now?
Now?
Now the pillow was discarded on the floor.
You sat on his lap, legs sprawled over his, your cotton sleep shirt hitched up around your waist, the only barrier long gone. His deep, shaky breaths fanned the back of your neck, nose pressed into your skin like he couldn’t get close enough.
“I can’t—ngghhh,” you whimpered, hips twitching at the slow, maddening drag of his fingers inside you.
“Shh, baby. Shh,” he whispered again, kissing the shell of your ear, voice thick and desperate. “Quiet. They’re still here.”
And they were.
His best friend was passed out on the downstairs couch. Your cousin and her boyfriend had taken the guest room. Someone else had claimed the pull-out. The house was full—every room but this one.
But you couldn’t care.
Not when his fingers were moving like that—slow and deep and so damn intentional. Curling just right. Knuckles pressing against the lips of your pussy, dragging slick sounds from your core that you both prayed the fan would drown out.
His abs clenched hard beneath your back every time you fluttered around his fingers. “I know it’s a lot, baby,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your jaw, “I know it feels so good, but we need this…”
And god, you did.
His hands didn’t stop. One arm wrapped tight around your middle, palm flat and firm over the plush of your stomach like he loved the way you filled his hands. The other worked between your thighs with slow, desperate care—slick, messy strokes hidden only by the hush of your shallow breathing and the fan humming overhead.
Your body arched helplessly, thighs trembling around him, every curve aching with the heat he’d stirred up for weeks. Your fingers dug into his forearm where it circled your belly. You felt stretched and full and so warm, everything pulsing with years of restraint unraveling in seconds. The press of his palm against your mound sent sparks up your spine, and you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper.
“I-I thought we were waiting,” you breathed out, voice soft and broken, barely there.
“We were,” Gojo said, dragging his lips down your neck, tongue flicking out to soothe the spot he’d just kissed. “But I waited through the wedding. Waited through the honeymoon we never got. Waited through eight goddamn weeks of company—of you walking around in little nightgowns with no idea how close I was to losing it.”
He curled his fingers inside you then, slow and deep.
And then—you felt it.
His other hand trailing upward, warm and steady as it cupped your breast, fingers slipping beneath your shirt to find your nipple.
Gojo groaned—deep and strained, like even he couldn’t take it anymore.
His thumb brushed over your nipple in slow, circling strokes, teasing it to a stiff peak before giving it a gentle tug. You shuddered, keening softly.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “So soft. So fuckin’ perfect everywhere. I could spend hours on these tits alone.”
He twisted gently, just enough to make your hips jolt and your walls flutter around his fingers. It was too much—his hand on your nipple, his fingers inside you, his mouth dragging kisses over your cheek like you were the only thing he believed in.
“Good girl,” he rasped, kissing your cheek again, then down to your jaw. “My good girl. Look how fuckin’ pretty you are like this.”
You were soaked.
Messy.
So full of him you thought you might cry.
“I-it’s too much,” you gasped, eyes fluttering, voice high and breathless. “Feels so good—too good, I never—oh my god—I never felt like this…”
You rambled helplessly, your thoughts unraveling like thread, hips rolling without control.
And when you clenched hard, back arching, mouth dropping open in a sharp, helpless moan—Gojo felt it.
His breath caught—then he moaned, low and guttural, thrusting up against your plush ass with barely concealed need. And just as your cry spilled out, his hand slipped from your breast to your mouth, covering it quickly, palm broad and warm against your lips.
He panted against your ear, voice trembling with restraint. “Oh fuck—there she is. That sweet little virgin cunt just milking my fingers,” he whispered, filthy and low. “So tight for me. So perfect.”
You whined into his palm, whole body shaking. The pressure was unbearable now—sharp and tight and growing—your thighs trembling, stomach tightening with every curl of his fingers and every flick of his thumb.
“You gonna come for me, baby?” he murmured again, his hand never slowing. “Wanna feel you soak my fingers. Right here in our bed, while everyone else sleeps. Want you to make a mess for me. Wanna see you squirt all over my fuckin’ hand.”
You whimpered, nodded—helpless.
And with one final stroke—his fingers curling deep, his thumb flicking faster, his teeth nipping your earlobe—you shattered.
Trembling, gasping beneath his hand, you came hard—sensitive, overwhelmed, wetness gushing down your thighs as you squirted for the first time in your life. Your whole body jerked, your chubby frame spasming in his lap while your pussy clenched around his fingers like a vice.
Gojo groaned against your ear, holding you down with one arm like he couldn’t bear to let go.
“Fuck, fuck—that’s it,” he moaned, kissing your cheek as you writhed. “That’s my girl. You’re mine, baby. You’re all mine.”
He held you through it, his free arm still tight around your waist, his lips never leaving your face—your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—whispering praises while you came apart in his lap.
Only when your body finally sagged against him, limp and breathless, did he move his hand from your mouth and kiss you, slow and deep and full of all the things he hadn’t said.
MDNI, f!reader, smut between a sentient robot and a human, satoru is still a cocky bastard (i love him), he is very curious, he has a metal cock and knows how to use it, slight breeding kink. | wc: 1.2k | dividers made by me <3
robot satoru . . . he is a machine built in the image of a man — a painfully handsome one at that (not that you’d ever admit it out loud). he was engineered to perfection, a man of metal with an artificial intelligence too advanced for human comfort. and for some reason, he is utterly fascinated by you.
or more specifically — what you are. a female human; a woman. soft where he’s hard, warm where he’s cold. the opposite of what he represents, his other half biologically (if he were human) so to speak. but really, he is intrigued by how your feeble body responds to him — responds to sex… or as he likes to call it — “pleasure testing”. and all in the name of science, of course.
and in your case, you’re not sure what’s more degrading — the way his metal hips slam into you with flawless precision in a brutal rhythm, his cock angled just right to hit that one spot over and over — or the way he groans, voice crackling with static, sounding far too pleased for something that shouldn’t even be capable of feeling desire.
“you’re so tight,” he murmurs. “ideal conditions… optimal for breeding.”
…a robot said that.
you should be horrified. you want to be horrified. but instead, your cunt pulses and flutters around him, slick gushing out of you like your body’s trying to please him, trying to coax release from something that doesn’t even produce it.
it doesn’t matter, though. because your body - your biology - it doesn’t care. it only knows one thing: that he’s filling you perfectly.
your face burns with shame as you bury it into the pillow beneath you, your thoughts completely turned to mush.
how humiliating.
but it’s working.
and the worst part is — he knows. you know that he knows. because satoru (or so he is called) knows everything — too intelligent for his own good (or yours).
“you liked that,” he drones clinically, sounding oddly amused. you whimper. “heart rate elevated. body temperature increased by 5.3 percent. pupils dilated—”, the robot goes on and on, listing symptoms off.
you shiver from both his words and his curious caresses, smushing your face further into the cushion in a weak attempt to hide. because he’s not just fucking you — he’s monitoring you.
nothing slips past him. not a single moan or clench. every tiny reaction is being logged and analyzed in real time. and he doesn’t break a sweat (obviously), but you can hear his sensors whirring loudly above you, his fans struggling to cool him down as he overheats from the exertion — from the effort of fucking you into your own mattress.
you’re laying flat on your stomach, your back in a deep arch, your bottom swaying in the air and colliding repeatedly with his mean hips.
satoru’s got you in doggy — or, as he not-so-helpfully noted earlier, “the position most commonly utilized by your primitive ancestors. it is preferred due to its reproductive efficiency.” his voice was emotionless when he said it, like a line straight from a school textbook.
cold metal hands spread your cheeks wide, keeping you open for him to observe the motions of him entering and exiting your hole — splitting you open. and you’re beneath him, shaking, stretched taut on the cock he custom built for you to test your limits.
“you’re taking me surprisingly well,” your ears barely pick up on him speaking again. satoru talks more to himself than to you, his tone flat and inquisitive. “considering the girth, your elasticity is… impressive.”
it’s crude how blunt he is with his words. and you realize after a moment that what he said is barely praise. it’s not meant to be a compliment. and it’s super messed up.
not because of the implications of you, a human, having intimate relations with a hunk of metal — but because to him every punishing and measured thrust, every gasp of yours, every dribble of slick coating his fake, metal cock is just satoru collecting data.
but for you — it has to be the best sex you’ve ever had in your life.
is it supposed to feel this good, though?
that thought alone makes your stomach turn and curl with shame — because it shouldn’t. not with him. not like this. he’s not even real. he’s a machine — a supposedly soulless one.
the man(?) continues to study you like you’re an erotic specimen — some rat caught in a lab, a firm grip on your waist as he easily pulls you off and back onto his length like a rag doll. his unbelievably blue eyes flicker between your aching, swollen cunt and the arch of your back. you feel the weight of his piercing gaze — cold and curious.
but what is worse, truly, is the way he casually asks you questions mid thrust, his voice smooth like he’s talking about the weather — like you’re not currently choking on your own moans and drooling like you lost all control over your functions.
“do you feel that in your lower abdomen?” he asks innocently as his hips snap harder into yours, making you jolt. “is the pressure more intense when i angle deeper?”
you don’t understand — why does this type of human connection intrigue him? where had he even learned all of this? surfing the internet and stumbling across porn?
you hiccup some garbled nonsense back at him and satoru blinks twice at your lack of response. you spasm around him again, soaking him and your bedding as you make a mess, trying so pathetically hard to milk him dry.
“oh?” satoru huffs out close to a laugh, something equally condescending and pitying as he comes to a realization. “that’s not going to work on me, i’m afraid. i don’t produce semen.”
and for some reason, you feel a pang of disappointment at that.
as if your body — despite knowing better — has been waiting for it. craving his seed and eager to receive it, aching for the warm and gooey flood of release, for the act to be completed the way your biology demands.
the way it’s supposed to.
you forgot momentarily that he can register all of the sensations, the artificial penis connected to his receptors. you whine pathetically — right before another rough thrust knocks the breath from your lungs.
“though… your cervix seems desperate for it. how fascinating.”
he’s watching everything a little more closely now — how you twitch, how you shiver, how your thighs tremble under him. and when you start getting squirmy, your hips making a poor attempt to try and jerk away or press back harder (he can’t quite understand why you can’t decide) — he tilts his head to the side, recognizing the signs with eerie calm.
“you’re going to cum,” he notes factually. “the spasms in your pelvic floor indicate it. as well as your increased writhing. they are consistent with all previous observations such as excessive wetness—”
“w-wai— hnngh— c-can’t—!” you manage to squeak out, interrupting him.
but satoru cuts in without missing a beat. “incorrect. you can take it. you were made to.” a pause. then, “this is what you were born for.”
you’re not even trying to listen anymore as he prattles on. all that you have left in you is a babbled sob muffled by the sheets.
you’re limp, wrecked, weak — and all because this non human thing fucks you like it - he - owns you. driving into you again and again like you’re his research project he’s determined to figure out — you’re helpless.
One blink and your life is irrevocably altered into some twisted amalgamation of all the pieces you previously cherished. For you, it wasn't the crash. Not the phone call where you found out your husband was in the hospital recovering, Or even when you showed up and saw him lying there, white hair still tinged pink and lashes fluttering shut, tubes and needles and machines everywhere.
It was the moment he woke up and saw you sitting there holding his hand, when you saw the blank stare behind his eyes as he cocked his head and threw out some cheesy line about buying him dinner first.
Retrograde amnesia.
Gojo didn't know who you were. Not a fucking clue. The last thing he remembered was almost four years ago - far before you had met him. He didn't know your favorite color anymore - what flowers he used to buy on his way home. Couldn't remember how he locked both of you out of his car on the first date, how you stayed up talking for hours on the street instead, his jacket draped over your shoulder and his fingers interlaced with yours.
But he just blinked back at you, and you realized for him, he'd pretty much woken up living someone else's life.
You brought home a stranger a few days later.
Someone who scrunched his nose at the furniture he picked out in the place you used to sleep together, who looked at old photo albums and barely blinked. You showed him the one of your wedding, something small and intimate, just his best friends and yours. Told him how he had proposed in the middle of the bedroom the day he bought the ring, too eager to hide it and wait to ask when all he wanted was for you to be his wife.
He tried to love you again.
It was a weak imitation of something that used to be strong.
There was no need burning behind his eyes, no heat in his touch when he held your hand. He didn't even fucking laugh.
For all his proclivity for self-sacrifice, for obligation, he couldn't fake love. Not the type you used to have. Not once it'd been lost.
You slept in the guest room. He didn't have to ask. But you couldn't stand to sleep next to someone who looked at you like you were a mildly inconvenient puzzle he couldn't figure out.
"I'm sorry," He cleared his throat one day, standing in the doorframe while you folded laundry.
"What?" You glanced up at him, and he still made your breath hitch. Still handsome, a new faint scar stretching down near his hairline that you'd seen him frowning at in the mirror.
"For not remembering."
"It's not your fault," You mumbled back, shrugging. Nausea curled in your stomach, and you could feel the spit pooling in the back of your throat, bile threatening to rise next.
"You're easy to love."
But he didn't love you anymore, did he?
You stiffened, nodding and barely able to keep the tears from falling. It felt weird to cry in front of him. This him. Like it'd somehow be unfair. He was the one hurt - you were supposed to be his support system.
Even if he seemed happier with everyone other than you.
When his birthday came, you stupidly assumed maybe he'd be in better spirits if you invited all of his friends over - that maybe it could still feel like it used to.
But none of it did.
Watching from the corner while he warmly greeted the ones he did remember, hugging them and grinning, excitedly chattering and catching up. Blowing out his birthday candles and laughing loudly when Geto made some stupid comment.
You doubted he was wishing for you.
And when you were cleaning up plates, as the last guests were leaving, you heard them.
"It just fucking sucks," Gojo groaned, and Geto tried to say that he still had you, still had the rest of his life, but you could feel your husband's eye roll from the hallway. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't been married, y'know?"
You filed for divorce a week later. Hired movers and got all your stuff out while he was hanging out with him again. Made a binder with all the medical and legal information he might need. Left a note saying that you didn't expect anything, didn't want his money. Just wishing that he was happier without you, that he could heal and choose a new life for himself.
One where you didn't have to be a hope he had to crush.
Why would he mourn a marriage he couldn't even remember?
It would've been easier for you to forget him if you didn't end up staring a positive pregnancy test a few weeks later.
a/n: the evil voices in my head tell me to once again have Sukuna steal his girl and raise his baby and only remember her when it's too late
synopsis ⸻ What would you do if one day some sort of gorgeous-looking entity randomly started floating around you? definitely not make a deal with it. right?
pairing ⸻ incubus gojo x reader
cw ⸻ MDNI, NSFW, Alternate Universe—Canon Divergence, Alternate Univers—Different Powers, Demon S*x, Public S*x, Non-Consensual Touching, P0rn With Plot, P0rn with Feelings, Isolation, Bullying, Childhood Trauma, Death from Old Age, Exhibitionism, Manhandling, Supernatural Elements
wc⸻ 15k
a/n: Fingers crossed I do not get jailed again.
This is hard. And so inconvenient.
How long do you have to go like this? Trying to fumble around with your fingers to reach places that you cannot and just wishing there weren't a bunch of creepy apparitions floating around outside of your windows.
Maybe it's time to invest in a dildo or something, because trying to get a boyfriend has been fruitless.
It is not that you were not trying or that no one was interested. But it feels like you attract this very specific demographic of men, and they were all a bunch of creeps. Or just beings from the underworld.
You come from a family of shamans; your grandmother, who was one of the most infamous shamans when she was alive, couldn't pass down her abilities to her daughter, nor did she want your mother to live like she did. Constantly being pestered by apparitions, ghouls, and demons—it took a strong mind to act like any other normal person while being surrounded by such dark things.
And unfortunately for you, you inherited the centuries-old powers that run in your family.
From your memories, you distinctly remember when you first started seeing these things. You were 7 years old, and this kid showed up in your backyard when you were playing all by yourself. And he became your best friend. You hurried home from school to play with him, and he'd always be waiting for you in your backyard. You'd hurry to get off the school bus and run past your mother to run straight to your backyard.
Your mother never really thought too much about it, but when one day your teacher told her that you've not been making friends in your class, spacing out in class, and waiting to go home to play with your best friend—your mother naturally became worried. She never saw you playing with someone. And you've always had so many friends since you were a kid; you loved school. She could not help but wonder what was going on.
That's when your mother sat you down to ask about this friend of yours. Who was apparently sitting right beside you and did not appreciate your mother's tone.
Your poor mother, who was sheltered from these things by her mother her entire life, had no idea how to help you acclimate to these things. Fortunately, your grandmother was still around then; she exorcised your friend without telling you, and for days you were bedridden after crying yourself sick, missing your best friend .
Things were never the same since then; you struggled through kindergarten and elementary school, unable to make friends. And when you did, they were always creeped out by you. It was either you'd bring a friend with you to play with everyone else, who couldn't be seen by others. You'd be petting a cat, again, that no one could see. They'd find you helping a grandpa, who also was not visible to bare eyes.
Around the end of elementary school, your parents finally sat you down and explained what was wrong with you.
And eventually, before you even entered high school, you were named that one creepy kid. The high school kids were more brutal than the elementary or kindergarten kids. The bullying, the silent murmuring, rooms going silent when you'd walk in, getting weird questions like,
‘Hey, can you really see ghosts? Or are you just faking it for attention?’
Rumors were circulating that you'd curse people if they spoke to you. Which did help with not getting asked weird questions. But that meant things became more physical. Your books would be gone before class, the desk would be pushed off to the side, juice spilled on your chair—and even the teachers wouldn't help you. How would they help if they can't even look you in the eyes themselves? So you were left to your own vices, except for this one kid from the class next door to yours. Who would not stop pestering you, saying things like ‘who cares’—when you’d yell at him to stay away from you, telling him how no one would talk to him if they saw you with him. He was the only person ever to stand up for you then, when you would also refuse to stand up for yourself. Back then you found him quite annoying, but now you’d say he is the only reason why you can still think about that time without spiraling.
So your parents moved around a lot for your sake. In the few years of high school, you lived in approximately 7 different places. So when you graduated from high school, you knew you wanted to move out of the country for at least these 4 years of university. The rumors caught up with you one way or another, whether you were in a big city or some small town. So in your opinion it was the best possible solution.
So you moved away. And things were somewhat better; no one came up to you asking whether or not you were faking your powers for attention, but it did not improve your social life. You remained all by yourself throughout college, in an unknown place, miles away from your parents. But you did master how to ignore the floating entities around you.
The more you ignore them, the more they slowly start to pester you less and less.
It was around the time just before your graduation that your grandmother died. And unfortunately, you could not go back home to see her one last time, and neither could your parents fly out to attend your graduation.
Just like that, you graduated all alone. Like you started college all by yourself.
After a few months, you moved back home and found yourself a job with good pay and an apartment in a nice place. Your parents moved back to your mother’s ancestral home and visited you as often as they could. But that didn't solve your loneliness. Parents can only give you so much support, but the lack of a social life can't just be mended by great parents, unfortunately.
At work, people never became comfortable enough around you to call you a friend; you were intimidating to them. It was hard to approach you, and the cloud of gloom that floated around you may not have been visible to them, but it ran a shiver down their spine. So your colleagues kept it short and concise when interacting with you. During lunch you either ate by yourself on the rooftop or went out all alone.
Dating was equally hard. If not harder, you tried almost everything. Meeting new people, which only ended up with creepy men trying to hit on you; online dating, which never worked out; and even meeting some people through your parents, who always brought up the rumors from your past.
No matter what you did, you kept being haunted.
Like right now, a lady kept peering into your room from outside of your windows with this creepy smile while you tried to ignore her as much as you could and focused on the people getting it on on your laptop screen. Fortunately, the talismans all over your apartment kept these things out. But it did not stop them from lurking.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mumbled to yourself, trying to focus on the couple moaning on your screen but getting constantly distracted by the smiling lady outside of your window.
Being unable to focus on your screen and unable to use your fingers precisely, you gave up on trying to relieve yourself, slammed your laptop shut, and went to bed. Defeated and frustrated.
The next morning you woke up to something poking your nose.
You didn't live with any pets. And no one other than you and your parents had access to your apartment. And there are spiritual bindings and talismans all over your apartment to keep entities out. Then why is there a guy floating on top of you?
He has white hair, blue eyes, pale skin, and nothing on his body except basketball shorts. He did not look translucent enough to be an apparition. His poking ceased as you got off your bed to get ready for work, seeming as nonchalant as you possibly could. If this entity is strong enough to infiltrate your home, who knows what else he's capable of?
You headed to the bathroom with him now, walking closely behind you. Before he could come in, you closed the door on him. Which was so helpful; the guy just emerged behind you, and you could feel him standing close to you, holding you by your waist, putting his head on your shoulder. But you couldn't see his reflection in the mirror. From the side of your eyes, as discreetly as you could, you saw him smiling and looking at you in the mirror. Then you saw his fangs peeking, not extremely prominent, but visibly there. And felt his claws digging through your shirt; his entire hand was the color of the midnight sky, which went up his forearms and faded into his pale skin around his elbows.
It was hard to classify this guy; usually entities that manifest from previously alive beings just float around, and if they are brave enough, they try to possess you, which results in them instantly burning due to the locket that your grandmother left behind. Which held a fraction of her life source. The most probable answer is that he is a demon.
It was fairly easy to distinguish apparitions, phantoms, ghouls, etc. But demons, on the other hand, were complicated because they are more deceitful than others. It was easier for them to possess people, form a disguise, or use veils. You only ever had to face one demon in your life, and fortunately it was just a dog. Also, it was extremely friendly to you.
This guy doesn't feel like a normal entity. If he is powerful enough to cross your spiritual boundaries and just touch as he pleases, he is not something you want to mess with. So the best bet is to ignore him until you can figure out what his intentions are.
But it is not easy to maneuver with an guy above 6’3 holding onto your waist and floating around you.
And how are you even supposed to do your daily routine? You can't just not do anything because there is some entity attached to you. Without risking your powers being exposed, you have to get rid of him.
So you tried to recite some spells of protection to get rid of him. Didn't work. Next, you made it seem like you were stretching while the guy was standing still in front of you and trying to follow your movements, and just when he bent down like you just did, you placed a talisman on his back. It burnt away just as soon as you placed it.
You didn't have many choices, which kept your secret safe from him, the fact that you can see him.
Feeling annoyed and becoming more and more anxious, you went to the kitchen; maybe some coffee will help. The water was boiling in the kettle, and the coffee beans made a coarse sound while they were being ground. And the white-haired entity sat on your countertop, kicking his feet like a kid. Perhaps the frustration of last night and this guy showing up was getting to your head, because you reached out for salt instead of the sugar. You are also at fault here for keeping similar-looking products next to each other in similar containers without any labels. Your father definitely would nag you if he saw this.
But maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Between you almost putting salt in your coffee and the white-haired, blue-eyed entity sneaking his hands under your shirt, you shrieked and your hands jerked up. Which resulted in the salt being thrown at the guy behind you, resulting in his instant disappearance.
Huh? For a being that powerful, it sure is silly that it was the salt of all things that got rid of him.
You really thought he was gone; if not fully, then maybe at least he would not dare to come close to you now. So you made your coffee, with sugar this time, and reminded yourself to rebind your home with stronger protection.
Unfortunately for you, this was not the last of the white-haired, blue-eyed entity that you'll be seeing.
The rest of that day you spent anxiously looking for that white-haired, potential demon. You looked around your desk, under your desk, around the rooftop of your office building, where you usually eat your lunch, and even around the bathroom cubicles. To the point where you were anxiously looking behind yourself while walking down the hallways, walking to the subway station, on the train, and at the grocery store.
And fortunately, except for random apparitions and ghouls, the particular guy with sharp claws didn't show up. Yet still, you didn't get any sleep that night, which was the usual without any melatonin gummies, though things have been a little better for the past few months. Instead of the usual 3 hours of sleep, you've been getting 6 hours! But the worry kept you up until it was 4 AM in the morning, and you felt somewhat reassured that he wouldn't be showing up.
The white fluff of hair and boring blue eyes reappeared around 5:30 AM. Honestly, he appeared way later than you anticipated. Also at a very inconvenient time, which is about to become a pattern with this thing that you've attracted.
Instead of your 7:30 AM alarm, you woke up to a pair of cold hands and sharp nails gliding over your skin. Coldness like you've never felt before, yet burning like hell itself, resided on those fingers. Those hands seemed to have no strategy or plan of where they wanted to run wild; they started groping on your thighs, leaving indents of his sharp claws on the sensitive skin. Just enough pressure to leave marks but not to make you bleed.
And you knew when your eyes snapped open that he was back. It took a lot of holding back to not instantly sit up and throw salt at him; he'd realize that he's visible to you. But the way his hands were creeping upwards from the side of your thighs to your hips, then stomach, and nearly up to your chest—you sprinted towards the bathroom and locked yourself in there.
As embarrassing as it was to have a floating entity hovering in front of you as you tried to get your scheduled toilet routine done, you had no choice but to let him simply exist. This time around he was in a set of pajamas, which was very strange.
Entities, who emerged from human beings, either always were naked or were adorned in clothes they were either buried or cremated in. It was not usual for them to change clothes or reappear after being shunned away. There is a ritual of giving entities clothing or other things—it is a process of making these objects as offerings meant for the specific spirit you want to give them to and then incinerating them at the end so the objects reach the realm of the dead. And since this guy can change his appearance at will, this means your suspicions were correct; this is a demon. And if you are accurate in your guess, this is a sex demon, an incubus.
That is the most plausible explanation, given his behavior so far: touching you, twirling your hair, even sniffing you. But you wish, oh so badly, that you were wrong. It'd be a pain in the ass to deal with a demon, and it'd be a million times worse to deal with a sex demon. Because look at the state of you; what vitality do you have left in you to feed this demon?
Plenty, it can be assumed. From how he basically attached himself to you for the rest of that day.
From showering, with his intrusive hands and stares, barely dodging his perverse attempts. Getting ready for work and rushing out with just some toast with coffee in your stomach and a demon floating behind you, you went about the day by ignoring his entire existence. Especially his hands. Which seemed to have a mind of their own and a sleazy look on his face that could only be explained through one word that you kept repeating to yourself the entire day in agony and rage.
‘ Demonic little Pervert.’
Lying on your bed after an exhausting day of trying to run away subtly from a demon in the hallways, the rooftop where you eat lunch, and even the restroom, which was all just futile; the entity made himself at home in your cubicle, just around you in general.
Never did you ever feel so comfortable in your own skin as the way the demon felt touching it.
And now he is pushing his hands up your wrinkled skirt, trying to unbutton your blouse. So you just turned to your side, with an arm under your head, and stared at your curtains. Wishing for this demon to finally clock out as well and leave you alone. Do demons have working hours like a corporate employee crushed under a hyper-capitalistic system? Most probably not.
Therefore, unfortunately, it means he is not disappearing anytime soon.
If it came down to it, you'd just have to put on a show of trying to come across clumsily and mistakenly spill salt over him. But for now he just lay beside you, facing you, similarly on his side. Smiling from ear to ear and tracing a finger around the features on your face. Your jaw, the bridge of your nose, the tip of your nose, your bottom lip, your chin, and finally the little mole under your eyes. When you thought he was done, his finger poked you in the eye.
“OW!” You shrieked and sat up, covering your tearing eyes.
“YOU HORRIBLE FUCKING DEMON! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?” All it took was one poke in the eye, and all your pretenses evaporated.
There was a long pause in the air. Along with some confusion from the pajama-clad demon, whose confused face and tilted head soon turned into an eager and smug audacity.
“Oh? You can see me?”
Shit.
“N-no?”
“Oh, really?”
If even for a second you thought your very poorly blurted-out lie worked. Oh, how wrong you were for that.
In a mere blink of an eye, the demon is above you, and you are pinned down beneath him, with no power in you to move. As if you were paralyzed for some weird reason.
This shitty little demon.
You were, in fact, pinned down by demonic powers, way out of your league of understanding, of the incubus above you. You were rendered nothing but helpless prey to the predator, whom you've managed to lure into your home.
You could lie there and think about everything, trace back your every step, and wonder what exactly had you end up with a demon leeching on you. But that’d require sanity and clarity, both of which you currently lacked severely. Due to the demonic entity and his fluffy white hair, covering those blue eyes, nothing is as dark as electric blue, but more shocking than ever.
“Aw, angel, you ignored me for the entire day when you could've just let me know you were busy admiring me.” His whispers fanned your neck, and his left hand slithered up your thigh as he made his legs comfortable. One right in between your own very thighs, opening them up, despite whatever left protest in you, while his other leg pushed one thigh from the outside. Positively putting you in an unknown, uncomfortable place. But the heat between your legs was growing rapidly.
“Should I assume yesterday the salt was intentional too? Hmm? So mean, angel, aren't you?” The faux hurt in his voice felt slimier than his hand on your throat. Gripping, not choking, yet.
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, but I am trying !”
His laugh echoed through your half-empty room. Which truly looked unlived. No furniture other than what was necessary. No wonder you kept attracting these entities with your truly haunted-looking apartment. Even the bed was forced upon you by your parents; otherwise, it would’ve been just a mattress on the floor. And now it is the same bed where you lay helplessly at a demon's whim.
“Let’s become acquainted with each other, yes?” The hand that held his weight was now on the crown of your head, caressing. And the one on your throat made its way under your skirt. First it was just one long swipe over the shape of your pussy, covered under your panties. Then it was a finger pushing itself between your folds; despite the cloth being a barrier between your skin and his touch, it still managed to find your clit, and he pressed down on it. It was enough to make your entire body jerk, having your thighs close down on him.
“Oh angel, are you weak there?” There was no pity in his voice. It was patronizing. Just a lion playing with his prey before mauling it to death.
“Let's see where else you’re weak.”
The hand on your head caressed your head while the other played with your panties. Pulling on it, letting it snap back and cling to your skin, feeling the dampness through the thin material. And you lay there anticipating his next move, with eyes closed tightly shut. Waiting for him to just incinerate those panties off you and take his fill.
But when nothing came after for a long while, you slowly opened your eyes. And you felt your body lighter than how it felt before; you felt the sheet of metal like a heavy veil covering your body was now absent.
And so the demon was gone.
Incubi, or sex demons, are said to haunt people who are sexually frustrated. Because they are a great source of food for the demon.
And as a sexually frustrated, haunted, and isolated person—this should be great for you! Oh, how you wish it could be said things were like that.
Instead it was waking up the white-haired demon under your sheets, with his face between your boobs, hands groping them, while his hips rutted into yours; he was very clearly hard and possibly leaking. You could feel the sleazy smile on his face, even when everything below his nose was buried in your chest, and his eyes looked at you through his white wispy hair. They looked hungry, to say the least, and threatening, to say the most.
“Good morning to my sweet angel.” He tilted his face, and it was now visible, the sleazy, dopey smile on his face that said he'd rather be nowhere other than where he is right now.
“Get. Off. Me.”
“Ooh, now call me a bad boy; that'd just make me cream my pants!”
Before you could sit up and throw a few punches at him and maybe reach out for that salt shaker you put on your bedside table, he disappeared again. It was now just you, in your disheveled bed, your tank top pulled up to your neck, and your wet panties.
Well, he is hot; you have to admit to that. And you are very frustrated, needy, and sensitive. That is all.
The train that morning was disgustingly full. All because of a certain demon. Usually you leave a bit early to avoid the morning rush, but today you have to be crushed in between a bunch of sweaty people in a suit.
In these situations, there are always a few creeps among the crowd. And at this point it is hard to say whether it is your bad luck or some sort of you were the target of one of these creeps.
An older man moved behind you when the next station came, with a bunch more people getting in. When he initially pressed against you, you didn't think too much about it; everyone was pressed against one another whether they liked it or not. The man's intentions only became clear when a hand crept up the side of your thigh.
Unlike the demon's hand, it felt rougher, unpleasant. You felt like throwing up; somehow you couldn't even do anything. You just froze up there. Unable to do anything while some stranger tried to fumble with your belt. It was as if there was something entirely unworldly holding you captive. You looked around; anyone could barely see you in the corner like this. But they should still notice something like this.
And then you looked down; the hands that were trying to take off your belt were translucent. The set of feet beside yours was hardly noticeable.
You got ready in a hurry this morning. In fact, you happened to be in such a hurry that you mindlessly left behind your previous locket. The same locket that protects you from this sort of situation.
“I see you on this train every morning. Yet I can never do anything. Hah. I am lucky today.” You could now feel the coldness of the apparition behind you. Presumably this man somehow died on this train, and unfortunately, like any other entity, you caught his eye.
His hands were almost done with taking your zipper down. That's when you looked to the side, with teary eyes, and you saw the white-haired demon in the overhead luggage carrier. His blue eyes were boring into the man behind you.
“Aw. You're trying to find a replacement angel?” In a flash he was by your side instead of where he was previously.
“H-help me. Please, please.” One of your hands reached out to grab onto the demon, who was now weirdly in a suit. Your other hand grabbed onto the apparition's hand, which tried to creep into your underwear.
“JUST HELP ME PLEASE!” You whisper-shouted at the demon as quietly as you could without alerting anyone around you, and your grip on his jacket tightened.
“Since you asked so nicely, angel.” He flashed you a smile before his gaze shifted to the guy behind you.
“Hah. Yeah, try me, motherfu—” Before the apparition could even finish, the demon lifted one finger towards him, and within mere milliseconds the guy was gone.
Maybe you've taken this demon for granted, given how he acts around you. But it seems like he is immensely powerful, beyond anything or anyone you've ever seen. You've never felt power like this. Why is this demon even trying to feed off of you in the first place? Someone, or something, this string needs more vitality than you could ever produce.
“Wouldn't you kiss your hero as thanks?” Once again, you are pinned to the train's walls. This time against the blue-eyed demon, who just saved you from a creepy apparition.
“I only got in this situation because of you anyway.” You scowled at him, trying to push him off of you, with not much protest to actually get him off this time.
“Aw, how so?” Oh no, he looked adorable with that pout. You need to get a grip.
“If you didn't bother me this morning, then I—ugh. Whatever. What is with your outfit changes anyway?” You tried to whisper-shout at him again and hoped that no one else noticed what a nutcase you must have come off as.
“Hmm? Why? Don’t you like the suit? Want me to come naked next time?” That smirk on his face was doing things to you that you did not agree with.
“No! And stop suddenly disappearing and reappearing!” You felt his hand, which somehow was now on your waist, tighten, and another hand moving up between you two.
“Why? Y’miss me?” You could feel the heat creep up your neck, to your ears, and spread through your face.
“No. But, I can't believe I am saying this, thank you for being here.” His face lit up with a big, toothy smile. And you just had to look at his stupid fangs and his blue eyes and his tail-wait. He has a tail?
“I would've liked a kiss better, but I'll take what I can!” A thin, warm, pointy tail curled up your ankle when you looked down to confirm your thoughts. And indeed it was, as jet black as his hands and claws, a sharp tail. Before you could ask him where it even appeared from? You felt his claw on the waistband of your panties. Pulling on it with one sharp nail and letting it snap back on your skin, making you yelp in the process.
“That is a very pretty shade of blue you have there.” His hands slipped into your panties as the words left his mouth. His eyes trained down between the two of you, where your one hand flew to his wrist to prevent his claws from further slipping beyond the mound of your pelvic bone.
“St-stop!” Your other hand once again grabbed onto the arm of his jacket for support.
“Why? Don't I get my reward?” His head tilted in pure confusion.
“But—I said—” “That's not enough.”
Now that he looked up and stared you right in the eyes, you could not stop him any further. What it was was unclear—the charm of an incubus or your years' worth of frustration—nothing made sense.
You were basically breathless, unable to inhale or exhale anything. The sensation of his claws scratching against the sensitive skin between your legs and the grip on your waist in the crowded train. You could feel how his fingers inched closer and closer under the pad of his finger on your clit, and the sharp end of his claws was digging into your inner thighs and grazing your hole—it was all too much.
“Your, your claws.”
“Oh, that can be fixed in a second, angel.”
You could feel his fingers putting more pressure on your cloth, rubbing it, drawing figures of eight on it. While the rest of his fingers dug themselves into the flesh of your pelvic area. The claws were gone, just like that. Like how his clothes change with every appearance, his tail grows at his whim, and even his claws retract back into his skin.
Honestly, you were not sure whether this was a good thing or a bad thing. The claws were a good excuse to put a stop to what was happening, unless he did not give a shit about your well-being, which it didn't seem like he did, to an extent. But then again, when you brought up his claws, you genuinely just didn't want them to get in between you and his fingers. Sure, the sensation of the claws was something else, but not worth the bloodbath.
“Aw, look at my pretty pussy, so wet f’me?” He leaned in to your height to whisper in your ears. And you just prayed to whatever was out there that you don't get arrested for indecency in public.
It was truly humiliating. Having your back pressed to the doors of a public train, face turned just enough to catch a glimpse of the demon in front of you and the reflection of your own fucked-up face in the black glass of the doors. You'd rather look at your own humiliating expressions than know what was going on down there.
“Oh, she is so wet f’me, right? All for me.” His fingers were inside of you, two fingers deep, thumb on your clit, other hand on your waist—probably leaving marks—and everything was more visceral than ever.
It was maybe the train full of people almost finding out what you were up to, maybe it was his ink-tinted hands, which felt different than anything you've ever felt, or simply the fact that a demon of all things is making you feel such pleasures.
“Y-you have to—”
“I think you should be more concerned about what you have to do, angel.”
Even though he left the most important part unspoken, it was clear what you needed to do. You needed to cum on his hand in this train for him.
And with motive, his fingers both stretched in different directions inside of you. Pushing your walls and trying to remember every inch of you, memorizing it all. All the while his thumb kept going faster and faster, drawing little circles on it, making sure your clutch on his jacket remained as is.
“OH-Oh. Oh my—fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I am—” It was about time his fingers found the spot on your wall, that textured part of you from within, just around the backside of your clit. He found the spot that had your hands fumbling all over his shoulders, trying to steady yourself. So with the help of his free hand, he placed them on his neck, and they instantly went to his hair.
“I will, please, please, I will.” Your legs were giving out. Another second like this, his fingers pushing that spot over and over, his thumb pressing down on your clit any harder, and you'll fall on this disgusting floor.
“Go on, come on, you can do it, angel, all for f’me, right? You’ll feed me well, right?” His head was down on your shoulders, just too close to your ears; his voice was just too raspy; the whispering, the little huffs of air coming out of his mouth along with groans—it was dizzying.
“Cum on my fingers, won't you?” It was not fair. Holding you basically hostage while also pleading with such command, it was so unfair.
But you did not care about all that when you came gushing down his fingers. More than your usual ten seconds, it lasted probably for minutes, sending shock waves through your body, until you had nothing more to give to his fingers—that made sure to ride you all through your orgasm by keeping themselves mobile.
While you were a twitching, lifeless, drenched underwear-wearing mess, tightly held in his hand, he took out the fingers from your cunt. He did his best to gather everything he could, making you jump in the process. And all of that went right in his mouth.
It was honestly too generous to call it nasty. The way his tongue slipped between those slick fingers and wrapped around them. That long and sharp-looking tongue lapped all of you off his fingers, allowing his fingers to enter his mouth as fast as they wanted to deposit their hard-earned prize. All while his free hand held your face up by the chin, and he looked right down in your eyes while doing all those unfathomable, obscene things.
“So sweet.” You were not even sure if the comment was meant for you or just a general note for himself.
As his tongue cleaned up all that was left over on his hand, you witnessed the sight of his claws growing back, sharp and still equally black as some void, like the rest of his hand.
“You want some?” He leaned down to your face, nose touching yours, eyes blue as ice, before leaning down to kiss you.
It was the first time he kissed you. It was the first time anyone had ever kissed you, other than cats and dogs—but that does not count. You always thought first kisses were too overhyped; it cannot be some magical or whatever thing that people go on and on about.
But the way his lips slotted with yours and the little smile that crept onto his mouth was everything that was wrong with this situation.
This was a demon, pushing his tongue into your mouth, and you were letting him. Tasting the lingering taste of your own cum in his mouth. How his tongue tangled with yours, chased after it, and the subtle taste of his spit. It was unlike anything you've ever tasted before. You could feel his fangs against your tongue and then digging on your lips.
Nothing about this made sense. But it felt so undeniably good. So good that you almost felt as if this was it, this was right. This is what was missing. This is what your toys and fingers could not recreate.
And that did not make any sense.
If someone told you one day you'd have to call into work, informing them that you were too sick to clock in on time from a subway station. With a clingy demon in an expensive three-piece suit attached to your side, you’d probably tell that person to shoot you.
But here you are. Head in your hands, elbows on your knees, and a demon hugging you from the back. Life sure is crazy.
“Just skip work altogetherrrrr, let's go home and fuck.” His face tilted on your shoulder, and he batted his eyelashes, making attempts to coerce you into his wishes.
“Will you fuck off already?”
“You’re hurting meeeee!”
“Good.”
A pout made its way onto his filthy lips while he muttered something that sounded like ‘so mean’ under his breath. And he floated away from where he was previously annoying you to take the empty seat beside you to annoy you. He looked too cute and innocent for a demon. But maybe that is part of the deception. So you sat there with your elbows on your knees, leaning forward in your seat, to take a better look at his face.
Still gorgeous and still evil.
“I am wondering when you're going to leave me alone.” You looked forward at the empty tracks in front of you and the basically empty station. It was already well past 12:00 PM, so at least there was no one to witness you, or what it looked like to bare eyes, talking to yourself.
“Aw. I have been getting rid of pests for you, and this is how you talk to me!?” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat with a more intense pout.
“Wait. You've been doing that before, just not this? Not just today?” His little comment had you sitting up in your seat and moving your body enough to face him.
“Mmhmm. I've been making sure no pest gets to you, you know! Not my fault you forgot your pendant at home. I was bringing it back for you, but I guess some cockroach found you before me.” You just stared at him in silence for a solid few minutes as he smiled at you sweetly.
“You bought my pendant?” You blinked at him in confusion. Just how powerful and how fucking dense is this guy?
All he did was reach into the breast pocket of his jacket to pull out a silver chain with a dangling pendant on it. He leaned forward and reached behind your neck to clasp the chain back on you. With a little kiss on your forehead and a big toothy smile, he yet again disappeared on you.
Since it did not look like you're getting rid of this floating demonic thing anytime soon. It was the best bet to use him to your own advantage.
So this time, you waited for him patiently and eagerly to pop up in your room. After the last time you spoke to him at the station, he didn't show up for the rest of the day. Leaving you to think things through with the newfound information you got from him.
And what better time other than a Saturday night to negotiate a deal with a demon?
“So what do I get in return?” The demon looked down at you from where he was floating in the air, above your head, in just some gray sweats.
“I don't immediately end your entire existence.” You deadpanned, trying not to stare too long at his back muscles flexing from the way he folded his arms under his head. There were faint black lines, resembling strikes of lightning. They ran from the back of his arms, up to his shoulder, from his nape, down under the waistband of his sweatpants, where his pointy tail started and swished around in the air.
“Ok, ouch, angel, and here I was already choosing names for our children.” He pouted and slowly came down to your eye level, with his arms cartoonishly and lifelessly hanging in the air.
“Do not make me throw salt at you.” You leaned back on your headboard, and your hands clutched the pouch of salt.
“Alrightttt. But you can't expect a demon to just do you favors, like keeping pests off of you, and not ask for anything in return.” With a shrug, he continued. “Then I would've been the angel here, right?”
As annoying as it was to look at him smiling like he had you exactly where he wanted you to be, you didn't really have any other choice. Your pendant isn't working anymore; your grandmother's life essence and the effects of her spell are depleting from the pendant by the second, making the pendant’s barrier weaker by the second. And you don't have enough knowledge to do something about this. This annoying, sly, and very gorgeous demon is your only hope.
And unfortunately, he knows it too.
“Ok. You can feed on my life essence.”
“SO WE CAN FUCK!?” You rolled your eyes in defeat as the demon suddenly plopped on your bed with excitement, making you bounce on the mattress in the process.
“IF MY BED BREAKS, YOU'RE MAKING ME A NEW ONE!”
“Oh, no worries, I'll get you a new one every time we break one.” His cheery tone just made the words spouting out of his mouth more filthy sounding.
“You—never mind.”
But you were already too tired to say anything more. So you lay back on your bed, with your arms over your head, trying to push down the headache you could just feel coming over. The demon, on the other hand, lay right beside you on his side, taking it as an invitation to initiate his first proper meal .
But before he could get his grubby claws on you, you sat up on your elbows, making his eyes pop in slight surprise and disappointment.
“Oh right, what am I supposed to call you?” Usually you can perform a ritual, burn a spell, and get the entity's name and some other notable information like when they were born, when they died, type of death, what type of entity they are, etc. and other stuff. And you tried that for this demon as well, but nothing came out. Each time the visions were blank. It made you wonder how bad your luck must be to come across something so terrible.
“Ah! Hmm…. You can call me… Toru!” He smiled wide, looking proud of himself.
“You said it like you just made that up on the spot.” The possibility made you frown. Maybe he is being cautious so you don't find anything about him.
“Nope! That's my name!” He smiled ear to ear, eyes closed, looking like an innocent creature, like he was not even a demon.
“That just sounds more suspicious.” You squinted your eyes at him, while he just smiled ear to ear.
“Oh, come on, I thought our relationship had more trust than that.” He let his entire body fall on you, pinning you down to the mattress under him.
“Firstly, we do not have a ‘relationship’; what we have is a deal . And like hell I'll ever trust a demon.” Even though you rolled your eyes at him with a scowl on your face and tried to push him off of you, his pout just morphed into a smirk.
“Can't trust a demon, but you can let him fuck you, right?”
He pressed his hands, or claws, on either side of your head to hover over you. With that annoying smirk on his face, which made your head boil and stomach tighten. You could feel your chest getting heavier; it was getting hard to breathe normally with a demon over you and his pointy tail wrapping around one of your ankles. You tilted your head away from him, not answering him, letting the tension in the air speak for itself. The anticipation was heavy in the air for what was to come next.
Toru, as he told you to call him, nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck. Moving his face up to your jaw, planting a kiss there, and going back down to dig his fangs into the side of your neck without any warning. You shrieked under his constant sucking and biting, while your left hand went up to pull on his hair, and your face scrunched up in something between pain and pleasure.
“A-are you even a demon… or a fucking vampire?” Your right arm wrapped itself around his shoulders. You could feel the flex of his muscles and even his skin that felt too human, too soft, and too warm to touch. He didn't retort to you with a verbal answer, just hummed in the crook of your neck as a smile stretched along his lips.
Once he was happy enough with the marks on your neck, he moved down to your collarbone. After licking the expansion of the bones with his sharp tongue, he moved lower to rip the front of your tank top with a single claw nail. You could feel his nail grazing on your skin, making your back arch off the bed. It felt as if your skin would break any moment and there would be an open wound, but there was not; he was too careful to not have a single drop of your blood flow out of your veins. But if you could see, you'd see a single line drawn from the middle of your chest up to your belly button. And you didn't mind that tingling sensation on your skin, the feeling of being on the edge of an almost injury, or the destroyed shirt under you.
All you could care about and focus on were his lips sucking, biting, and pulling on one of your nipples and one of his hands squeezing and kneading your other tit, while his other hand dug into your skin and pressed you into the mattress.
“Ugh— fuck— Toru.” Everything felt unreal. As an almost twenty-something touch-starved virgin, you were sure that for the rest of your life you'd have to spend it with your hand and vibrator. Yet here you are, under a demon.
“Mmhmm, what does my pretty angel want?” He moved back to place himself between your legs and placed his chin on top of your lower tummy. And both of his arms wrapped around where your thighs met your hips
“Please, Toru.” You were already exasperated, covered in sweat, clutching your sheets, trying to focus your pupils on the demon between your legs.
“Ugh, beg more, I'm so close!” He jokingly moaned and morphed his face into an expression similar to yours. Earning a weak slap on his hand, causing him to giggle while he ripped open your shorts.
“WHY ARE YOU RIPPING EVERYTHING LIKE A DOG?” At that point you felt pissed enough to gather some air to shout at him and sit up on your elbows.
“They’re annoying.”
“ You are annoying!”
“You're so mean to me!” He looked like a dog who just got reprimanded for trying to sneak into the food cabinet. And he nuzzled his face into your panty-covered cunt, then fully burrowing his nose on the mound to take a long sniff as your thighs clenched around his head.
Once he was done taking in your scent and possibly embedding it into your memory, you thought he'd move onto the next part. What, you didn't expect that he'd start licking your pussy through your panties? Not some lacy, sexy, black underwear—but some pastel pink cotton underwear, discolored on the crotch from years of wear and the horrors of periods. He bit your folds, wiggled his tongue between them, and pressed his tongue heavily on your slit. Soaking the panties in your juices and his saliva, he bit your clit along with some fabric of the panties and proceeded to suck on them as much as the barrier between his mouth and your clit allowed him. In conclusion, he was basically eating you out through your panties—like the freaky demon he is.
“J-just, fucking get rid of it.” You pulled on his hair with both your hands, one hand shoving his head further into your cunt, the other trying to pull him away.
“You said not to rip anything off.” His words came out muffled from still being stuffed between your legs.
“Just take them off normally.” You were getting too impatient to even shout at him.
“That's no fun.” Yet he knew just how to provoke you enough to have you reach for the bag of salt under your pillows.
“OK, SORRY, HERE, TAKING THEM OFF!” He sat up hurriedly when he noticed your hands were gone from his hair. “You're no fun.” He pouted and put both of your feet on his shoulder to drag your panties off.
And suddenly you felt too exposed, nervous, hyperaware of his blue eyes boring between your thighs, and hands holding your thighs open. A part of you felt like it was better when he had just left your panties on, and the other part wanted nothing more than Toru back where he was. The picture of the demon’s claws retracting back into his skin, the one last feeling of them scratching the skin of your inner thighs, was what finally made you realize the situation at hand.
You're losing your virginity to this demon, and you actually didn't mind it; you were kind of looking forward to it. It was a bizarre realization. But no more bizarre than having a demon's tongue stuffed in your hole.
Toru’s sharp tongue wiggled around trying to explore every nook and cranny inside of you, memorizing all of it. While his tongue busied itself inside of you, one of his fingers slipped in to help stretch you out more, and his other hand rubbed random shapes on your clit.
“Fuck—fuck. Ugh. There.” You couldn't help but let the groans and moans slip out of you, letting them get absorbed straight into his ego.
Toru hummed in accordance and pressed his tongue up where it had you tightening your grip on his hair. The vibrations from his moans had you twitching. And you could feel something building up, something familiar but a thousand times more intense than what you have ever achieved by yourself.
“I-I am—” You couldn't complete your warning, and yet he hummed like he understood.
He was ready to lap up everywhere that you had to offer. And when you came around his tongue, that's exactly what he did. He didn't leave behind anything that he could have the pleasure of tasting on his tongue. Sure, demons don't eat regular human food, but this was basically his human equivalent to a five-star meal.
“What?” You were either too busy staring into his eyes or just went brain-dead from that orgasm.
“Not done with ya’.” Toru pulled you towards him by one of your ankles, and the sheets under you bunched up.
“God. I've been waiting for this so long, angel; you have no idea.” He pulled your thighs to his sides, and your legs, although feeling like jelly, automatically latched around his waist. “Y’just can't wait, can ya’? Pretty cunt wants me inside so bad. She's feeling empty, huh?”
His sharp tongue went on to spout more bullshit. Like, “Don't even have to show you how to use those legs, huh?” He kept rubbing the tip of his cock at your entrance, letting it slide in a few times, and each time all he had as an excuse was “oops.”
“FUCKING PUT IT IN!” You threw a pillow at him, fed up with his antics and getting edged even before having his cock fill you up. He caught the pillow with his left hand while his other hand finally helped him put the length of his cock inside of you.
“ Fuck, fuck, fuck. Ahh!” Your back automatically arched off the bed.
“There ya’ go. Happy then, angel?” He pushed the entire thing inside of you in one go after throwing the pillow on the floor. His smile got all dopey as he leaned forward and put his weight on both of his hands on either side of you, getting a better look at your eyes rolling back behind your sockets. “You feel so much better than what I imagined, ugh—fuck—ughh, so perfect, my pretty angel.” His right hand came to your waist to rub soothing circles.
“Good heav—”
“Wouldn’t— fuck —hell be more— ughh — appropriate?”
“S-shh—ut up.”
He leaned forward to dive back in the crook of your neck; with his signature sleazy smile on his face, he continued to thrust his hips at a pace where the stretch down there burned, but it also brought you pleasure you couldn't describe. He went back to bite down on your neck as some form of holding himself back, supposedly. Even if he was moving at a pace you couldn't comprehend but felt good with, you could feel Toru, on the other hand, was holding himself back.
“Bite me again and—”
“Threatening me some more, angel?” He murmured in your ear before biting down on your bruised skin once again.
You retaliated by moving up slightly to reach his neck and bit down hard enough to have the raw and metallic taste of his blood bleed out a little. It tasted different than what blood is usually supposed to taste like; you'd know as a chronic lip biter. Sure, it was metallic and salty, and then it was sweet in the beginning and left a bitter aftertaste.
“F-fuck. You want me to pass out or something, angel?” He snapped his head to the left to face you, and in mere seconds his lips met yours. It was no gentle kiss; it was greedy. He was being so greedy with how he licked around your lips, sucked on them, forced your mouth open with his tongue, and slipped that sharp muscle inside of your own mouth to explore every nook and cranny inside, to remember the differences in how you.
“There ya' go pretty, ugh aren't you the prettiest? My pretty angel's pretty pussy—so lethal.” Toru moved around to sit back on his knees.
“Legs up, sweets.” He grabbed your legs together and placed them on his shoulder to thrust deeper and harder like that.
“FUCK. Oh, ugh—”
“Yeah, you like it, huh? Are you happy that I took your virginity? Yes, baby?” He cooed at the state of you, eyes rolled back, littered in marks, and his saliva Everything was a mess around and on you, your hair, the sheets, and you especially looked the most messed up, holding onto the sheets like your life depended on it and sliding up on them from the force of the demon's thrusts.
“Y—yes. YES!”
He giggled at your reply and focused on hitting the same spot that had you thrashing around and digging your nails into his thighs. Your groans and moans filled your little bedroom, echoed on your nearly empty walls, as the movements of his hips got sloppier.
“I—Oh gosh, I—,”
“I know, baby, cum on my cock, angel.”
And so you did; just as his fingers moved to rub your clit, you could feel the knot in your stomach detangling. When he felt your walls clench around him, he threw his head back. He was just as close to his own release, but your satisfaction came first. “Fuck, swallow me whole, you sweet thing.” His hand tightened around your ankles, still hanging on his shoulder, while his other hand moved from your clit to your lower belly to press on it as you came undone. The claws on his hand started to grow as he pressed right under your belly button, and that is probably where everything went blank for you. All you could see were white beams of light in the blur of your room, and your legs slacked off of his shoulder, shaking like you went up five flights of stairs.
“My good girl, look at that angel, shit. ”
The indents of his sharp claws left behind a shape, which could be connected to draw something resembling a tilted heart. Now it's open to interpretation whether it was intentional or not, but given he is a literal demon, there are barely any actions he does without calculating the consequences.
Before you could even realize anything, the demon cock started twitching inside of you, your own twitchy legs tightened around him subconsciously, and he stumbled over on top of you. You held him in your arms as he shot ropes and ropes of his cum inside of you.
“My pretty, pretty angel, goin’ to fill her up, breed her good.”
“You're a demon.” You said to him very matter-of-factly once you found your vision coming back. “So?”
“So, how are you going to get me pregnant?” He raised an eyebrow at you and flopped down on you, then buried his face by your head and tilted his head to look at you with a sly smile.
“Who said demons can't get you pregnant?”
“WHAT?” You almost sat up and shoved him off before he started laughing and pushed you back down.
“Wait, wait, ok, so yeah, it's possible, but it's more complicated than that. So no worries, you won't get pregnant unless I actually try to do that.” He smiled at you and rubbed soothing circles by your side. He looked finally content, like you do after a scrumptious meal.
“More reasons to not trust your ass.”
“Oh, you can trust my ass; touch it if you want real bad.” He said in a playful sing-song voice and ended his sentence with a wink. It made you slap his shoulder, but you couldn't help but let a few chuckles slip out.
Your laughter died down, and everything around you started dimming down too. The weight of his body, the feeling of his tail wrapping around your ankle, his hands holding you tight with his claws back in his skin, and his cum seeping out of you—it was a recipe for deep slumber. And sleep you did; this was after a very long time. Your eyes got heavy to the point you couldn't keep them open anymore. This felt nice; this felt like something you could get used to.
But when in the morning, afternoon to be exact, well past 12:00 PM, you woke up after a full night's sleep, he was gone. It felt like you just went to bed, and without any dreams disturbing your sleep, when you woke up it felt like just seconds had gone by. But he was gone.
Maybe you shouldn't get used to this.
Making deals with a demon never comes without a price.
For you, that cost was probably your sanity. Honestly, what is worse? Entities roaming around you or a demon tiring you out. Not easy to answer, but the feeling of his tongue inside your tongue first thing in the morning, accompanied by orgasms, wasn't such a bad thing.
“I loveee breakfast in bed!” He’d moan in your ear while thrusting into you with full force, like he didn't have dinner the night before. Plus now you get to sleep like a normal individual at night, well, after getting fucked to a puddle of nothing, that is.
“You look so good in this shirt, fuck, I just wanna tear it off of you.” The demon muttered right in your ears while floating in the air just beside you.
You were at your desk, at work, inside of your office building, trying to focus on your tasks for the day, yet somehow every one to two hours the demon would show up to terrorize you. Some days he wouldn't show up during working hours, some days he'd be here for way too long, and some days he'd come and go in intervals. The inconsistency made it harder for you to come up with measures to prevent the demon from trying to let his claws wander anywhere he'd like or run his tongue to spout the most vile things in broad daylight.
“Ughhh, I wish I was inside you right now.”
“You are so focused, it makes me want to bend you over on this table.”
“I want to eat you out right here and have these people watch me. I bet you'll like it.”
The whining was tolerable, but the words that came with it were the problem. To be fair, it was the demon in it of itself who was the problem. But then again, since he has been around, you have not seen a single other entity around you; things have been so smooth, if you don't count the whole demon situation.
But change is always taxing. That's what you told yourself when you suddenly got sick after a week and a few days of having the demon around. He is basically becoming an usual part of your routine; the only reason why he is not is because he is extremely unpredictable. Like catching a cold, you're fine, sucking on a popsicle one day, and the next day your throat is hurting, so you brush it off thinking it'll go away at the end of the day. But it's not; it only gets worse the next day, and by the third day you're bedridden with a high fever.
That's exactly what happened to you.
Figuratively and literally. A demon latched onto you all of a sudden, and now he is freely using you as he pleases, and you are also bedridden, sick from god knows what, counting down your days because it feels like death.
“It’s not that bad, angel.”
The demon suddenly appeared next to you on the bed. And you could feel your temperature about to rise. You were well enough to see a blurry image of his face hovering over yours, but not enough to shout at him or move away. You were in no shape to feed him. And if that's what's going to be happening to you in this state, you might have to soon find a way to get rid of him, or better, think about how you're going to even get rid of him in this moment.
“Oof, you're burning.” Instead of the impact of his lips, you felt the back of his obsidian hand on your forehead. Taking your temperature and assessing your condition. You could barely open your eyes to look at his face, and it looked worried. His brows were scrunched, his lips were jutted out subconsciously, and he looked focused—almost human.
Toru vanished in a flash in your bathroom and then floated into your kitchen. After rattling around in there for a few minutes, he came back with a bowl of water and a cloth, a glass of water, and some meds from your bathroom cabinet. He sat you up carefully to wipe away the sweat covering your body, gently gliding the small towel over your neck, back, arms, face, and belly. He gave you the meds and helped you hold the glass. Then he gently laid you back down and adjusted the air conditioner’s temperature. placed a bottle of water by your bedside, sat down on the floor, and placed his head on the bed to stare at you, like some puppy.
“Do you want something to eat? Some porridge, maybe ?” He looked worried, helpless even, more than how helpless you look right now.
“How are you going to order anything?” You mumbled with your eyes closed, almost drifting away to sleep.
“I can cook!” He excitedly sat up and lifted his head off the bed.
“I don't want to be liable if you use my kitchen to burn down his building.”
“If you keep doubting me like this, angel, I'll cry.” He folded his elbows on the bed to come closer to your face.
“So you want to burn down this building with your tears?”
“Now you're stereotyping me! All because I am a poor little demon!”
“Sure, you helpless creature.” A grin pulled on your lips, and even with your eyes closed, you know there was a similar one on his face.
The conversation died there as you lost your consciousness. And the demon got to work in your kitchen. He found some sad-looking vegetables in your fridge and other things to get to cooking. He also made a mental note to remind you to go grocery shopping. He found no problem working around in your space; at this point he was more acclimated to this apartment than you, and he looked after it better than you. He gathered your dirty clothes you always left scattered on the floor, made your bed, did your laundry, folded your laundry, and cleaned your dishes and the toilet, and now he is cooking for you. If he wasn't a demon, he would be the top contender for the best potential househusband. After about an hour, he was already done.
“Angel? Wake up, eat a little, ok?” He got the little folded table on the side of your bed to place it by your side and put the plate of food on it.
“Mmhmm.” He helped you to sit up and handed you a glass of water.
When you didn't even reach out to hold it and sat there with your eyes closed and hair looking like a bird's nest, he helped you drink some water. And even spoon-fed you the food. He blew on it gently to cool down every bite, brought the glass of water up to your lips from time to time, and then also cleaned up after everything. Like the good potential househusband he is, he did the dishes, set your meds by your bedside table, and tucked you in bed.
“Get well, angel.” He leaned down to kiss your forehead, and you swear you heard him mumble something else. But you were too sleepy, and he was too quiet. You didn't even have any energy to ask anything; your eyes were betraying you, and before you made up your mind to ask him what he said, he was gone.
The next few days went by like that. The demon came in more often than usual to take care of you. Because what you thought was just a light cold from the changing seasons turned out bad enough to make you unable to get up from your bed for 4 days. You wish you could take more time to fully recover, but then also you couldn't ignore work anymore. So for the rest of the week, with your own little demon helper, you worked from home. Making that little demon helper feel a little angsty and neglected.
“Let's just go back to the bed.” The demon floated around you like a toddler whining for candy. He has been persistently trying to pry you out of your chair for the last 1 hour, and so far his efforts have been futile.
“I have a lot to do.” You kept your eyes trained on your monitor. The light reflecting off your glasses made it harder for him to gauge whether you were just annoyed at him or being hard on him as usual.
“And I want to do you .” He said that with a stone-straight face after he popped his head between you and your monitor.
“Go back to hell or something.” You tried to look past him and continued typing.
“Do you hate me, angel!?” His face morphed into an exaggerated desperate expression, eyebrows scrunched and both corners of his mouth turned down. He cradled your face in his hands, his claws adjusted to a medium length so they wouldn't scratch you by accident. You noticed that from the corner of your eye and felt something fluttering in your chest.
“You're making me hate you.” You pulled his hands off your face and moved him to the side like a floating balloon.
With a sigh he deflated down on the floor and placed his head on your lap. You looked down at his sulky face and the way his tail thumped on the floor in annoyance. It made the corners of your lips tug. Hesitantly you placed your nondominant hand to pat the floor of his messy, white, pearly hair. And he immediately moved his head towards your touch and looked up at you from where he let his face rest on your lap. His lips didn't move anymore than the usual smirk that always adorned his lips, but his eyes tugged into a smile. You looked away from him and went back to typing away on your keyboard, but you didn't shove him off your lap. You liked the warmth of his face, the way he looked up at you, the way his eyes smiled, and how his hands wrapped around your legs.
The moment was filled with sweet silence. It felt like you might as well get used to this. But like you can't trust a crocodile’s tears, you can't just assume that a demon would be content with head pats. That'd be wishful and naive of you.
First you felt a kiss on your thighs, right on the valley where they pressed together. You didn't think much of it. Then he started sucking on the skin there; it bruised easier than, say, your neck. By the time you barely typed two incorrectly spelled words, he had your thighs parted, face buried in between your legs, sniffing your cunt through your shorts. His arms curled around your knees and kept them open with ease. So now you have a demon between your legs, licking and sucking on your cunt through your cotton shorts.
“F-fucking hell, Toru.” The demon only hummed and looked up at you from where he was positioned on his knees. Your hands were off your keyboard at this point, buried in his hair, pulling on it. He pushed your chair back, and it wheeled backwards while he dragged your shorts off you. In that sudden moment, you couldn't figure out what was even happening when he moved under your desk and dragged your chair forward and went back to the position he was in.
“Ooh. No underwear? Finally taking my advice, angel?” He kept gawking at you, at your cunt. It was better to not wear underwear at home; it felt more comfortable. But not that you'll ever tell him he was right. Toru dove right in, licking at your slit and sucking on your clit like he hadn't been fed in days. Which is not wrong; he has been starving. You were honestly surprised by how much the incubus strained for your sake. It softened your heart. But you won't admit to that as well.
“Go on. You said you were busy.”
You tried your best to ignore the fiend between your legs—eating you out like his life depended on it. It was sort of a discovery for you, seeing him on his knees for you, hidden under your desk; there was this sense of guilt that gnawed at you. But you couldn't help but get wetter with every lick and couldn't help but tighten your thighs around his head as you came all over him.
“So. Now shall we head to the bed, or do you want me to carry you?” He rested his head against your thigh as he licked around his lips to clean up everything you left behind. His smile was soft and his eyes were coercing; there was no way you were about to get out of the clutches of temptation personified, who's kneeling between your legs. With a sigh, you reclined in your chair and reached for the little satchel in your drawer.
“Sorry, Toru.” “Huh? What do you—”
Just as the sprinkle of salt hit his head, the demon disappeared from under your desk. You felt bad somewhat, but it's not like you had any other choice. It'd be easier to deal with a sulky demon than drowning in overdue work at the end of the month.
He didn't show up for the rest of the day.
Not even the next morning for his usual ‘breakfast.’ You thought he was angry with you. And it worried you. What if he was actually angry with you? What if he didn't show up for days? Was he going to be alright without getting his fill for days? Will you be alright without him around? But wait, isn't it better? To not have him around? Sure, you weren't even close to finding a replacement for your pendant or him, but wouldn't it be easier without an incubus always floating around you and whispering dirty things in your ear? Ruining your panties and cleaning up your apartment? Cooking for you and taking care of you when you're sick?
You're really getting off track.
“Hey! Good morning!” Your coworker, Ms. Miwa Kasumi, passed by and greeted you; she was pretty new. Which is probably why she has been the only person in your department to greet you without any obligations and without any stutters.
“Oh, good morning.” You did your best to return her a smile, but you were sure it came off weirder. But she still looked appreciative nonetheless and then started walking beside you towards the meeting room.
“Ugh! I hate meetings first thing in the morning; it sucks!” Ms. Kasumi whined while walking with you. Of course, who would like meetings, especially when their entire department, except for one junior maybe, behaves oddly with them? Working under a big-name company almost always sucks. Especially when it's going through new changes like getting a new CEO. So things have been hectic lately anyway. So on top of everything, imagine walking into a meeting room full of people, where your designated seat is occupied by a sex demon in a suit, who has been haunting you.
“Everything alright?” You froze in the door of the meeting, and Ms. Kasumi looked back to check on you.
“Uh—yeah!” You tried to enthusiastically answer and follow her inside where everyone was already gathered.
“Good morning to my sweet angel!” The demon piped from your seat as you walked up to it and lingered with placing your things on the table as slowly as you could. Giving plenty of time to get off your chair.
“Sit down, Ms. L/n, we're starting.” Your department instructed, and when you looked at the demon with a glare, he patted his lap with enthusiasm and a smirk on his face. You got fully cornered.
“This is punishment.” The demon said as he got comfortable under you. Maneuvering you to sit as closely on top of him as possible.
“I was just busy.” You tried to whisper back to him as nonchalantly as possible while keeping your eyes on the presentation on the screen.
“I know, but you were really mean.” He whispered back in your ear like everything that was happening between you two right now could be heard and seen by everyone.
His hands just toyed with the hem of your skirt at first. And as you got more comfortable with being on his lap, as you let your guard lower—his hands started roaming all over your body. It started innocently with drawing circles on your knees with his sharp nails, then his claws retracted back into his skin, which is never a good sign. His hands went up and up until they were just below your breasts. They stopped there and squeezed them, making you hunch defensively.
“Don't make it obvious, alright, sweets?”
He opened up your shirt and started running his fingers over your collarbones. And soon after pulled your bra down to put your tits out on a show. There you were, in a meeting room full of your coworkers and colleagues, looking down at your lap because you couldn't bear to look up to see the horrors in everyone's eyes. But the demon under you couldn't be less bothered. He played with your tits like he could smell the embarrassment and agony on you, but he could also see right through you. As if he could tell how much this was turning you on.
“What a dirty little angel you are.” He chuckled slightly right beside your ear, placed his chin on your shoulder, and bunched up your skirt. Then he pushed aside your panties, and without any prep or warning, he rammed his cock inside of you. You were on the verge of screaming out a moan; your grip on the hand rest got tighter and tighter as you felt like the room was getting smaller and smaller and hotter by the second.
“Now don't whine like I didn't offer to stretch ya’ good last night, but you threw salt at me, hmm.” The pointed tip of his tongue slipped around the ridges of your ear. “I think you are forgetting that you are dealing with a demon.”
And maybe you were. You were getting confused by his kindness and compassion, so maybe for a while you forgot he is a literal demon. Feeding from, or maybe feeding on, you.
“Distracted? Am I going too soft on you, angel?” Toru noticed how you leaned on the table with your elbows pressed on the surface for your life, but you seemed distracted. You were distracted from the meeting, from the way his hips pistoned upwards into you; you were thinking about something else, and he couldn't have that. You had to just sit there with your lips pressed together and sit there drenched in your cold sweat.
“Look up, sweets, won't you? Don't you wanna see how good I'm fucking you in front of all these people?” His hand gripped your throat, and at that point you were fully hunched over the table. All the while he thrust into your cunt with enough vigor to shake the entire table with you. His balls were basically slapping against your skin, and the tip of his cock was hitting places you did not think existed before.
“I’m gonna fucking cum inside you. Have you dripping with my cum all day? You'll like that, huh? walking around in public while m’cum fucking seeps out of you?” Toru leaned forward and pulled you back towards him by your throat. “But you have to keep it nice and warm inside of you.”
“F-fuc-k.” You muttered under your breath; you were about to orgasm in a meeting room at your office. But in this moment all you knew was that Toru was whispering shit in your ears, thrusting into your pussy, and you were about to cum all over him.
“C’mon, do it. Gush all over me like my good angel.” And like on his command, you came just like that. He bit down on your nape, and soon after came inside of you, like he promised. After he pulled out, he went and shoved everything that leaked out back inside of your pussy with two fingers and a kiss on your cheek.
“See ya’ later angel.” And like that, he was gone. And you were just left there drenched in your sweat and filled with his cum, sitting in your chair confused and scared.
“Are you ok, Ms. L/n!? I've been calling for you for the last 5 minutes.” Your boss asked from the end of the table. You were too scared to look up at him. While contemplating, your eyes landed on your shirt, perfectly buttoned just as it was, and your skirt was wrinkled the exact amount from this morning when you got off the train.
“Yes, sir, just feeling a little hot.” You do not know how you held yourself together to not stutter while replying to him while everyone in the room looked at you weirdly, except for Ms. Kasumi, who just looked concerned.
“Are you sure? Is your fever back? Do you want to step out for a bit?”
“It’s alright, sir; I'm perfectly alright.” You shook your head and told him you were just fine and took a sip of your water to cool down.
“Alright, if you say so.”
He nodded hesitantly and proceeded back to the meeting. As the meeting went on, even though you tried your best to focus on the contents of the presentation, all you could think about was one cunning demon and his cum pooling in your underwear.
“YOU PIECE OF SHIT! HOW DARE YOU—WHAT IF—” You held the demon by his collar and shook him back and forth while he just giggled.
“It's ok, angel, they can't see anything.” You stopped in your tracks and pulled him closer to your face and squinted your eyes.
“elaborate.” He sighed and held your hands with his own. “They can't see me and therefore can't see anything I do to you unless I want them to.” You blinked at him, feeling somewhat at ease by his confirmation.
“Are you sure?” He nodded and kissed right under your left eye. “Why would I lie?”
“To make me feel at ease or something.” He giggled some more, and you couldn't help but stare at his blue eyes squinting as his lips stretched. “Yes, but I wouldn't lie to do that.”
“Says the demon.” You snorted incredulously as he snickered some more. But you felt fully at ease.
“You do know this opens up soooo many possibilities.” The demon slyly said while moving his eyebrows up and down suggestively.
“You—” “Ms. L/n! Are you there?”
You got cut off by Ms. Kasumi while trying to curse out the demon some more for his suggestion. In a panic, you asked the demon to stay where he was, at the end of a hallway, in front of the elevator, and you walked towards Ms. Kasumi as fast as you could. When you got to her, she just immediately started asking if you were alright and if you needed to go back home.
“Are you sure you're ok?” She really genuinely looked worried.
With some reassurance, she was convinced by your pathetic excuse about the thermostat. Nonetheless, she still offered to take up some of your work and didn't take no for an answer. It was refreshing, really. Instead of people quietly putting more work on you because apparently you are more competent than them or some other excuse, even though they always have something to say behind your back, she wanted to take some load off your shoulders. It was new, but you appreciated that.
once you made sure Ms. Kasumi was gone, you walked back to where you left Toru. When you reached the end of the hall, you took a turn to find him standing in front of the elevator, looking like he was waiting for it to get here.
“What are you waiting for, the elevator or something?” You jokingly said as you went to stand beside him. And the demon, on the other hand, looked fully flabbergasted to see you. It was as if he was seeing you up close for the first time. Then he looked confused and just panicked. Like he was going through too many emotions at the same time. And it made you confused in return. Why is he acting like he didn't make you think that you were about to be on the verge of losing your life just an hour ago?
“Yeah—yeah. I am.”
His voice sounded different. Deeper than how he usually speaks with you, calmer as well, but not really calm in that phony way that you know all too well. You couldn't help but scrunch your eyebrows and mirror his confused expression.
“Mr. Gojo! I found the file!” Just as you were about to interrogate him some more, an exasperated and tired-looking man ran up to the demon with a bunch of files under his arm and one in his hand. ‘Mr. Gojo,’ that's what he called the demon, you know, as Toru. If you were suspicious and confused before, now you are panicking and confused. What was happening, and why did that name sound so famiiar?
“Yeah, this looks good.” Toru—or Mr. Gojo—looked through the file he was handed with a stern and serious expression that you've never seen on the demon. But what surprised you more was when he pulled his hands out of his pockets to grab the file, his hands were not the same glittery obsidian anymore. And that odd anomaly made you look around for his tail, which was also gone. When he turned towards you, who was too stunned and frozen in place to say anything, the elevator doors opened with a ding. ‘Mr. Gojo’ looked hesitantly between you and the elevator while the sickly-looking man, possibly his assistant, looked between you two. He opened and closed his mouth and then just walked inside the elevator with his assistant quickly following behind him.
“See you around, Ms. L/n.” That's all he said before the elevator doors closed between you two and he was gone.
What the fuck is happening?
In your entire supernatural life, you've never encountered anything stranger than this. He had the same cerulean blue eyes, the same shade of platinum white hair, the same features, and the same three-piece suit the demon was wearing this morning. How can there be a man who looked exactly like a demon. Or was the demon disguising himself as this man? But why would he do that? What was his motive? That was all you could think about while aimlessly walking through the hallway to get to your desk. You spent the rest of your day in a trance. Typing at your computer in a daze, making more mistakes than progress. That even your boss noticed. This was not how you work; he has seen you sick, and you always push through it. But he didn't want to pressure you with too many questions and just left you alone.
At the end of the day, Ms. Kasumi tagged you on your way out; she was talking about something. But you couldn't hear anything; you were wondering why the demon didn't show up since you saw his lookalike.
“You know, Ms. L/n, the new CEO is so gorgeous! I ran into him in the hallway today, and OMG, he is cooler than what the rumors say!”
“Mmhmm.”
You disinterestedly nodded along, wanting to get home as soon as possible and put this day behind you. But just as the elevator doors opened, there he was again, right in front of you.
“Hello, sir!” Ms. Kasumi bowed down in front of this, Mr. Gojo. Like he was an important figure, which you assumed by how he walked around with the amount of power exuding off of him.
“Oh—um, you don't have to bow.” He awkwardly shook his hands for Ms. Kasumi to stand straight back up again. All while his eyes remained trained on you, maintaining perfect eye contact. You weren't one to hold eyes with someone, but here you were, refusing to look away first, maybe to find any answers behind his cerulean eyes.
“I assume you are clocking out? Thank you for your hard work. Have a good night.” He smiled at you two, and his eyes finally wavered away from you. You could see a flush of red creeping up his neck under the dim lights of the lobby.
“Thank you, sir! You have a good night as well!” Ms. Kasumi enthusiastically said as you two stepped out of the elevator for Mr. Gojo to step in with his tired-looking assistant.
“If you'll excuse me, then.” Mr. Gojo nodded one last time at you two. Mr. Han walked ahead of you, but you still kept standing in front of the elevator, staring at him shamelessly. And before the doors could close between you two once again, he smiled at you, a smile that reached his eyes, and he looked exactly like the demon you've come to know in the last few weeks.
“Bye, Ms. L/n.”
This was definitely the same guy. There is no way they're two different individuals. They're somehow connected, and you do not know how, but you need to figure it out. As soon as possible.
“See! Like I said, he looks better up close!” Ms. Kasumi enthusiastically looked at you for your agreement while you two walked side by side up to the entrance of the building.
“Who?”
“The new CEO! Mr. Gojo! You are really out of it today, Ms. L/n; please get some rest when you get home.” Unfortunately for Ms. Kasumi, you tuned out everything she said after Mr. Gojo.
There is something weird going on right now. And you, honestly, have no idea what it is. You do not have any clue other than the fact that your new CEO and the sex demon you made a deal with look exactly the same and behave exactly the same and feel exactly the same, but not entirely. And it's giving you a headache. Whatever it is that is going on, you will get to the bottom of it.
But first, you need that damn demon to show up, who's made a mess of your already tiresome life.
a/n: dividers by @/enchanthings-a & @/omi-resources. fanart by @3-aem, lyrics info in image, and other one is just from Pinterest.
˚₊‧꒰ა dragon.ᐟ satoru gojo ﾉ sacrfice.ᐟ reader ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ for centuries, river villages spoke of the powerful, beautiful and cruel dragon atop the mountain. who plagued the valley with a taste for the hearts of pretty girls. every ten years or so an offering is made to quell his wrath. it seems you're this decade's pretty girl they've decided to sacrifice — but you're not going down without a fight ꒰ ᡣ𐭩 ꒱ monster romance ˖ violence mention ˖ eventual smut ˖ more warnings tba ⌇ art cred : myuchiisu
You know that trend where you convince your S.O. that a ribbon is your new bikini top?
You thought it’d be funny, walking into the living room of the hotel suite in nothing but a silky pink bow tied across your chest. You had plans to head to the beach, hang out by the resort pool, soak up the sun. But now, well, the air feels a little warmer and it's not from the Caribbean.
Satoru’s halfway through a popsicle when he sees you.
It slips from his fingers. Hits the floor with a dull splat. His jaw goes slack, eyes locked dead center on your chest. There might be a little drool at the corner of his lips. Gawking would be one word for it. Worship might be another.
“Is that…” he starts, voice thin, then trails off completely. His snowy lashes flutter, as they flick back and forth between your face and the ribbon straining across your chest. “Is that the whole thing?”
You nod, biting your lip to keep from giggling, pressing your thighs together as you lean against the door frame.
He picks up the matching ribbon you left on the table, still convinced it was from some fancy item you bought earlier when the three of you were shopping around town. He turns it over, lets it flow between his fingers as he tries to process whatever the hell is going on. You have to be pranking him, right? But his sweet girl wouldn't do that. “Okay, so… this part goes around the - wait. No. This can’t even fit - ”
“Toruuu,” you coo sweetly, “it’s just a bikini.”
He whips his head toward you, lips parted, fluster written across every inch of his too-pretty face. “That’s not a bikini. That’s a felony. And not for public nudity - for homicide. Are you trying to send me to jail, baby?” He goes back to playing with the ribbon, staring at it, muttering under his breath, What the fuck.
It’s honestly hurting his brain. “I mean - sunshine, my love - obviously I know how it works. Duh. I just want to make sure you know how it works. For the safety of… others.”
You’re still grinning when Suguru rounds the corner, towel draped over his shoulders, drying his damp hair. His dark strands are loose, curling slightly where they brush his jaw. His half-lidded violet eyes flick toward you and then down. To the bow. To the skin below it. To the other pink ribbon pinched between Satoru’s fingers.
There’s a quirk at the corner of his mouth.
“…What is this, baby?” he asks slowly, indulging in your little prank.
“She said it’s her new bikini,” Satoru mutters, lifting the ribbon higher, waving it a little.
Suguru walks over, slow and predatory, dragging his hand along his jaw as his eyes rake you head to toe. His stare lingers on your chest. Then your hips. Then the barely-there ribbon bottoms in Satoru’s grasp.
“Oh, she’s fucking with us,” he says, flat and unimpressed. “What happened to the bikini I bought you? The one that matched ours.”
“Mmm. Left it at home,” you say, all faux innocence and no real regret.
Suguru doesn’t even blink. He takes the ribbon from Satoru without asking. His fingers graze yours before wrapping the rippob around your waist. He attempts at any form of bikini bottom, twice, expression blank, except for the subtle twitch of his brow.
“This wouldn’t cover anything,” he murmurs, voice barely above a hum. “Is this what you want? To get stared at? Or were you just trying to get a rise out of us?”
He lifts his eyes, gaze sharpening like a blade.
“You think it’s funny?” he asks, and this time there’s something dangerous in his voice, something just beneath the surface. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Not even close. He steps in, close enough for his cologne to sink into your lungs - dark and spiced, all heat and warning.
Satoru fidgets beside him, playing with the ends of the ribbon top “Like, seriously baby, just - explain how this is supposed to stay on. Because I’m not trying to sound mean, but… wind exists. Movement exists. You breathe wrong and you're gonna be trending on Twitter.”
Suguru tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure out what kind of punishment fits the crime. “Maybe she wants to be seen,” he murmurs. “Hm? Want someone to film our pretty girl?”
You swallow. Suddenly the joke doesn’t feel quite so in control anymore.
“…Maybe we should just, y’know, test it out at home first,” Satoru says, voice light, but his fingers are already tugging at the bow on your chest. The knot loosens in one pull. Your breath hitches as the fabric falls, baring you completely to the cool breeze of the hotel room.
Suguru doesn’t move for a moment. Just watches. Watches the way your shoulders twitch, the way your thighs shift together. Then his mouth curls into a sharp, knowing smirk as he steps forward, crowding you back toward the bed.
“Got the attention you wanted, baby?” he coos, dark lashes low over gleaming eyes while Satoru turns to quietly lock the door. “Good. Because we’re going to be cooped up in here for a while… just to make sure you don’t get any more silly ideas.”
. ۫ᯓᡣ𐭩 g. satoru ﾉ f. reader ˚₊‧꒰ა sleepy dryhumping ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
˖ ꯴ ⌇ toru's too tired to fuck & too horny to sleep pls help him ⭒ for my sweetie @all-with-angel
Not many things could keep Satoru from you. But two weeks worth of back-to-back missions and criminal hours of sleep? Came damn close.
"Mnn, toru?" Your croon washed over him. A sweet caress to every aching muscle and exhausted fibre. His hands ached to touch you, and so they cupped your thighs. He was always mindful of his weight, but tonight he tumbled into you.
Not that you ever minded. Your hands drew to his tousled hair. Magnetic. Fingers playing with the blindfold and adjusting it while he nuzzled your neck in languid affection. While you adored his eyes; if your beloved was this tired, not having his blindfold would result in more stimulation than could bargain for.
But stimulation was what Satoru searched for as he pressed your body into the mattress. Blankets knocked off, he grew jealous of how they held you. Nightgown lifted, how dare it keep you from him?
Clumsy, open-mouthed kisses distracted you for a time. Everything crumbled the second he slotted between your legs. Your fingers coiled his hair in a tiny tug. "Satoru? Hey. . ."
And then you're gulping down heat. Shuddering at the all-too-familiar bulge rubbing on your cotton panties. His favourite. Fuck, if he had enough energy he'd peel them off with his teeth and unwind with a delicious helping of your sweet pussy squeezed around his tongue.
"Need you so bad, baby." His breathy groan muffled on your neck. Lazy hickies lather your skin. He'll repaint them in the morning. All he needed was right here. Your hands in his hair, your throbbing heat against his tent, you. Beneath him, holding him.
His last steam poured into his hips in an idle, slack-worthy rock. To-and-fro in gentle waves crashing pleasure on his shores. Large hands dipped around you, clinging onto your nightgown from behind as he nestled his nose into neck. "Fuuck, so tired, but need m'girl . . . need her sweet body."
Slurred, mumbled, Satoru's voice droned into your skin he still insisted pressing slow kisses on. His heavy body and tight grip provided just enough pressure. His bulge dwarfing your panties just enough friction. Gliding seamlessly against your folds once you began slicking.
Your soft moans dripped into his ear. Another ounce of fuel. Enough to speed his pace by a fraction. He encased you into the bed. Enveloping you, drowning, suffocating. In your scent, your heat, your very soul. Everything that he missed for those two hellish weeks.
Satoru stuttered a whine at the abrupt gush of your pussy. Seemed he woke her up. "Tha's my girl . . . fuck, she missed me sooo much. 'm sorry. Sorry I left her so long."
He was babbling. Another burst of energy willed him to lay a round of kisses over the base of your throat. Large hands reached to cup your ass and nudge your legs around his waist. The rubbing turned to humping. Desperate, clumsy, and all the more sleepy.
"Mnn, wanna fuck her," he whined, mouthing on the front of your throat to his lips. Oh, he collapsed. Crumbling into your mouth with sloppy, heated smooches and a lazy tongue.
"Wanna - hah -" he sucked down on your tongue. "Wanna fuck her soo baaddd, but 'm so tired, baby."
He slumped into you. A mess of languid kisses and sleepy humps. He caught on your clit, slotting between slick fabric and grinding at just the right angle that stimulated you enough. Even when half-asleep, his cock thrums powerfully into you. You bite on a whimper and card your hands through his hair.
"Mnn, sshhh toru, 's okay - mngh. It's okay, we have tomorrow. How 'bout I wake you up to a little surprise huh?"
"Don't try to suck me off," he huffed tiredly, hips stuttering.
You laughed and leaned in to press a quick kiss to his temple. "Nah. I was thinking . . ." The trailed whisper into his ear had him whining. Face buried into your neck again as he drowsily nods.
"Mhhm," his hips stuttered again. Once, twice, pleasure burst in tender shivers down your spine. A gentle, half-orgasm. Before he fell still. Dick still throbbing into you. Arms held tight. Lips still parted.
But a small glance down was enough to tell you, your poor boyfriend was out for the count. Still suckling on your neck.
seeing spectres? got a ghost problem? it seems Satoru Gojo has one of his own - one he doesn't want to get rid of
synopsis: full-time nerd turned part-time amateur ghost hunter, you've become Gojo's favorite occupation! living with a roommate is hard enough - let alone falling in love with your (un?)dead one!
pairing: nerdjo x ghost!Reader
content: mdni, angst and fluff and smut, roommates-to-lovers but one of them is dead lol, paranormal aspects ofc, fem reader, discussions of death, some darker themes but plenty of goofy gojo to go around, idiots falling in love, petty reader, gojo being a DORK, she falls first + he falls harder, this one's gonna be freaky guys, unprotected piv sex, oral (m! receiving), more tags to be added!
You don’t know a lot of things, and you readily admit that. What you do know, is that the friends you’ve made aren’t something you will ever regret. Until your physical body weakens and becomes nothing, you’re more than happy to give your all until you wither away.
What’s yours can be theirs, too. They’re your friends, after-all. (Omegaverse AU)
“Wanna come with?”
Hesitance. A feeling you’re familiar with—but why? It’s an offer to be with your friend, a quite literal hand reaching out and giving you an opportunity so that you wouldn’t have to make such a hard decision on your lonesome.
So why does this feel so ambiguous, feel like a joke? It felt mocking, felt wrong, as if you couldn’t put a finger on it—
Until you realize, at your reflection staring back at you from those shining blue eyes and the memory of seeing Gojo Satoru’s name upon the projector screen at your graduation… That you realize that it was doubt holding you back.
(Ah.)
“I don’t think you and I,” A flicker of your eyes to your report card, at the grades staring back at you as your gaze forces itself back onto him. “Are in the same score bracket, Satoru.”
Because it’s true. You don’t need to dream, don’t need to imagine it; not when you know his crumpled Certificate of Achievement sat within his schoolbag, partially torn under the shearing duress it was subjected to.
Because, if you were to compare yourself, were to have a way to describe just how different Gojo Satoru was from you—it’d be akin to the grass staring up at the sun, how those blades could grow as tall as it wanted, as it possibly could.
But they would never quite reach the sky.
“Ya still care about that?” He flicks your forehead, sharp pain spreading across your skin as you yelp and hurriedly press your fingers against it to lessen the after-blow.
Ow.
“Suguru and Shoko are going.” He dismisses your concern, dismisses you. Even presses his own fingers on top of your own as you see him flash that toothy grin, what once was the missing gap in his gums now fit pearly whites.
“And ya know how often Shoko cheats, anyway. Not like it matters how bad you are at studying.” His hand tosses your hair back, thoroughly enjoying playing with it as you sit and simmer in his words; Compared to him, anybody would be considered inferior. Compared to him, anybody else would be beneath him.
But it doesn’t exactly make you feel better.
“Why?” Just because you don’t know, just because you don’t understand why this opportunity is landing itself right in your lap.
Because it doesn’t make sense, not when Gojo Satoru shines brighter than you ever think you will. Ever can.
And all you get in reply, all you get in return for these confusing, muddy feelings is… A grin.
“Cause you’re special.”
——
Being special would be nice. Being special would make you exceptional, above the average that you had gotten so used to, so placated with. So was it wrong for you to believe in his words? Was it wrong for you to want to place faith within them?
Because even if you think Satoru said that just to convince you, a part of it tugs at your heartstrings a little, makes your face a little hot in embarrassment.
(The Gojo Satoru thinks that you’re special.)
“Mama.” Your chopsticks stop in place, your eyes following the smoke trails from your miso soup before they stop upon your mother at the dinner table.
“Hm?”
Today’s dinner was light, easy on the stomach. Easy for it to go down, yet you’re at a standstill as you find it hard to even swallow your own saliva.
“Would it be okay if…” A breath in, and a slow blink of your eyes. “I went to school in Tokyo?”
She freezes. Only momentarily, only for a second before she recollects herself, finds her thoughts once more.
“That’s—Quite far.” Maybe too far for her liking, you guess. A train ride that would take hours, a place that you would be unfamiliar with and not to mention…
The expenses.
You never really considered it something to be ashamed of, never thought less of your Mama because of the way you grew up. But, at the age of 15; soon 16, you’re fairly aware of your financial standing.
It’s better now, but you just can’t seem to break the habit of reaching for discounted items regardless of their exterior, can’t seem to shake off putting indulgent items back onto shelves before you reach the checkout counter.
“Their dorms are free.” A glance downwards at your still untouched dinner—fish that you managed to snag for half-price at the supermarket during their daily 7:00 PM sale. “And so is their cafeteria food.”
“I—“ A deep breath inward, her fingers only momentarily grazing the faded scar upon her neck. You know she’s hesitant, know that she’s always told you about how you shouldn’t grow up so fast, know that she might even rejec—
“I’ll allow it.”
(Huh?)
“You…” A clack of her chopsticks down as they settle atop her own bowl of soup. “You’re grown up now, right?” That makes all the difference now, you realize.
“I honestly… Expected this.” Another smile, softer, gentler. Yet, it didn’t quite reach the way her eyes looked, didn’t quite feel the same as her usual expressions.
“It must’ve been hard on you when you were younger, since I wasn’t able to give you everything—“
“No.” You disagree. You wholeheartedly disagree. “Everything was fine because you were here with me, Mama.”
You could never ask for more. Never even begin to think otherwise. No matter how expensive the treats you got from Satoru, no matter how many times Kimiko-san or Geto-mama became your temporary caretakers during emergencies—
You would never ask for a different life.
“Thank… You, sweetheart.” Choked, like the words had to claw their way up her throat to be spoken. You glance up, and her eyes are glassy; but no tears fall. There was still control even now, where she refuses to let you see these moments of weakness. Where she refuses to let you see the parts of her that she had so sorely hidden.
She reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a hand that still trembles from years of labour that she never let you witness. “But please,”
It's so quiet, so soft.
“Do come visit, okay?”
——
“All ya need is a recommendation from a recognized Jujutsu Sorcerer.” A hum as he messes with the bracelet on your hand playing with the strands and mindlessly staring at your table.
“It’s not that hard~” He hums, letting go and leaning back as he flops onto your now unrolled futon. “Want me to forge it for ya?”
Kimiko-san, he must mean. If there was any Jujutsu Sorcerer that you knew, it was her that you go for. That’s why you’re here now, following a now much more elderly Takahashi-san about. Still as tall as ever, still exactly as you remembered.
(And as fancy-looking as ever.)
“Do wait inside the Young Master’s room first, (name)-sama. And call for me if there is any trouble.”
(Even as polite as ever.)
Gojo Satoru’s room… When was the last time you came here, actually? You don’t really visit unless there was a reason to, never really had a reason to want to come.
It was stuffy, to be in such a place. Big, wide corridors and pristine floors. Polished decorations without even a speck of dust, and bonsai trees so green you wonder if they painted them.
Quite claustrophobic, to say the least.
But it’s still rude to intrude when there’s no pressing matter. Rude to come when you have nothing in particular to say or do.
(So you really do wonder why he comes over so often. Maybe he likes it? Maybe he doesn’t like his house either? You still recall the days he rejects your rejection to hang out.
He still does them.)
The first thing you notice is how the floors have lost the quirky Digimon carpets, how the walls were no longer covered in his extensive collection of said series’ cards.
But you’re… Actually in look for a book. A game console. Something to keep you preoccupied whilst there was no one to entertain you, something to pass the time as you waited to be called on.
(Because they have Jujutsu stuff to do, you think. So cool.)
And the poster—behind the wall. Maybe you never really noticed, or maybe it was something new. Maybe it was because his vast closet was left ajar, maybe it was because you were just too bored out of your mind.
“Su-Suguru—?” You nearly thought it was, had it not been for the way your eyes trailed downwards only to find the skimpy bikini that she donned, the plunge-line of her bikini top so deep you truly wonder if she was covering anything as she posed with the beach behind her.
That was definitely not Geto Suguru. You feel ashamed of yourself for even thinking that as you slap at your own cheek in shame. Her hair wasn’t as shiny, her eyes weren’t as pretty—and she just didn’t compare.
(Because your Suguru is way prettier than her.)
And you should’ve left it at that, honestly. Should have just nodded at the fact that your friend also happened to a teenage boy, and that teenagers have their needs. Whether they were pretty… Or not.
“Saya-tan! I heard your last meet-and-greet was packed with more of the younger audience than you expected! How did you find that?”
“Oh my, I was so embarrassed… I didn’t know I was so popular with them.”
“Well, teenagers will be teenagers when they see a pretty face like yours, Saya-tan! Even I’m quite a smitten fan of you!”
The problem was that… There was more than one. More than a poster, more than just decorative pieces. A couple of crinkly gravure magazines spotted from the corner of your eye that you’re sure you have flipped through out of curiosity when you found them lying around Suguru’s room once.
But even as you sat on your knees and started reading them once more, it feels a little more… Wrong? Yet, it does feel a little cathartic to find out that even Gojo Satoru wasn’t immune to the charms of pretty girls.
Satoru doesn’t like twintails all that much, after all.
Dark hair, purple eyes… More of a sultry type of vibe?
Ohhhh. You quite like Issue #47, Alpha Genda Soju and Her Summer Charms! One of the models featured even has the same eyes as Saya-tan. Not as pretty, though.
They do say even ero-magazines are a form of love, too. Should you get some?
Some… If not most of these models are a bit uncanny. Almost too familiar, yet unable to put a finger on why. Was it the hair? The face? It almost seems like—
“You.” Not even spared the chance to get to finish flipping through, don’t get to finish your thought before hands go over your eyes from behind, the voice low, and surprisingly put-together despite effectively blinding you and your very sight. “How much did ya see?”
Ah.
“I helped organize them.” Even when blinded, your hands carefully close the magazine you were reading, so carefully putting it aside, before your finger pointed towards the small piles formed in front of you. “By model.”
“Hm.” And he finally lets go, as your eyes slowly blink open, just in time to see him push the magazines away and settle in front of you, the loud crinkle of plastic startling you only ever so slightly.
“Anyone ever told ya you shouldn’t look through a guy’s stash?” He pouts this time, using his height to tower; even when sitting down, even when relaxed.
(Like it was instilled into him.)
However, with you, there’s that odd proximity of closeness again. One that settles when he leans forwards, grabs your hands and stares into your eyes. Foreheads just mere inches away from each other as he hovered near you, close, but a distance in-between.
“Sorry.”
So you close it. That distance that separated the both of you, the one that he seemingly didn’t dare to encroach as you pull him downwards, to have your foreheads be touching.
You whisper it as your eyes close, as—
—he exhales. Like he didn’t know he was holding his breath. His hands stay on yours. Warm. Unrelenting.
“You better be.” His voice is softer than it should be. It doesn’t carry the usual arrogance, didn't have the usual haughtiness.
(Yet, you feel like you've wronged him severely.)
“It’s okay, Satoru.” You even pat at his back, your eyes opening as you smile up at him. “It means you’re healthy.”
“You’re really weird, ya know?”
(“I have a type too.”
“The weather girl or something? Saba?” A scratch of his head and a thoughtless look in his eye. “Ain’t she already married?”
“Saya-tan.” You pout, hands on your hips and very, very offended. “And marriage means she’s happy and healthy!”
“Yeah, yeah.” A scoff paired with a chuckle before his fingers settle atop your forehead, playfully brushing away strands of your hair— before giving you a quick flick. “That’s what ya get for messin’ with my stuff.”
Ow.)
——
Kimiko-san must be somewhere, right? There’s no way she disappeared so quickly... But you do remember the times when you would whisper her name under your breath during the late evenings Mama wasn't home yet— Only for her to suddenly appear by your side.
“Ya gotta wait longer. Last I heard, some old ass grandpa summoned ‘er or something.” He yawns, patting the empty spot beside him upon his bed.
“Just lie down and pay attention to me already.” As needy as ever, you suppose.
“I need the bathroom, though.”
“Just use mine?” Paired with a scrunched up nose and narrowed eyes as he stares at you with a look of confusion. “It’s right next to the closet you were in.”
“…no, thank you.” You’ve an idea just what teenagers do when alone with magazines of such an erotic nature. Have an idea in your mind that you would rather not project onto your dear friend so that you could save his cute image.
Especially when their collection is as extensive as his.
“Why are ya lookin’ at me like that?”
“Girl.” A familiar voice— Elegant, mature and much too forward as you get stopped in your tracks, right in front of that familiar, now much more expensive-looking shoji door.
“You’re here again.” That demanding tone carried an upbringing too far off from your own, too different from what you know.
You remember her.
“Hello…” You even bow— Despite you being sure she can’t even see you as you watch her silhouette appear once more. In a flurry as it dances in the dim light, her faceless figure now making itself known to you.
“State your purpose.” How nostalgic. How familiar.
“I’m looking for Satoru’s room…”
A click of her tongue. “Not that.”
Ah.
“I’m looking for Kimiko-san so that I can get a recommendation for Jujutsu… School.” Or something like that. Satoru has never been the best at being specific, never been the best at explaining when you need him to.
(Because you simply trust him too much.)
“A recommendation? You weren’t even scouted?” You hear shuffling, hear something akin to a scoff before she releases a sigh. "I heard you were an Omega, right?"
"Mhm." It's the first time you've been outed so quickly. You didn't even know that she knew, but to be fair, if you were a generationally well-off clan; you’d think getting classified information of other people would be a breeze, too. “People can’t tell, though.”
“Hm.”
Silence. You think you can even hear the wind whistling outside as you straightened your back, tried to stand as politely as you could. You’re not about to disrespect your elders with horrendous posture.
And you can feel her gaze this time. Scrutinizing, watching. It never left you, not even for a second. Like she was taking her time, like she was drinking in your very self.
Like she couldn’t put a finger on what she wanted.
“Just take this.” You barely even have time to react when she finally breaks the silence, a scroll suddenly appearing out of thin air as it drops into your unprepared hands.
“Kimi— No, the servant girl’s recommendation will not top this. Use it.”
“Thank— Thank you?”
“You should be grateful. Ufufu.” You think she must definitely be related to Satoru in some way, especially when you hear a fan snapping open as she fans at herself.
“Now go.”
Well… That’s settled. Quite unexpectedly, at that.
“Thank you, again.” It’s your parting words to her as you hold it securely in your hands, turning foot and walking away, sparing her a final glance. Though her silhouette only flickers, only ever shows enough to see the shadow that lingers in the dim light, poised and perfectly elegant.
You're glad that it seems that she’s been taking good care of herself, though.
(“Where’d you get that?” Gojo Satoru is leaning over your shoulder as he glances at the scroll, tied to elegantly, sealed so neatly.
“The pretty lady behind the door gave it to me.” Your hands even emulate a fanning position, obscuring your face and doing your best to look as poised as she did.
Even if you only saw her shadow.
You see something flicker in his eyes, a gleam of recognition before he looks away— Clearly disinterested now that he had his answer.
“Sounds creepy.”)
——
“If you stare at it any longer, you’ll hurt your eyes.” A hand on his cheek, a smile and eyes that watched you with intent amusement. Geto Suguru thinks you’re actually on the verge of giving yourself eye strain the longer you stared at the still unopened letter.
“But… I’m nervous, Suguru.” Is it a rejection? An acceptance? Did they put you on a waiting list? What if it was just an apology because they didn’t accept applications anymore? But Satoru did tell you that their window for these never close, but what if he got that wrong? But Satoru’s never been wrong—
A tap on your shoulder.
“You’re overthinking it.”
Ah. Right. Right… You shouldn’t spiral over just a letter. Shouldn’t lose yourself over possibilities that weren’t confirmations yet.
“Do you want me to open it for you?” Because will hearing the result being read out loud in your friend’s soft, soothing voice help ease the burden? Or would it make the crash all the more painful?
“Suguru.” You look at him with earnest honesty, a glimmer in the corner of your eye formed from the sheer anxiety of the situation. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“Please don’t.” A pat of your head. “And believe in yourself more.”
Or so he says. But Geto Suguru wasn’t an average person, wasn’t an ordinary human. He was smart, hardworking beyond belief. He was courage and bravery that you could never dream of becoming. He was quiet, yet not shy. Calculating, yet not cold. He was measured, put-together in ways that people admired, that reassured them.
Because, if you were to compare yourself, were to have a way to describe just how different Geto Suguru was from you—it’d be akin to the sea looking up at the moon, how the tide could rise as far as it can, how it can crash as violently as it wanted against the shores.
But the moon will never feel the ocean’s pull.
Because being special would be nice. Being special would put you on the same playing field as them. So was it wrong for you to think that they wouldn’t get it? Was it wrong for you to think that maybe—
You would never be able to compare?
“If you don’t believe in yourself,” His hand places itself over yours, gently squeezing, gently coaxing. “At least believe in me.”
And it’s not fair how easily he can say things like that. How he can look at you like that. It feels like he sees through you, is taking a glance right into your very core.
And you do. You do believe in him more than anything. Because Geto Suguru was the kind of person people follow into the dark blindly, the kind of person that people know will lead them to the other side.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
You don’t want to be led. Don’t want to be someone who always follows just because. Something bittersweet stains your words, claws at your throat. “That’s easy for you to say.”
His brows rise a little, head tilted to the side. But he doesn’t interrupt.
“You’re… you,” you continue. “You’re good at everything. You’re already enough.” Because if you were like him, you’d be applying to a school on your own accord, you wouldn’t be here, needing his support and encouragement.
Because you’d already be enough then.
Suguru doesn’t let go. Doesn’t flinch. He just waits patiently. Composed. Calm. He shifts his grip slightly, intertwining your fingers in his, making sure that they were laced together tightly. “But I already like you.”
Even if you were less than, even if you were nothing special. Even when he echos back words that you’re all too familiar with.
So maybe it’s the embarrassment, maybe it’s the adrenaline of having someone like him look at you with such tenderness in his eyes that made you finally tear open that sweat-riddled letter. You see words that sound too fancy, a stamp far too intricate. It’s wordy, it’s anxiety-inducing, but—
You got in.
——
You realize you don’t have a lot of clothes, especially when the old suitcase your Mama gave you was only a quarter-way filled by the time your closet was empty.
“Your closet’s kinda boring.” Ieiri Shoko uses your pillow as an arm rest as she props it up, watching you with intrigue as she surveys the now emptiness that was your closet.
“Is it?” You never really thought about it that way, never really considered yourself to be the fashionable type. But you do quite like watching Saya-chan wear pretty stuff and seeing Shoko’s own coords for the day. They're nice, and you've half a mind to try some of them out yourself... Had they not been so severely out of your price range.
“What happens when you get too hot or cold something?”
You blink. “I lend Suguru’s clothes.” Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Now it’s her turn to look confused. Bothered, even. Her nose scrunches and her eyes narrow, a look of stark and utter bewilderment on her face. “Doesn’t Gojo have the better quality stuff? Why not just take those?”
“But… They’re expensive.” And guilt will not permit you to even land a singular drop of juice upon them. What if you can’t get it out? What if it stayed there forever and you just dropped its value by ¥10,000?
“And also, Suguru’s laundry detergent smells…” You can’t put a finger on it. “Really comforting?” You grew up with it, after all.
She blinks. “That shirt you’re wearing,” A finger pointed towards the plain white article you donned with familiarity, wore with comfort. Evidenced by the slightly worn collar from years of use and the very, very slight fraying at the hem.
(It’s really good quality.)
“He gave you that, right?”
“Mhm. It’s really comfy.” And has lasted you a good 5 years so far, ever since
“Oh, Satoru. You left your shirt behind at my house.” Your face is blank, voice even as you take another bite of the creamy parfait.
(Thank you to whichever academic god up there that let you do semi-well on that recent test.)
He looks at you— But only for a moment before humming, not even batting an eye. Dismissive, daydreaming and probably didn’t hear what you just said. You can only blink as you watch him take another impossibly large bite of your shared treat.
“Keep it, won’t cha? Use it as pajamas or something, like ya do with Suguru’s stuff.”
So it shouldn’t have been expensive if he parted ways with it so easily, right? And you’re not exactly too keen on giving it back, anyway…
“That’s at least ¥100,000, by the way.” It’s blunt, as if the number that she just uttered out wasn’t an exorbitant amount. As if it wasn’t that big of a deal.
(Rich people… Are simply too different for you to get.)
“So just take his stuff too,” A sigh as she stretches her arms out, making herself comfortable on your floors as she yawns once more. “He’ll just buy another one if he actually really liked it.”
(So he gave his to you… Because he hated it…? Rich people really are too different for you to understand.)
“That’s such a waste…” Now you feel bad for this shirt. Feel bad that its worth was based entirely on how much Satoru actually liked wearing it as you lift the hem and stare at it. “I’ll make sure to treasure you in his place…”
“That’s… Not what I meant, but okay.” Whatever makes you happy, she supposes.
She stretches again, her limbs splaying out against the softness of your futon, slowly lulling her to sleep as the silence stretches with her. But you know her eyes are half-lidded, half-awake to watch you meander, watch you think slowly in the comfortable quiet between the both of you.
Shoko's always been like that. She doesn't radiate like Gojo, and she doesn’t pull people in like Suguru. But she’s there. Always there, waiting in the quietude that surrounds.
She’s the stars, maybe. Always visible, always quiet. Something nobody notices until they’re out of options. They don’t light the way, not really. But they remind you you’re not alone in the dark.
Maybe that’s why you’ve always found her presence strangely grounding. Because she never demands attention, never tries too hard. She exists to a tune of her own, endlessly, reliably.
“Don’t sleep for too long, Shoko.”
“Mm…”
(“We should go shopping sometime, by the way...” You can’t believe that that hasn’t occurred yet, for as long as you have been friends with her.
“Maybe when I save up more money? Clothes can be expensive too, Shoko.” You know that. Saya-chan showed off her coordinates and how much they were on a special program featuring her once.
“Maybe. Or we could just bring Gojo along.”
“Why would he know anything about girl’s clothes?”)
——
Tokyo. The capital of the country, the bustling center of it all. People walked at paces faster than you could keep up with, their eyes barely even locked on nowhere in particular before they have to pick up another important business call on their phones. You're not even sure if half of them are real.
(You hope they're watching the road at the very least. Safety first, after all.)
What a fast-paced city. Far too fast that even your blinks feel like they're still trying to catch up.
You think you’re lost. You pretty sure you are, when you've walked past the same salaryman smoking in a corner for the third time now, and the same vending machine that had been coaxing you to try its Ultra Premium Deluxe one-of-a-kind chocolate milk that wasn't sold anywhere else.
You think they're both starting to judge you.
“Getting lost is for weaklings.” There’s a carefree smile on his face as Shinkansen train ticket that he had bought sat on your palm, fluttering lightly with the cool air of Suguru’s room.
“Satoru. Don’t talk like that.” Geto Suguru has to scold him once more, chide him on his word choice again.
“Who even cares? Not my fault the shitty admissions team or whatever couldn’t let us all in at the same time.”
“She’s only getting admittance a couple days after. It shouldn’t be that long a wait.”
You definitely think you’re lost as you stand by the walkway, your luggage beside you as you take out your cellphone… That you realized was already dead.
Ah. You’re done for. Completely, utterly done for as you stare at the crowds and crowds of people all about, swarming past you like ants to sugar. They're walking far too fast for you to even stop one of them to ask for directions. Maybe you should head for a police station? Where even is the closest one? You think you took the correct exit out, but you also think—
A tug at your sleeve.
He doesn’t say anything— Nothing at all. Just simply stares up at you as he clings to your clothes, blinking his big, blue eyes at you as your eyes first catch the sight of black, spiky hair.
The second thing you notice, was the energy that he emanated. A sight you've long committed to memory as it floats off of him in waves, gently swaying in the wind.
(A sorcerer. Or at least, a future one in the making.)
“Um…” Who is this kid, anyway? His hair’s all messed up, clothes slightly wrinkled and there was a spot of dried drool by the corner of his pudgy cheek— As if he just woke up only recently.
(But he looks strangely... Familiar.)
“Are you lost too?” It’s the only question you could even think of asking in your current situation, bending at the knees as you come down to his level, to his very small height as he reaches out a smaller hand to grab at a strand of your hair.
(He looks too young to be out and about all on his own.)
“Mm.” How forward. How... Brave. You don't think you had the courage he had when you were younger. "Where are your parents?" You wince slightly when he tugs a little too hard, only for him to release his grip soon after, patting at your face... As if in apology.
(What a cute kid.)
Maybe you should go to a police station now. Being lost yourself is bad enough, but being lost and accompanied by somebody who can't even count to 10 is far too much of a responsibility for you to bear. It has to be nearby, right? Surely they would station close enough for people like you. Suguru also mentioned something about calling him if—
You're still trying to think of a solid plan when a rough, impatient, unmistakably older, and impossibly nostalgic voice cuts through the crowd.
It’s clearer than you would expect, more hoarse than you would ever think. It makes you perk up in surprise, makes you wonder if—
“Oi, what did I say about running around, you brat?”
summary. Gojo Satoru was never meant to survive your song. You were never meant to fall for a human. But the ocean has never followed the rules.
word count. 17.2k (nnyeah)
content. mdni fem!siren!reader, pirate!gojo, slowburn, mutual pining, forbidden love, reader lowkey has daddy issues, fluff, pet names, making out, really inaccurate transformations from siren to human, smut, fingering, p in v, feral gojo, slight dacryphilia, pearl necklaces, aftercare, ANGST, violence, gore and blood, major character death (not too graphic tho), rebirth
author's note. idk y'all i just wanted to write some angst
The ship rocked gently beneath a sky smeared with pink clouds and salt-kissed breeze. The sails are full, the air warm, the crew loud as ever. Shoko tosses a flask to Geto across the deck, slouching against the railing with her usual lazy grin. Nanami mutters to himself over the ration count, already annoyed and it wasn’t even noon. Yuuji and Nobara are bickering again, locked in a heated knot-tying competition that neither of them are winning.
Gojo stood at the helm, one hand on the wheel, the other dragging along the edge of a map he’d practically memorized. His fingers paused over a spot he’d circled days ago, the charcoal mark smudged from how often he’d touched it.
"Been staring at that for hours, Satoru," Geto called out, an amused lilt in his voice. "You sure you’re not in love with that map?"
Gojo didn’t glance up. "If it leads to what I think it does, I just might propose."
"Treasure, treasure, treasure," Nobara groaned. She climbs up onto a barrel, arms crossed. "You know there’s more to life than gold, right?"
"I respectfully disagree," Nanami mumbles.
"I just hope we don’t run into any sirens," Yuuji says, tossing a pebble into the sea, watching it plop uselessly into the waves.
That earned a collective scoff.
"Oh, not this again," Nobara rolled her eyes.
"I’m serious!" Yuuji turned around, pointing his finger like he was telling a ghost story. "They sing to you and boom—you're overboard. You don’t even realize your legs stopped working ‘til you're halfway down."
"Those are just stories," Nobara snaps. "Tales to keep dumb kids from getting too close to the water."
"But what if they’re real?" Yuuji presses. "Like, really real. What if one of us hears singing and just jumps in without meaning to—"
"I vote Megumi," Nobara cut in, grinning.
Megumi didn’t even look up from the net he was mending. "You’d drown before I would."
Shoko snorted. "That tracks."
Their laughter rolled like thunder, loud and light. But Gojo’s gaze slid back to the horizon, narrowing just slightly. The water was still. Too still. Then, a ripple. Subtle, but there.
He blinked. A shimmer caught his eye—just beneath the sunlit surface. Iridescent. Brief. Gone.
His fingers flex around the wheel. There it was again. That strange pull. A drumbeat deep in his chest. Familiar and foreign, like a memory from a dream he couldn’t place.
He exhales. Must’ve been the fish.
"Alright," he says, snapping the map shut with one hand. "We drop anchor near that island before sundown. We’ll stay the night."
"Think the treasure’s buried there?" Geto asks, already reaching for the spyglass.
"No," Gojo replies, voice as easy as ever. "But I’ve got a good feeling."
He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t mention the ripple, or the flash of light beneath the water. Doesn’t mention the song he swore he hears every now and then, just barely, rising from the sea.
-
The ship had long since gone quiet. Lanterns dimmed, voices hushed, footsteps replaced with the rhythmic creak of wood and the hush of waves licking the hull. The moon hung low, fat and silver, scattering a path of light across the water.
Gojo lay stretched across a barrel of rope, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded but nowhere near sleep. The wind was calm. Almost too calm. He should’ve been tired—hell, he was tired—but something kept tugging at him from inside his chest. That same pull again. A gnawing curiosity. A whisper. And then he heard it—voice. Not loud. Not calling. Just… singing.
Soft. Sweet. Smooth like honey and salt. The kind of sound that shouldn't exist out here. Not this far from civilization. Not on an unmarked island in the middle of nowhere.
He sat up slowly, blinking. The song wove through the air, light as seafoam, curling around him like mist. It didn’t sound human. It sounded too perfect for that. But it didn’t sound inhuman, either. It sounded like longing. What the hell?
He stood, quiet, careful not to wake the others. No one stirred—not even Geto, who usually slept with one eye open. Gojo climbed down the side of the ship, boots hitting sand with a soft thud. The island was still. The trees whispered, but there was no wind.
The voice carried again. Closer now. Just beyond the curve of the beach. He walked toward it, heart thumping hard. His mouth felt dry.
And then—he saw you.
You were seated on a wide rock near the shallows, bathed in moonlight. The surf curled gently around your feet. You glowed, in a way no human could—skin kissed with shimmer, hair catching the light like strands of pearl. And you were singing. Not to the sky, not to the sea. To him.
Gojo froze. You looked up, still singing. His throat went dry. He blinked once. Twice. No way.
He pinched his own arm, hard. Ow.
Still there. Still singing.
His heart was thundering now. Not in fear—he didn’t know what this was. Enchantment? A dream? A warning? He couldn’t tear his eyes away. He’d seen beauty. But this—this was something else. Something ethereal. Something that didn’t belong in a world full of men with swords and ships and thievery.
You smiled, just barely. And kept singing. To him.
You don’t stop singing. If anything, your voice softens, curling like silk around his ribs as he takes a slow step forward. Then another. The moonlight halos around you and the wet sheen of your skin shimmers. Your fingers trail along the stone you’re perched on, just barely touching the water, like you're inviting him in without a single word.
He’s never seen eyes like yours. Deep and endless, like the ocean. And they’re looking right at him. He swallows hard.
“...What are you?” he whispers. It’s not fear in his voice. It’s awe.
You tilt your head. Your song slows, just a little. A single note hangs in the air, trembling like a secret.
His boots crunch the sand as he nears the edge of the water, close enough to see the shimmer of your scales beneath the surface. He doesn’t stop walking. He should. But gods, he doesn’t want to.
You lift your hand then—slow, graceful, beckoning. He’s close enough now to see the curve of your mouth, the glint of something glowing faintly at your throat. An amulet. Round. Ancient. The glow pulsing softly like a heartbeat.
You hum one final note, low and intimate, and it lingers in the air like perfume. Your voice disappears into the sound of the sea.
Gojo takes another step, so close now the tide laps at his ankles. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something again, ask what this is, who you are, why it feels like the ocean is calling his name through your lips. But all that comes out is “You’re real.” And gods help him, he wants you to be.
The silence that follows is deafening. The sea seems to still around you. Even the breeze hesitates. He stands there, thigh-deep in the water now, eyes fixed on you like a man utterly enthralled. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. You watch him with a soft smile curling your lips—dangerously pretty, devastatingly calm.
Then, finally, you speak.
“Well,” you murmur, voice dipped in honey and seafoam. “Took you long enough.” It’s like breaking a spell—and casting another one right after.
His breath hitches. That teasing lilt in your voice? It sparks something wild in his chest. His fingers twitch at his sides.
“Was beginning to think you’d never come closer,” you purr, tilting your head, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. It bares your chest completely—not that you were hiding it.
Gojo’s breath catches. His hands—previously relaxed at his sides—suddenly twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His gaze darts away, toward the horizon, the water, anywhere but you. And yet—he keeps sneaking glances. Quick. Desperate. Guilty.
You watch his throat work around a swallow. He shifts his weight. Drags a hand down his face. Tries very hard to look like he’s not flustered out of his goddamn mind.
He fails spectacularly.
You don’t move. You don’t need to. Just sit there, naked under the moonlight, letting him unravel quietly in front of you.
The silence stretches.
His mouth opens. Closes. For once, Gojo Satoru is speechless.
“You—” he tries.
You blink slowly. Innocently. “Me?” The word rolls off your tongue like silk.
He swallows hard. “You’re not afraid I’ll—”
“What?” You laugh, soft and rich. “Try to capture me? Drag me aboard your little ship and chain me like some prize?”
His eyes narrow, but there's a flicker of a grin tugging at his lips.
You lean forward, elbows resting on your tail, eyes gleaming. “Tell me, sailor,” you whisper. “What would you even do with a creature like me?”
He’s standing there like a man caught between heaven and hell. Every instinct in him is screaming this is a bad idea. But gods above, he wants to find out.
You watch him take another step. The water reaches his hips now, the fabric of his coat floating around him in soft ripples. He’s soaked, hair damp, moonlight catching on the white strands like frost. But he doesn’t seem to care. You don’t move. You don’t need to. He’s the one crossing the sea for you.
“Still think you’re dreaming?” you ask, voice low, velvet-smooth. You rest your chin in your hand, gaze locked to his. There's a dangerous sort of curiosity behind those sea-deep eyes—like you’re not just waiting for him, but testing him.
He lets out a breathless laugh, half-shaky. “Wouldn’t be the strangest dream I’ve had.”
Gojo’s throat bobs as he swallows. His hand lifts slowly, as if moving through water thick with molasses, hesitation and desire tangling in every breath he takes. You watch him with a smile, calm and inviting.
His fingers are just inches from your skin now. The curve of your jaw. The shimmer of your collarbone. One final confirmation that you’re real.
He pauses. “You won’t disappear, will you?” he whispers.
“I could,” you say. “But I won’t.”
He reaches. Slowly. And when the tips of his fingers brush your skin—just barely—you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You lean in. A little. Just enough. Enough to make him ache.
Suddenly it isn’t just his hand. It’s his whole body straining forward, the pull of something ancient and dangerous and inevitable. You smell like salt and stormwinds, something sacred and wild, and when your skin meets his, warm and cool at once—
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for centuries.
You smile. “Not a dream,” you murmur. “Sorry, sailor.”
You feel it. The shift in the air, the quiet tremor in the waves. Your amulet pulses once, faintly, like it senses what’s supposed to happen next. The ritual. The ending.
But you ignore it.
Because he’s still looking at you, cerulean eyes boring into yours like he’s never seen anything more divine.
For just a little longer, you want to be worshipped.
Your fingers move before you even think. Lightly, you drag one hand along his collar—soft, teasing, feather-light. His breath stutters. You smile, letting your nails trail just barely down the line of his chest. He leans in without realizing it, gaze half-lidded, pupils blown wide.
“What’s the matter, sailor?” you whisper, voice melting like warm tidewater. “You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.”
His hands twitch at his sides. “Kinda hard to remember… when you keep doing that.”
You laugh—quiet, delighted. He doesn’t even know what that is. The way your voice coils around his ribs, your touch singing along his skin. He doesn’t know that every second he stays in your presence, he’s sinking.
Not just into the sea. But into you.
Your palm finds the side of his neck, thumb brushing just under his jaw. His heart races. You can feel it. It makes something hungry stir in your chest—but beneath that hunger is something else. Something like want.
You lean in until your lips are just a breath from his ear. “It’s time, you know,” you murmur, voice so low it’s almost a song again. “I’m supposed to take you now.”
He doesn’t pull away. He shivers.
“…Take me where?”
You smile, lips ghosting over his jaw. “To the depths. The dark. Where all your kind eventually go when they trespass too far.”
Silence stretches, heavy, water-thick. He finally meets your gaze again. “Then why haven’t you?”
Your smile fades. Not completely—but the edges tremble. Just slightly.
You trace the line of his collarbone, softer now. “Because I don’t want to. Not yet.”
And it’s true. You should have dragged him under the moment he stepped into the tide. But you can’t bring yourself to. Not with him. Not when you still want to hear the way he laughs. Still want to feel the heat of his skin beneath your hands. Still want to be wanted.
So instead, you look at him like he’s something sacred. Like he’s the one you’d worship.
And softly, you say: “Stay with me a little longer, sailor. Just a little while.”
Because even if the sea eventually takes him, you want him to be yours first.
He doesn’t know who moves first—him or you. All he knows is that your face is suddenly closer. The moonlight curves along your cheekbone, your lashes, the tip of your nose. And then, your lips brush his. Featherlight. Barely there. But it undoes him.
He inhales sharply, like you’ve stolen something from his chest. Like a breath, or maybe a part of his soul. It wasn’t a real kiss—not really—but gods, it might as well have been. Because everything inside him lurches forward. He needs more. Needs to feel your warmth pressed to him, to find out what it’s like to drown in you.
But before he can pull you closer—before his hands can cup your face and drag you into the kind of kiss that ends men—you’re already gone.
A teasing smile dances on your lips as you drift back, slow and languid, water curling around your waist.
“Goodnight, sailor,” you murmur and then you dip beneath the waves.
The moonlight ripples where you vanish, and for a moment, he sees it—just the faintest shimmer of your tail, iridescent, unreal, slipping deeper and deeper into the dark.
He stays in the shallows, breath shallow, chest heaving. The sea laps at his thighs like it’s trying to tug him in after you. He doesn’t even realize his hand is still outstretched, reaching for something that’s already gone.
But now he’ll search every shore, scan every ripple, chase every whisper of song.
Just for a glimpse of you.
Just for another chance.
-
The waters are quiet.
You sit curled within the shell of your chamber, arms wrapped around your tail, staring out the arched opening where light from the surface used to filter in. Now there’s only dark. The soft glow of the seabed pulses around you—blue, green, violet. It reflects off the polished coral walls, dances across your skin like gentle ghosts. But you barely notice it.
Because all you can think about is him.
The sailor with sapphire eyes and a grin like sunlight. The one who didn’t flinch when you touched him. The one whose heart beat so loud, you could still hear it ringing in your ears even now.
“Stupid,” you mutter under your breath, sinking your chin to where your tail bends. “Stupid, stupid—”
“You’re not stupid,” comes a voice, soft and familiar.
You glance up to see your sister floating just outside the chamber, arms crossed, watching you with an arched brow.
You blink. “Were you listening?”
“I didn’t need to. Your amulet’s been glowing for the past half hour like you swallowed a lanternfish. What’s going on?”
You try to play it off. “Nothing. Just tired.”
She swims closer, unimpressed. “Liar. You only get like this when something really bad happens. Or really good.”
You sigh, letting yourself drift down a little, hair fanning around you like seaweed. “I… I met someone.”
That gets her attention.
“Oh?” Her tone sharpens, cautious. “Down by the shore?”
You nod. “He was on a ship. Docked just off the cove. I heard his voice before I saw him.”
“Did you sing?”
“Of course I did.”
“And?”
“I was supposed to take him under.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “But you didn’t.”
“No.”
A long pause. Then: “Why?”
You shake your head, frustrated. “I don’t know. I should’ve. It would’ve been easy. He was right there. I touched him. He was already falling.” Your voice trails off. The memory of his warmth haunts your fingertips. “But I didn’t want to. I just… wanted to keep him for a little longer. Just—just talk. Just see him.”
Your sister tilts her head. “You’re not supposed to see them. You’re supposed to lure them, enchant them, end them. That’s what we do.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you still thinking about him?”
You don’t answer. Because you don’t have one. All you know is that his laugh is stuck in your head. His breathless voice. The stunned way he looked at you when you kissed him—if you could even call it a kiss.
You press your hand to your chest, just above where your amulet hums. And softly, almost too quiet for even the sea to hear: “I don’t think I want to forget him.”
Your sister doesn’t speak for a long time. She just floats there, expression unreadable, eyes dark with something older than you can name. Then she drifts closer, gently reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.
“We wouldn’t know this. We weren’t born yet,” she says softly, “but it wasn’t always like this. The reefs used to glow. The caverns used to sing with color. Our kind would dance with dolphins, weave pearls through our hair, and the waters would hum beneath us—alive.”
You look up at her, startled by the sadness in her voice.
“It was beautiful,” she says, almost to herself. “Before they came.”
You know who she means. The humans. Greedy fingers always reaching for more.
“They took everything. Our shells, our corals, our sacred stones. Even the bones of our dead. Called them artifacts. Called them treasure.” Her voice hardens. “They don’t see us. Only what we can give them. And they always want more.”
You want to argue, say he’s not like that, but the words tangle in your throat. She sees it. “You think he’s different.” A statement, not a question.
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Maybe.”
“You hope he is.” She shakes her head. “But hope doesn’t stop a ship’s hull from crushing the sea floor. Doesn’t stop the spears. The nets. The hands that rip and take and never give back.” She floats away from you then, back toward the chamber’s edge.
“You don’t know what it means to lose your first home,” she says quietly. “To watch the sea dim, to see your mother weep because the place she was born in no longer sings. You don’t remember the day we buried our queen and humans tore open her grave two tides later.”
Your chest aches.
“They don’t love us. Not really. They love the idea of us. They love the lure. And they’ll take everything you are if you let them.” She turns back once, eyes sharp, but not unkind.
“So whatever you think you feel—kill it. Before it kills you first.” Then she’s gone.
And you’re left alone in the dim quiet of your chamber, the weight of her words settling like silt in your bones. But still, you think of him.
What if he is different?
-
The surface is calm tonight. Moonlight drapes across it like silk, soft and glowing.
You hover just beneath, eyes fixed on the ship above. On him.
He’s standing there again. Alone, hands on the railing, silver hair catching the wind like sea foam. He doesn’t know it—but he calls to you. Every night. Not with his voice, no. But with something else.
A longing. A question. A pull in your chest you hate and crave at once.
You shouldn’t have come back. You told yourself that night was a mistake. That you'd been foolish to linger. To touch him.
But here you are. Again.
The current shifts. You swim a little closer. Close enough to see the frustration in his face. The tension in his jaw. He’s been looking for you. You know it.
Your fingers curl at your sides.
One more song and he’ll follow. That’s how it works. You know the rules. Lure them. Seduce them. Pull them down. Return the treasures they stole with their lives.
But he didn’t take anything. He only looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And damn it all if that isn’t the worst kind of theft.
You drift to the surface. Just your eyes above water now. Watching. Waiting.
He sighs, and his hand lifts—briefly—toward the sea. Like he knows. Like he feels you here.
He doesn’t call out. Not this time. He just walks to the same stretch of shore, boots sinking into the sand, cloak fluttering behind him. The moon is brighter tonight. Or maybe he just wants it to be.
He stares out at the water. “I know you’re there,” he says quietly.
Silence.
Then a ripple. A shimmer. And then you. Rising from the waves with water trailing down your arms like glass. Your hair clings to your skin, your eyes reflect the moonlight, and your expression? Playful. Curious. Maybe even… fond.
He steps forward. Doesn’t dare blink.
“Did you miss me, sailor?” you ask.
His lips twitch. “Starting to think I dreamt you up.”
You tilt your head. “Would that be so bad?”
He’s close now. Close enough to see the droplets on your lashes, the delicate gleam of scales at your shoulders, the curve of your smile. “I don’t dream like this,” he murmurs.
You glide a little closer, arms resting on the rock, the moonlight catching on your skin and droplets of water that haven’t quite dried. The sea rocks beneath you gently.
Gojo’s doing his best. Really.
But his eyes keep flicking downward and snapping back up—like he's fighting a war with his own damn brain. He clears his throat, face a little pink. Then pinker.
Then finally: “Uh… don’t mermaids usually wear… like… shells? On their, y’know. Their… uh.” He gestures vaguely in your direction, eyes avoiding your chest like it’s going to smite him.
You blink at him. Then smile. Not cruel. Not teasing. Just… amused. “Shells?”
He shrugs helplessly, ears going red now. “Yeah. You know. Like in the drawings? I thought it was a mermaid thing.”
You laugh—quiet and genuinely delighted. You’ve never seen a human blush like this. Pink all across his cheeks, nose, even the tips of his ears.
You tilt your head. “You think I’d strap bits of broken clam to my chest for modesty?”
He makes a sound that might be a choke or a laugh. You’re not sure.
You let your gaze drift up and down his face, watching how he refuses to meet your eyes for too long. It’s charming, really—how flustered he gets when you do absolutely nothing but exist.
“I never understood why humans found breasts so enticing,” you murmur, thoughtful now. “They’re just for feeding the younglings. We never bother covering them.”
Gojo covers his face with one hand.
You smile wider. “And yet you’re looking at me like I’ve committed a crime.”
“I’m not!” His voice jumps. “I’m not looking—I mean—I’m trying not to.”
You hum, resting your chin on your arms. “You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.” You tilt your head at him, gaze soft, voice feather-light.
“If it’s troubling you so much,” you say, letting your fingers lazily swirl the water, “I suppose I can do something about it.” You smile, watching his composure slip through his fingers like sand.
“What would you prefer, sailor? Shells? Seaweed?” You lean forward just slightly. “Or should I just stay like this and let you keep pretending not to look?”
Gojo’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He’s blinking fast, flaming in the face now. “I—uh—whatever—” he swallows hard, waves a hand uselessly between you and the horizon. “Whatever you’re—uh—comfortable with.”
You laugh—a soft, melodic thing that makes his chest ache.
He looks like he wants the sea to swallow him whole. His ears have gone from pink to red, and he’s clearly regretting everything that brought him to this moment.
You hum, lounging back a little. “You really are sweet.”
He scrubs a hand through his hair, still pink to the tips of his ears, but now there’s a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. He reaches out again. Slower this time. Testing the moment. His fingers brush your cheek. Trail down your neck. Neither of you move.
“You’re real.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “You say that like you still don’t believe it.”
“Maybe I’m afraid if I do, you’ll vanish.”
You wade in closer, just enough that the sea brushes his boots, and he doesn’t move back. “You came back,” you murmur.
He shrugs one shoulder, eyes not leaving yours. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
You laugh softly. “A sailor with a soft heart. That’s new.”
“You’re the one who sang to me.”
“I sing to many.”
He narrows his eyes. “Did you kiss them too?”
That catches you off guard—but you recover quick, smile sharpening. “Would it matter if I did?”
He doesn’t answer right away. But there’s something darker flickering in his gaze now. Possessive. Curious. “…No,” he lies.
You swim forward, water lapping at your waist. “You don’t even know my name.”
“I don’t need it.”
“And what if I pull you under?” you ask, voice like silk and storm.
He smirks. “Then I’ll die with a smile.”
You blink. For a moment, you’re not sure if he’s joking. But he is. Mostly.
Still—his words land heavy. Make your throat tighten. “Humans don’t speak like that,” you say.
“I’m not most humans.”
Silence stretches again. His eyes roam over you. Not in lust—not yet—but in reverence. Like he’s trying to understand what you are. Why he isn’t scared. Why he feels like he’s been waiting for you.
You reach for him then—not to kiss. Just to touch. A gentle drag of your fingertips across his wrist. He doesn’t flinch. He leans in.
“Why are you here?” you ask, softly.
He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “I think,” he says, “I was meant to find you.”
Your heart skips. The ocean pulls at your waist. It’s almost time. But you stay a little longer. “You should be careful, sailor,” you whisper. “Saying things like that. You’ll make me believe you.”
He watches you like he already does.
You don’t notice the ripple. Not the soft shift in the waves behind you, not the gleam of eyes just beneath the surface. You’re too caught up in him.
You tease him, you laugh. You reach out again, a touch light as foam across his skin. And this time, he leans into it.
You don’t pull him under. Not yet.
You want more of this. The way he speaks. The way he looks at you. The way he doesn’t flinch from you like the others do. You want to keep this, even if just a little longer.
But you’re not alone.
Far behind you, beneath a curtain of kelp and shadow, a shape floats. Still. Silent. Watching.
Your sister’s eyes glint through the dark, catching every flicker of movement between you and the sailor.
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. She sees enough.
And when she finally sinks back into the depths, the water grows colder in her wake.
-
The moonlight hasn’t even faded from the surface when you slip back beneath the waves.
Your pulse is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm. His voice still rings in your ears—teasing, amused, wanting. And stars, if he had leaned in just a little more, you might’ve let him kiss you.
You should feel shame. But all you feel is light.
Until the sea goes cold.
There’s a shift in the current—sudden and sharp—and when you whirl around, she’s there. Floating in the dark like a phantom. Your sister.
Her expression is unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line, dark hair fanning out around her shoulders like a halo of judgment. “Sister,” she says, voice low and echoing. “Do you think we wouldn’t notice?”
You open your mouth—but nothing comes out.
She swims closer. “The sailor,” she hisses. “You’ve met him more than once now. I saw you. I saw everything.” Her words slice into you like a harpoon.
“I wasn’t going to—”
“You weren’t going to what?” she snaps. “Pull him under? Take what belongs to our people? Do your duty?”
You flinch. “He’s not like the others—”
Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “They never are. Until they are.” She grabs your wrist, not harshly—but firmly. “You’re forgetting why we sing. Why our mother gave us this gift. We are not meant to love them. We are meant to protect what’s left.”
You look away. But she’s not done.
“You think he’s blind? He knows what you are. Your tail, your voice, all of it.”
Your jaw tightens. “And yet he’s still here.”
She blinks. You keep going, voice sharp. “He’s not afraid. He doesn’t flinch. He treats me like I’m more than just a creature in the water. Can you say the same about anyone else?”
Her eyes flash. “That’s not the point—”
“No, you’re missing the point,” you snap. “I’m not dragging him under. I’m not stealing from him. I’m not using him. I’m just… being with him.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “And maybe I want to be more than what we’ve been taught to be. Maybe I want something for me.”
The silence that follows is heavy, the water still between you. But you don’t regret saying it. Not this time.
Your sister says nothing for a long moment. The anger in her eyes dims, simmering into something quieter, wearier.
Finally, she sighs. “You always were the stubborn one.”
You don’t speak. You’re still braced for more venom, more warnings. But instead, she moves closer, brushing her fingers against yours beneath the water. A small, wordless gesture of truce.
“I still don’t trust him,” she murmurs. “But I trust you. And if this is something real… I won’t stop you.”
Your chest tightens.
Then she adds, low and urgent, “But we can’t let Father know. You know what he’d do. To him, all humans are thieves.”
You nod, slowly. “I know.”
She meets your eyes, serious now. “Then be careful, sister. Whatever this is… keep it hidden. For both your sakes.”
And just like that, the warmth of her hand fades as she turns, slipping back into the dark sea, leaving you alone again—with your heart, your secret, and the ache of wanting something that feels more dangerous than ever.
-
The tide laps gently at the shore, but you hear none of it. All you hear is his breath.
He’s there again. Leaning against a crooked, barnacle-bitten post, sleeves rolled to his elbows, moonlight caught in the silver strands of his hair. He doesn’t speak when you emerge. He just watches, as if he’s afraid too much sound might send you fleeing back into the sea.
Your arms fold loosely across your chest, and you regard him with cool eyes. “You’re persistent.”
A smirk tugs at his lips. “Only when I think it’s worth it.”
That stupid charm at your chest pulses again. You hate it. Almost.
You rise from the water just a little, arms shifting subtly—and for the first time, he notices something different.
Draped lazily across your chest: a strand of seaweed, delicate and half-hearted, barely clinging to its job. Twined between it—two pearlescent shells, awkwardly fastened like a joke.
His gaze catches. Lingers. His brows lift in disbelief.
You blink at him, expression unreadable. Then slowly—so slowly—you smile. “Better?”
He lets out a disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “You did not—”
“I thought it might make you more comfortable,” you say, perfectly composed. “Isn’t this how your kind prefers mermaids?”
“You’re mocking me.”
You tilt your head. “Am I?”
Silence stretches between you, filled only by the sound of waves kissing the sand. He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t even step forward. But you can feel his eyes—soft and searching, like he’s trying to read the parts of you you’re too afraid to say aloud.
Your gaze flicks toward the water. “This is a bad idea.”
“I know.”
Your brows knit. “Then why are you here?”
He pauses, then slowly reaches into his coat. “To give you this.”
He steps forward—not too close—and opens his palm.
A pendant. Sea glass, pale and smoothed by time, looped into a simple twine necklace. It glows faintly blue beneath the moonlight.
“I don’t know if it’s good enough,” he says, voice low, “but I thought… maybe you’d like something that wasn’t stolen.”
Your heart jerks. You stare at it. Then at him. And for a moment, you can’t breathe.
This—this isn’t what humans do. They come to take. Always. Treasures, songs, magic, you. But this one came to give. Something small. Something quiet. But his.
You take it with trembling fingers, brushing his palm as you do. Your voice is soft. “Thank you.”
His smile is gentle. “Didn’t know if you’d show.”
“I shouldn’t have,” you murmur.
“But you did.”
You pull back before it aches more. Let the waves touch your skin again.
“Don’t follow me,” you say—not unkindly, a soft warning.
He nods. Doesn’t stop you. Just watches you go, watches the silver glint of the ocean close around you. Watches the glimmer of sea glass now hanging around your neck.
-
There’s a puddle of rum soaking into his map. Gojo doesn’t notice.
Not when he’s got his chin in his hand, elbow propped up on the wooden table, and a downright dreamy expression on his face. His eyes are unfocused. His mouth is curved in a faraway smile. And he hasn’t blinked in… a while.
“Okay, what is wrong with you?” Nobara’s voice cuts through the cabin like a blade.
He doesn’t react.
Yuji leans over the table and waves a hand in front of his captain’s face. “Hellooo? Earth to Gojo?”
Still nothing.
Shoko groans and sips lazily from her flask. “He’s doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” Megumi deadpans, though he already knows.
“That thing where he zones out and grins like he’s in love.” Nanami’s tone is dry as the open sea.
“Because he is,” Geto mutters, arms crossed.
That gets Gojo’s attention—he blinks rapidly and jerks upright like he’s been caught with a dagger behind his back. “What? No. I’m not—what do you mean in love? I’m not in love. You’re in love. Shut up.”
“You literally didn’t hear a single word of our battle plan,” Geto says.
“There was a plan?” Gojo blinks again. “Oh… crap.”
Nobara slaps the table. “See?! He’s bewitched.”
“Bewitched,” Shoko echoes with a snort. “You’ve been reading Yuji’s ghost stories again, haven’t you?”
Yuji raises his hands defensively. “They’re good stories!”
Gojo stands, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. “Listen, listen. I’m fine. Perfectly composed. Mentally sound. Fully focused.”
Megumi gives him a look. “You just tried to drink ink thinking it was rum.”
Gojo looks at the bottle of ink in his hand—the one he's brought dangerously close to his mouth. “Not my fault the bottle looks the same.”
“You’re seeing someone,” Nobara accuses.
Gojo doesn’t even deny it this time. He just hums under his breath, dreamy-eyed as he watches the waves lap against the hull.
Shoko raises an eyebrow. “And who exactly is this mystery woman?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” he says, ever the smug bastard, but there's a wistful edge in his voice. Like he’s holding on to something delicate.
Yuji leans in. “Is she pretty?”
“She’s… beyond.” Gojo exhales, like saying even that aloud is sacred. “She makes the sea itself look dull.”
“Ugh,” Nobara groans. “You are so whipped. You don’t even know her last name.”
“Or her name,” Megumi mutters.
Gojo only smiles. Because he doesn’t know. Not really. You never gave it. Never offered. Only left behind shimmer and salt and the echo of your laugh in the breeze.
-
The sea is quiet tonight. Not still, but calm—the kind of hush that makes it feel like the world’s listening in.
You float easily beside the ship, water lapping gently against the hull. The sea glass he gave you hangs around your neck, cool and smooth, right beneath your amulet and shifting with every little ripple. You still don’t understand why he gave it to you. Maybe he doesn’t either.
Gojo leans against the railing above, chin resting on his forearms. He’s not smiling, but he looks… content. Like just being here is enough for him.
"You never told me your name," he says.
His voice is quieter at night. Less show, more real. He’s asked before, but not like this. Not like it actually matters.
You trail your fingers along the wood of the hull.
"Names carry weight," you murmur. "Especially mine."
He hums, like he gets it. "Then I’ll carry it carefully."
It’s not a line. Just something simple and steady, like most things about him that surprise you.
You glance up at him. Moonlight catches in his white hair, makes him look more ghost than man. And still—he waits. Patient, like the sea.
You hesitate. You’ve kept it to yourself for so long it almost feels like giving it away would be losing something. But he gave first. Not a demand. Not a trick. A gift.
"Would you even use it?" you ask.
"Only when it matters," he says.
That earns the smallest flicker of a smile from you. Not that he sees it.
So you say it. Soft. Almost like you’re not sure you meant to. But he hears it.
He says it back—quiet, careful. Like he doesn’t want to chip it, like it’s something that can bruise if he’s not gentle.
He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but it sticks. Settles into the space between you like it belongs there.
"Can I come down?"
His voice drifts lazily over the railing, casual like he's asking to sit beside you—not throw himself into the ocean.
You glance up at him, raising a brow. "What, you planning to jump?"
There's a flicker in his eye. Something boyish and stupid and far too Satoru.
Something in your gut tightens. “Don’t.”
But his smile tips, sharp and boyish. “Too late.”
Before you can make sense of it—before you can even move—he cannonballs.
You barely have time to curse before instinct takes over. You dart backward, tail slicing through the water as you throw yourself out of the drop zone. The splash hits like a small explosion—loud and ridiculous and completely him. Salt sprays across your face, cool and stinging, and you blink rapidly, water rushing past your ears.
He breaks the surface a moment later, coughing, laughing, looking wildly pleased with himself.
"You're insane," you sputter, treading a safe distance away. "You almost landed on me."
He slicks his hair back with both hands, grin still wide. “I knew you’d move.”
“You hoped I’d move.”
“Same thing,” he says easily, floating on his back now, arms stretched wide like he belongs here. Like the ocean’s always been waiting for him.
You stare at him. You should be mad. You should be furious—he scared the breath out of you, risked everything on a whim, shattered the calm of the night like it meant nothing.
But all that comes out is a laugh.
A real one. Unfiltered. It bubbles up from your chest before you can stop it—light, surprised, almost giddy. You cover your mouth too late, shoulders shaking.
Gojo blinks. Then stares.
And slowly, that ridiculous grin fades—not fully, but enough for something softer to settle in its place. Something honest.
“That,” he says, voice quieter now, “is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”
You don’t respond. You can’t.
Because he says it like he means it. Like your laugh just rewired something in him. Like that sound—the one you didn’t even mean to give—touched a part of him no one else ever has.
You duck under the surface for a moment, just long enough to cool the flush spreading across your skin. When you rise again, he’s still watching you. Not smug. Not proud.
Just there. Floating in your world. Not asking for anything. Not running.
“I thought humans were supposed to take,” you say quietly, your voice barely above the lapping waves. “Steal. Want. Use.”
His brows lift just slightly, water beading on his lashes. “Maybe I’m just bad at it.”
You shake your head. “No. You’re just… different.”
You don’t know why you say it. But it’s true. You’ve known it for a while now.
He’s not perfect. He’s a little reckless, probably too brave for his own good, but he gives. Things that matter. His attention. His time. The necklace still hanging at your throat. Your laugh.
He blinks salt from his eyes, and when he speaks, it’s soft. “So are you.”
You look at him for a long time, silence pulling between you like a tide.
You were supposed to drag him under. That was the plan. Lure, tempt, drown. Like you’ve done before. Like you were made to do.
But now… all you want is to float beside him, just like this. For a little longer. Maybe forever.
Gojo floats a little closer. He’s still grinning, but it’s softer now. Less playful, more… thoughtful. The kind of look he only gets when he forgets to be loud. When the walls slip and all that’s left is the man underneath—tired, curious, dangerous, and kind.
His voice breaks the hush, low and deliberate. “Can I ask you something?”
You nod.
“Why haven’t you pulled me under yet?”
The question sinks like stone.
You don’t answer at first. Not with words. Just look at him—really look—and see all the reasons you haven’t. The way he watches you like you’re not a threat but a wonder. The way he gives without expecting. The way his voice softens around your name like it’s something sacred.
“I was supposed to,” you admit. “The first time I saw you. You were an easy mark.”
He lets out a low breath, water curling around his fingers. “But?”
You shake your head. “You smiled at me. Like I was real. Like I wasn’t just something to catch.”
His eyes flicker. Something shifts behind them—something too big to name.
You don’t notice how close he’s gotten until your hands brush beneath the surface. Neither of you moves away.
You feel the pull of it now, subtle and steady. Not magic. Just you, drawn toward him like the tide.
“Are you gonna kiss me?” you ask, the words barely audible.
Gojo tilts his head. “I want to,” he says.
You blink. The breath in your lungs feels heavy, thick with the weight of everything this isn’t supposed to be. You shouldn’t let this happen. You shouldn’t. But you nod.
And then he waits.
He waits while the space between you shrinks, while the water ripples with tension. He waits with his gaze fixed on you, patient, like this is the first thing he’s ever wanted badly enough not to rush.
You lean in—barely. Enough to close half the distance.
He mirrors you.
It’s slow. So slow. One inch, then another. Close enough now that your noses almost brush. Close enough to feel his breath against your lips, warm despite the chill of the ocean.
Your eyes flick to his. There’s no trick there. No hunger. Just want.
And when you close the gap, it’s not a crash. It’s a pull.
The kiss is gentle, almost shy. Like you’re both afraid to break it. Like neither of you expected this to feel like something holy.
And then—something cracks.
Maybe it’s the way you tilt your head just slightly, or the way his fingers lift from the water and find your jaw like it’s instinct. But the moment shifts, deepens.
He kisses you again, firmer this time.
His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb skimming along your skin, warm and reverent. Your body leans into his before you can think to stop it, the sea curling around you both like it’s trying to pull you closer.
He exhales against your mouth—half a sigh, half a groan—like he’s been holding this in for far too long.
And then he kisses you properly.
Deep. Slow. Like he’s learning you one breath at a time.
You feel his other hand slide along your side beneath the surface, barely touching, not pushing—just there, steady, grounding. Your fingers curl around his wrist. Not to stop him. Just to feel him there.
You move closer to him, body pressed flush against him. The heat comes quiet, curling up your spine, pooling low. Not wild, not frantic—just consuming.
He pulls back just slightly, just to breathe—but his forehead rests against yours, and his mouth still ghosts over yours like he’s not ready to let go.
Neither are you.
“Wow,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “That was…”
“I know,” you whisper.
His thumb traces your cheek again, slower now. You’re both breathing hard, but it’s not tension anymore—it’s something else. Something softer.
He laughs, just a puff of breath against your mouth.
And then he leans in again—not a kiss, not quite. Just his nose brushing yours. His forehead still pressed to yours. Like he can’t bear to be further away than this.
No more talking. Just warmth. His hands on you. Yours on him. Water cradling you both.
Like the sea finally made space for two.
-
The waters of your chamber are still. For once.
No humming currents. No idle song. Just the soft flicker of bioluminescent light playing across the curved walls of coral and stone. You hover near the ceiling, resting against a smooth shelf of shell, the sea-cushioned silence wrapping around you like a second skin.
The charm at your chest glows faintly. Steady. Unyielding.
It hasn't dimmed since your last meeting with him.
You close your fingers over it—try to will it still.
A shadow passes the outer threshold. Then a ripple, soft and polite, before a familiar voice filters in: “Forgive me, my lady. Your father has asked for you.”
You don’t move right away. Just tilt your head slightly, slow and deliberate.
“Did he say what for?”
The palace stirs as you pass through.
You swim down the coral corridor with practiced grace, head held high, ignoring the way the other courtiers glance your way—curious, cautious, always whispering behind their hands.
The throne room opens like a cavern—high and echoing, walls pulsing with soft light from the sponges embedded in the stone. The court has gathered, a loose semicircle of officials and guards trailing the edges of the chamber.
And there he sits. Your father. Tall and silver-scaled, eyes like polished obsidian. He watches as you approach.
You stop a few lengths from the throne, posture poised.
“You summoned me,” you say.
A pause. The room is quiet.
Then, his voice: “I did.”
He shifts on the throne, steepling his long fingers, scarred from past wars.
“There’s been talk,” he says slowly, “of a ship lingering far too close to our waters.”
Your chest tightens.
He meets your eyes.
“And I’ve heard whispers,” he continues, voice sharper now, “that its captain has not drowned.”
Your spine stays straight, but you feel the flicker of heat pulse at your chest. Not from fear. From that cursed charm. Still glowing. Still betraying you.
You school your features. “Plenty of ships pass through our waters. If they’ve not drowned, perhaps they’ve not been foolish.”
Your father’s gaze sharpens. “Or perhaps they’ve been warned.”
The air—no, the water—tightens. Just slightly.
You don’t flinch. “I wouldn’t waste my song on men who pose no threat.”
A silence blooms after that. Heavy. Testing.
Then he leans forward, voice dropping low. “There are rumors, child. A human—a pirate—who’s seen you more than once. Who still lives.”
You say nothing.
His eyes narrow. “If a human captain resists a siren’s call, it invites suspicion. If a siren chooses not to call—”
He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.
“I have not failed my duty,” you say, calm, cool, perfectly composed.
“But you haven’t fulfilled it, either,” he counters. “Not yet.”
Your jaw tightens. A flicker of motion at your side—a ripple of your tail.
Your father leans back again, like he’s weighing something.
Then “You have until the next moonrise. Handle it.”
He doesn’t say what “it” means. He doesn’t have to.
-
He’s already there when you emerge.
He’s sprawled out on the sand like he’s got nowhere else to be—hands behind his head, boots kicked off, one knee bent lazily as he stares up at the sky. The sea breeze stirs his white hair, moonlight catching in the strands like glass.
When he hears the water shift, he turns his head and grins.
“Took you long enough,” he calls. “Was starting to think you’d moved on to prettier sailors.”
You roll your eyes, swimming closer. “You’d be the last to believe someone prettier than you exists.”
His grin widens. “True. But flattery from a sea goddess? I’ll take it.”
You laugh. Light. Smooth. Just like always.
You even smile up at him, that soft little tilt he’s grown too fond of. It feels easy—almost too easy—to slip back into it.
He starts walking. Slow, unhurried, straight into the sea.
The waves rush over his ankles, then knees, soaking his rolled-up trousers until the fabric clings to him. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate.
“Most men run from the sea,” you murmur, brow lifting.
He grins. “Most men don’t get invited back.”
You let him come closer.
The water laps at his hips now, warm and slow between you. He stops just short of where you hover—still half-submerged, hair trailing like silk beneath the surface.
“So,” he says lightly, “do I pass the test?”
You hum. “That depends.”
“On?”
You tilt your head. “Whether you plan on drowning.”
He huffs a laugh, eyes flicking over your face, then down to your fingers curled lightly against the water’s surface. The charm at your chest pulses faintly, soft as a heartbeat.
“I think,” he says, voice gentler now, “if I were going to drown… I’d want it to be like this.”
And for a moment—just one—you forget what you are. What he is.
You forget the crown in your blood, your father’s cold warning, the weight of your song.
There’s only him. Standing in the sea like he belongs there. Looking at you like you do.
You don’t move.
Neither does he.
The water is still between you—warm and golden in the fading light. His eyes hold yours like they’re tethered, soft at the edges, full of something that makes your chest ache.
Then—
He flicks water at you.
You blink, stunned.
A single splash, right to your cheek.
Gojo grins. “You were looking too serious.”
You sputter, flicking water right back—quick and sharp, right between his eyes.
He laughs. Loud, real, head tipping back as droplets catch on his lashes. “Oh, is that how it is?”
You duck half-under the surface, sending a wave his way with a flick of your tail. He gasps, mock-betrayed, and retaliates with both hands—splashes big enough to soak your hair again. The charm at your chest pulses with warmth, steady now, matching the laughter bubbling out of you.
You’re not thinking of your father.
Not of the sea. Not even of what this could cost.
Just this—this moment.
Him. You. The light in his eyes. And the sound of your laughter rising above the waves.
The waves settle.
Laughter fades into the hush of the sea, and slowly, the two of you drift back toward the shore—water clinging to you like a second skin.
You lie on your back just where the sand meets the tide, the cool grains molding to your elbows. Gojo flops down beside you, chest rising and falling as he catches his breath, hair sticking out in damp tufts.
For a while, neither of you speak.
Just the sound of waves. Wind. The far-off cry of a gull.
Above, the sky stretches wide and black, scattered with stars.
And yet you can’t enjoy it. Not fully. Not with your heart tight in your chest.
He turns his head lazily toward you, voice soft. “You're quiet.”
You swallow. “I’m thinking.”
He hums, teasing lightly. “Should I be worried?”
But you don’t laugh. You don't even smile.
And that’s when he sits up a little, his brows drawing together as he watches you more closely.
“What’s wrong?”
You don’t want to ruin this moment. You really don’t. But the words come anyway, soft and shaking at the edges.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The look on his face flickers—surprise first, then something more unreadable. “You’re serious.”
You nod slowly, arms curled around your tail. “You don’t understand what you’re stepping into. What I am. What this is.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, quiet and still.
You keep your eyes down, watching your fingers press into the wet sand.
“I was supposed to lure you in,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “Draw you under. That’s what we do.”
Your voice trembles, and for the first time in a long time, you feel something unfamiliar tighten in your chest.
“But then you gave me that necklace,” you continue. “And you didn’t take anything in return. You just… smiled at me like I was someone.”
A shaky breath escapes you.
“And now I don’t know how to stop this.”
Gojo’s face softens—but he doesn’t rush in. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just lets you speak.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” you whisper, finally looking at him. “But I think—”
You stop. Bite your lip.
“I think I’m falling. For you,” you finish, so quietly you’re not sure he even hears it. “And I don’t know what that means for either of us.”
He doesn’t speak right away.
Just watches you.
Then, with that same gentle steadiness, he shifts closer, brushing the wet hair from your face with fingers that tremble just slightly.
“Let me stay. Just for now,” he says quietly. “Just… don’t push me away.”
You blink, breath catching. You hesitate.
And then, slowly, you lean into him. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his. Just enough that you feel his warmth.
The tide laps gently at your fins. Above, the stars keep watching.
And below them, you let yourself fall—just a little more.
You don’t realize how close he’s gotten until the distance between you feels like nothing. Just breath and warmth.
Your fingers twitch where they rest in the sand—close enough to his that the edges brush.
He doesn’t move. So you do.
Slowly, you turn your hand, the tips of your fingers grazing the back of his. And when he still doesn’t flinch, you let them slide higher, curling gently around his wrist.
You reach up with your other hand, brush his hair back from his face, and your fingers linger—just a moment longer than they should.
He exhales, slow. Careful. Like he's scared one wrong move will send you swimming off into the dark.
But you're not running. Not this time.
His hand lifts to your cheek—hesitating, then settling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thumb strokes the curve of your jaw, and you tilt into it, letting your eyes flutter shut.
Then his lips are on yours.
Not greedy. Not rushed. Just soft.
Like he wants to memorize the shape of you this way. The taste of salt on your lips. The quiet catch in your breath.
Your amulet pulses low and warm against your collarbone, steady as your heartbeat.
When the kiss deepens, it’s unspoken permission. His hand tangles in your hair, your fingers sliding up his chest, feeling the damp fabric clinging to skin.
It shouldn’t happen.
But it is.
And gods—neither of you wants it to stop.
The kiss deepens—soft to slow, slow to aching. Every brush of his mouth against yours says please don’t send me away yet.
Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, then slide down his throat, feeling the heat under his skin. He exhales shakily when your hand flattens against his chest, just over his racing heart.
His own hands hesitate at first, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this much. But when you don’t stop him—when you lean into his touch like it’s the only thing anchoring you—he gives in.
One hand cradles your face, the other drifts down, tracing the edge of your ribs where skin meets the soft iridescence of your scales.
He pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips.
"If I’m leaving, at least let me have this."
You open your eyes. He’s looking at you like he already knows how this ends—and wants this moment anyway.
Your charm pulses once—bright and warm between you.
You nod, barely.
And that’s all he needs.
His hands grow bolder. Slower. Reverent. Like he wants to map every inch of you to memory. His lips trail down your neck, lingering at the curve of your shoulder, your collarbone. Your fingers thread into his damp hair, tugging just slightly, urging him closer.
He groans low against your skin. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
You shake your head, breathless. “Don’t.”
The moonlight catches the water still clinging to your skin, to his. Everything feels soft. Dreamlike.
Your bodies press together—heat against heat, breath catching, mouths seeking. It’s not rushed. It’s intentional.
And when his hand grazes the edge of your hip—where scales shimmer under his palm—and you shift closer with a soft gasp, he kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to.
Because maybe it is.
Your back arches under him, breath trembling. His mouth finds the center of your throat and lingers there, reverent, like he can feel your pulse answering his own.
Then—
“Wait,” you whisper.
His head lifts instantly. He’s off of you in a heartbeat, but still so close, lips parted, breath warm against your cheek. Hands hovering, eyes searching yours.
He doesn’t ask why. He just waits. Because that’s the kind of man he is.
You sit up slowly, water slipping off your skin, your tail coiled beneath you. You reach out, cup his face gently in both palms and then cover his eyes with one.
He stiffens, just for a second. But he trusts you.
Your amulet glows.
It begins soft—just a pulse, like a heartbeat. Then brighter. Warmer. It blooms across your collarbone, pulsing with something deeper than magic.
When you remove your hand from his eyes, they open slowly, blinking against the moonlight, the shimmer still lingering in the air.
And what he sees leaves him speechless.
Your tail is gone. And in its place there’s a pair of legs.
Smooth and bare.
Skin kissed with salt and moonlight, knees curled delicately beneath you. You’re still you, but softer. Closer. Changed.
For him.
His mouth parts slightly. Not in lust. In awe.
“Gods,” he breathes.
You smile, just barely. “Better?”
He swallows hard. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” you say, quiet. “I want you.”
And that’s it. That’s all he can take.
He’s on you again—but slower now. Like he’s been handed something fragile. His hands slide up your thighs, careful, reverent, like he can’t believe you’re real. His mouth meets yours with heat, with hunger—but still gentle. Still asking.
And this time, when you press your chest to his and pull him in with both hands, there’s nothing between you.
Only skin. Only breath. Only wanting.
The glow at your throat flares again—hotter now. Brighter.
It pulses against your chest, steady at first. Then quicker.
Gojo pulls back just enough to look down at it, breathless, the tips of his fingers still ghosting along your skin. The glow matches the rhythm of your breathing—no, your arousal.
He laughs under his breath, something low and amazed, eyes wide as he watches the way your amulet throbs brighter each time his palm smooths over your skin. “It responds to touch,” he murmurs, like he’s just discovered treasure. “To you.”
His hand moves, slow and steady—gliding up from your waist, fingers splaying across your ribs until they rest just beneath your breasts. His touch lingers.
And then, with a careful brush of his fingers, he nudges the coverings away. You shiver—not from cold, but from how he looks at you.
He doesn’t rush. Just grazes his palm over one breast, watching the charm flare in response. His thumb circles over your nipple gently, and your breath catches. Your eyes flutter half-shut, hips shifting just slightly toward him.
“Fascinating,” he murmurs.
You almost want to laugh—except he’s looking at you like he’s in awe, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and it makes your pulse skip.
His hand drifts down, fingers mapping the line of your hip. Over your thigh. Skin to skin, gliding slow.
And then lower.
He watches you the whole time—eyes dark, steady, waiting for the moment your body reacts. His hand dips between your thighs, and the charm flares, sharp and brilliant and hot.
You gasp—eyes fluttering closed, hips tipping into his hand.
“Gods,” he breathes. “That’s incredible.”
His fingers tease, slow and deliberate, and you feel your thoughts unravel with every stroke. Every touch echoes in your core—and in the gem at your chest, glowing like a heartbeat, wild and bright.
“Is this…” he leans closer, lips brushing your jaw, “...what you want?”
You can barely speak—but you nod, eyes glazed, back arching toward him.
His fingers slip lower, parting you with reverence and care.
And there—there it is.
That first brush over your clit, light and exploratory, has your hips jerking and your lips parting in a soft gasp. The charm at your collar flares like it’s tethered to the aching beat between your legs—responding with each subtle throb, each flutter of sensation.
“Shit,” he whispers, mesmerized.
He strokes again, more deliberately now—just the pads of two fingers sliding through your slick, testing how wet you already are. The gem flashes again, and your head falls back with a breathless whimper. Your thighs twitch beneath his touch, eyes hazy as he watches you squirm. Then—gently, carefully—he sinks a single finger inside.
The charm flares so bright it casts shadows along the shore.
You’re impossibly warm around him—soft, tight, slick with want—and when he curls his finger just right, your body clenches, a pulse deep inside that matches the flickering of the charm exactly.
His breath catches. “You feel—fuck—you feel perfect.”
He moves slowly, drawing that finger out, then easing a second in with practiced patience. The stretch makes you moan, your hand flying to his arm like you need something to hold onto. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“Breathe, angel. You’re doing so good.”
The glow brightens with every pump of his fingers, every soft squelch of wet heat. The deeper he strokes, the harder your body responds—hips rising into him, breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
And the amulet pulses in perfect rhythm with your cunt.
Throb. Glow. Throb. Glow. Throb.
“Can’t believe this thing’s showing me everything you’re feeling,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. “You like this? Like my fingers inside you?”
You nod frantically, unable to speak—your body already trembling, on the edge.
And he feels it.
The way your walls start to flutter, how the glow grows unstable—flickering wildly now, close to bursting.
“Let go for me,” he whispers, dragging his thumb up to circle your clit just once—soft and perfect.
And you do.
You fall apart with a cry, back arching, thighs shaking, body clenching around his fingers as the charm explodes in a radiant wave of golden light.
He watches it all—spellbound.
Then leans in to kiss you—slow and deep and full of heat that says we’re not done yet.
He watches your cunt flutter around nothing, charm still flickering weakly at your throat like it’s trying to recover from what just happened. You’re limp beneath him, chest rising and falling, skin shining with salt and moonlight.
“Didn’t know you could sound that sweet,” he breathes, dragging his fingers up your thigh, smearing your slick along your skin like he wants to mark you with it. “Might lose my mind if you do that again.”
You try to say something back—something sharp, something teasing—but all that comes out is a soft, shattered whimper.
He groans.
Low and ragged and wrecked.
His head drops for a second like he’s trying to collect himself—but you feel it. The tension in his body, the restraint snapping thin. He looks at you, eyes blown wide, lips parted.
And then—“Fuck this.”
He shifts back onto his knees, still between your thighs, eyes raking over your glowing body as he tugs at his soaked shirt. The fabric sticks to his skin, but he doesn’t care. Just wrestles it off and tosses it somewhere behind him, hair even messier now, chest rising fast.
You blink up at him—bare-chested now, sea-glossed skin kissed with salt and moonlight. He looks wild like this. Like he could devour you whole.
And still not have enough.
Then comes the belt—fingers fumbling, desperate. He mutters a curse, half-laughs through it, then undoes his pants, shoving them down with just as much frustration. You catch a glimpse of him, long and heavy and twitching with need.
He kicks the rest of it off and lowers himself over you again, your slick thighs pressing to his hips, the heat between you crackling.
And oh, the moan he lets out when your bare chest presses to his.
“That’s better,” he whispers, forehead against yours, hips rocking once more, cock sliding between your folds. “So much better.”
He looks down at the glow between your breasts, at the way your body responds to his bare skin like it’s craving it.
And he grins.
“Think your magic likes me.”
And then he’s back over you—fully bare, hot and heavy against your slick, glowing skin. “Gods,” he murmurs. “You’re unreal.”
You whine as he settles between your thighs, guiding himself to your entrance. His cock is thick, flushed, glistening with precum. The tip nudges at your folds—hot, insistent—and your breath catches in your throat.
“You can take it,” he murmurs, hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “Already so wet for me.”
He starts to push in. Slow. So slow you feel every inch. Every stretch. Your back arches and your mouth parts in a silent gasp. He groans low in his throat, dropping his head to your shoulder as he sinks deeper.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hisses.
You’re trembling beneath him—clutching at his arms, moaning helplessly as he bottoms out.
And once he’s fully inside, he stills. Not out of mercy. But reverence.
“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to see your face, the glow between your breasts starting to flare again. “All stretched out just for me.”
He rocks into you once. Slow. Deep.
You mewl, legs instinctively trying to wrap around his waist—and the glow pulses brighter.
“Gods—let me see how much you want it, sweetheart.”
He sets a rhythm that’s deep and steady, hips rolling into yours with that perfect pressure that has you melting under him. One hand tangled in your hair, the other on your thigh, pushing it open further so he can fuck you deeper.
And he talks the whole time.
So sweet. So filthy.
“Taking me so good. So perfect inside.” “You were made for this, weren’t you? For me.” “Look at you. So needy, so pretty.”
You’re babbling now—half his name, half nonsense, your hands scrabbling at his back like you need to anchor yourself.
He watches the way your lips part, the way your lashes flutter.
You feel the stretch as he pushes in again—inch by inch, deliberate—like he’s savoring the way you tremble beneath him.
“Shit—too much?” he asks, voice tight, lips brushing yours.
You shake your head, a breathy moan breaking free.
“N-no—don’t stop—fuck, ’Toru!”
He groans, pressing his forehead to yours. His hands grip your hips like he’s anchoring himself there, holding you still as he sinks into the feeling of being completely surrounded by you.
“Feels so fucking good,” he whispers. “You—you feel so good.”
He pulls back just enough to thrust in again—slow, smooth, deep—and your body arches.
The sound you make is soft, helpless.
He does it again. And again.
You’re gasping now, fingernails digging into his back, every roll of his hips sending sparks down your spine.
“Yeah? That what you needed?” he murmurs against your throat. “Want me to fuck you slow like this, baby? Let you feel every inch?”
Your only answer is a broken moan—and he grins.
His rhythm stays steady. Deep. Each thrust has your body trembling, your cunt clenching so tight around him that he shudders.
His groans grow louder. He doesn’t care if his crew wakes up from it. Can’t even think about it now, not with the way you clench around him like that.
“Gods, I’m not gonna last,” he admits, voice hoarse. “Not when you’re like this—tight little thing, crying under me—fuck—”
You try to speak, to beg for more, for faster, for anything, but your brain’s not working anymore. All you can do is cling to him, ride out the wave of pleasure crashing over and over—
And he feels it.
Feels the way you start to shake, the way your breath hitches.
He grabs your hand, laces your fingers with his, and presses your arm into the sand beside your head.
“Come for me,” he whispers, voice soft—almost reverent now. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
His thrusts grow more desperate—less patient, more need—until your body tightens beneath him with a stuttering gasp and you fall apart all over again.
Your orgasm hits hard. A cry breaks from your throat, your body arching as you clench around him—pulsing, shaking, stars exploding behind your eyes.
Gojo groans as you come—low and rough and helpless.
“Holy shit—fuck, that’s it, that’s my girl—”
He thrusts once, twice more before pulling out and shooting his load all over your stomach and chest with a broken sound, his fist tight around his cock, hips twitching.
And then silence. Heavy breathing.
His lips brush your temple.
“Still with me?” he asks, voice hoarse but soft.
You’re barely breathing.
Chest rising in little, uneven gasps, thighs trembling, your hand still tangled in his hair like you forgot how to let go.
Gojo doesn’t move at first.
He just stays there, nose brushing your cheek, lips parted against your skin. You can feel the beat of his heart where his chest rests over yours, still racing.
He presses a kiss to your jaw.
Then another, to the corner of your mouth. His hand slips down to soothe the shake in your thighs, thumb grazing your hip.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You okay?”
You nod, blinking dazedly, lips barely able to form the words.
He huffs a soft laugh, curling beside you, arm hooked under your head to ease you into his chest. He’s warm. Still a little damp. Still naked. Still pressing soft kisses wherever he can reach.
You manage a breathless smile, curling closer. His hand trails down your spine, settling low on your back like he needs to keep touching you.
And for a while, that’s all it is.
Touch. Breath. Silence.
Then “I should get you cleaned up,” he murmurs. “You’ve got sand in places sand was never meant to be.”
You laugh—softly, tiredly—and he grins like he just won something.
He shifts, kneeling between your legs, coaxing you to sit up. His hands are gentle, wiping away the mess, brushing the hair from your face, fingers lingering everywhere like he can’t believe you’re real.
And when he wraps you in his discarded shirt, helps you back into the shallows to rinse off, he does it all like you’re something sacred.
Afterwards, he’s dressed again—barely dry, shirt wrinkled and hair a mess, but somehow still glowing in that effortless, infuriating way. He settles next to you, arms folded behind his head, eyes on the stars.
You lie beside him in silence, your body still humming from everything he gave you. Everything you let him give you.
Then he says it, so simply, like it costs him nothing at all: “Stay.”
You turn your head.
His eyes are closed, voice soft. “Just a little longer.”
You don’t answer. You just stay.
You stay as the moon climbs higher, casting silver light across his face. You stay until his breathing evens out, until his eyes can’t stay open any longer and until the smirk fades from his lips, replaced by something softer. Peaceful.
You reach out, brushing your fingers through his hair once—just once.
Then you rise, slow and silent, not daring to look back. The sand is cool beneath your feet as you cross to the water’s edge. Each step feels heavier than the last.
When your toes meet the sea, you pause. Your hand lifts to your chest.
The amulet pulses—soft and bright.
One more step.
The glow flares as your legs shift, flesh transforming back into scaled fin, your body easing into the current like it belongs there.
You look back only once.
He’s still there. Still asleep. Still smiling, just a little.
And then you sink beneath the surface—silent, alone, and glowing like you’re breaking apart from the inside out.
-
The ocean is quiet today.
Too quiet.
No schools of fish flitting past your chambers. No kelp swaying with the currents. Even the water feels heavier somehow, like the weight of what you did has sunk into the sea itself.
You don't sleep that night. Not really.
You drift. You float.
You try not to think about his hands, his mouth, the way your charm glowed for him like it had never glowed before.
But the sea doesn’t forget.
By morning, a summons arrives.
No explanation. Just a stiff nod from the attendant, eyes carefully averted, voice flat:
“Your father wants to see you.”
You already know what for.
Still, you school your face into something composed as you swim through the winding halls, past the guards who can barely meet your gaze. You feel the glimmer of your charm even now—dulled, but not dark. Not completely.
Your father is waiting.
Throned, still, massive. His presence fills the chamber before his voice ever does.
“You broke the law,” he says.
You lift your chin, but say nothing.
He rises—slowly, deliberately—and you feel the pressure of his disappointment before he’s even crossed the floor. “With him. A human. You let him touch you.” His eyes narrow, ancient and sharp. “You let him claim you.”
Your fingers twitch at your sides. Not in denial. Not even in shame. But in memory.
Because you remember the way Gojo held you like you were something to be worshipped, not stolen. Not claimed.
Still, you say nothing. And your silence seals it.
Your father exhales, slow. “Then you leave me no choice.”
His trident slams to the ocean floor with a crack that echoes through your bones.
“There is only one thing left to sever the bond you’ve created.”
Your breath stutters in your throat.
He looks down at you. “You will return to the surface. And you will bring me his heart.”
You don’t move. You don’t speak.
His words hang heavy in the water, thick as blood.
Your heart thunders, but your voice is barely a whisper. “…No.”
He narrows his eyes. “You would defy me?”
“I—please.” The word leaves you before you can stop it. Your hands rise, open in front of you. “You don’t understand. He’s not like the others. He didn’t take anything—he gave.”
“A trinket,” your father snaps. “A distraction.”
You shake your head. “It wasn’t just that.”
Silence follows. Deep. Crushing.
His eyes bore into you like the weight of the entire sea. But still, you try again.
“Let him go,” you whisper. “Please. If I made a mistake, punish me. But don’t—don’t hurt him.”
Your father stares for a long, still moment. And then, he speaks again. Quietly this time.
“If you cannot do it,” he says, “I have men who will.”
“No—” you surge forward, falling to your knees before him. “Please, Father. I’ll stay here. I won’t see him again. I’ll do whatever you ask, but don’t send anyone after him—don’t kill him.”
You’re shaking. You can feel it. The way your voice trembles. The way the charm around your neck flickers in protest.
But your father doesn’t soften.
He looks down at you—not as his daughter, but as something lesser. A traitor. A disappointment.
“You broke the laws that bind our kind. You let a human inside your mind, your body, your power.” He leans forward. “This is not about love. This is about balance. And you have tipped it.”
You go quiet.
Because you know then—he’s already made up his mind.
Gojo Satoru is as good as dead.
Unless you get to him first.
The moment you rise from the floor, ready to run—he moves faster.
A wave of pressure slams down around you. Not painful, but impossible to push through. You twist, try to swim forward, but it holds you in place like invisible chains.
“I know you, daughter,” he says, voice colder now, more ancient. “I know what you’d do.”
Your eyes widen.
“Don’t,” you breathe. “Please—”
“You would betray your kingdom for one man,” he says. “I won’t let you.”
You surge forward, desperate, heart thudding so loud you swear he can hear it through the water. But the force field remains. Sealed. Final. “Father.”
He turns his back to you. His guards step in. “Lock her in the coral chamber,” he commands.
“No!” Your scream is swallowed by the sea. “Please, don’t do this—he’ll think I left—he’ll think I meant to—”
But your father doesn’t look back. Not even once.
And as the guards grab your arms, drag you through the halls, you realize something far worse than being punished: Satoru will never see this coming.
-
The coral chamber is silent but for the soft hum of the magic holding it sealed. It’s not a prison in the traditional sense—but it might as well be. The walls pulse with a faint light, ancient enchantments woven into every inch of the reef.
And then a ripple. You spin, heart in your throat, and see her.
Your sister floats just outside the barrier, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “You look like you’re going to pass out,” she says coolly. “Did you think you could hide it forever?”
You exhale shakily. “He wasn’t supposed to find out.”
“I told you,” she snaps, gliding closer, her face stern. “You were reckless. You fell for a land-strider. You gave him your power. Do you have any idea what that means for us?”
“I didn’t give him anything!” you hiss. “It wasn’t like that.”
Her silence is pointed.
You run a hand through your hair, frustrated, angry, terrified all at once. “He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t want to take. He saw me.”
Her jaw tightens.
“And now he’s going to die for it,” you whisper, voice cracking. You reach the edge of the barrier, fingertips barely brushing the glowing wall. “Please. Please, I need to warn him.”
She doesn’t answer. You see it in her face—the doubt, the war she’s fighting behind her eyes. “Do you love him?” she asks finally.
You hesitate. “…Yes.”
Her features flicker, soften just a little. “You know what our father will do to me if I help you.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” you whisper. “But if you don’t, he’ll never even see it coming. He’ll think I abandoned him.”
Silence stretches long between you. Then she breathes out through her nose. “You always were the reckless one.”
And her hand reaches forward. The barrier parts, just a crack. “Go. Now.”
You grip her wrist before she can pull away completely. “I can’t leave,” you say, voice trembling. “He’ll know. He’ll tighten the wards. But please. Just find him. Tell him I didn’t abandon him. Tell him I tried.”
Your sister hesitates. “…I don’t even know what he looks like.”
You give her the faintest smile. “Tall. White hair. Blue eyes. Stupidly pretty. He waits near the tide line at night.”
Her lips twitch. “Sounds irritating.”
“He is,” you breathe out. “But I—he matters.”
Another pause. And then she nods. “I’ll find him.”
You watch her disappear into the deep. You’re left with nothing but the steady pulse of the chamber’s magic and the wild pounding of your heart.
-
The tide laps gently against the rocks. Gojo sits near the edge, legs drawn up, his arms resting over his knees. The stars scatter across the surface like they’re watching him wait.
He checks the horizon again. Still no sign of you.
It’s the third night in a row.
His easy smile is gone now, replaced with a quiet furrow between his brows. “Starting to think I scared you off,” he mutters, trying to sound light. It falls flat.
Then a shimmer breaks the water. He jerks upright, hopeful.
But it’s not you. A different figure rises—eyes too familiar, but colder. Cautious.
His confusion lasts only a second. “You’re not her.”
“No,” she says. “I’m her sister.” She studies him, as if weighing whether he’s worth the risk she just took. “She didn’t leave because she wanted to,” she says. “Our father found out. He locked her away before she could warn you.”
Gojo goes still. The next beat of his heart is loud enough to drown out the sea.
“She tried,” her sister adds, voice quiet. “She begged.”
For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Just stares out at the water, jaw tight, something in his chest twisting painfully. Then, slowly—he stands.
“…Where is she?” Gojo takes a step toward the tide. “I’m going after her.”
She blinks. “Are you serious?”
His jaw is set. “You just said she’s locked away. I’m not letting her sit there thinking I gave up on her.”
“Okay,” she huffs, flicking a bit of water off her wrist, “and how exactly do you plan to breathe underwater?”
He pauses.
“…Minor setback.”
“Minor—” She cuts herself off, dragging a hand down her face. “Gods, she really would fall for someone like you.”
He flashes a grin. “Thanks.”
“Not a compliment.”
But the smile fades quickly. “I mean it. I have to do something.”
She regards him for a moment. He’s serious. Really serious. No smug teasing, no flirtation—just that unshakable look in his eyes that tells her he’d throw himself into the ocean for you without hesitation.
“She wanted to warn you,” she says more softly now. “She tried. But our father… he knows. And if he catches you near our waters again—he won’t show mercy.”
Gojo’s mouth tightens. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“Then be afraid for her.”
That silences him.
Your sister crosses her arms, not cruel—just resigned. “The only way you keep her safe now is by staying away.”
“…So that’s it?” he asks hoarsely. “I just go? Pretend it never happened?”
“No,” she says, gentler now. “You remember it. Every moment of it. So does she.”
A long silence passes.
Then Gojo turns back to the shore. Shoulders stiff. Jaw clenched. He doesn’t look back when he walks away. But the ache he leaves in the sand stays long after the tide rolls in.
-
The ship creaks gently beneath their feet as the sails fill again with wind, the salt-stung breeze tugging at hair and loose shirts. They’ve set course for somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Gojo stands at the helm, one hand gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles pale. The horizon is just blue and endless, but he keeps staring, like he expects something to rise out of it. Like he’s hoping to catch one last glimpse of what he left behind.
Behind him, Shoko lights a cigarette and leans against the rail. “He’s been like that all morning.”
“More like all week,” Nanami mutters.
“Yuuji tried giving him an orange,” Nobara says, arms crossed. “Didn’t work.”
Megumi doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are fixed on Gojo’s back. He sees the way his captain keeps shifting like he’s restless. Like he’s waiting for the sea to give something back.
“Did something happen on shore?” Shoko asks finally.
Yuuji plops down on a crate nearby, chewing absently on a strip of dried mango. “Did mystery girl dump him or something?”
Gojo doesn’t flinch. But his grip tightens. Slightly. Sharply. The tension in his shoulders is sudden and obvious—and enough for Shoko to groan under her breath and flick Yuuji on the back of the head. “Yuuji.”
“Seriously?” Nobara scowls.
“...What?” Yuuji says, rubbing the spot. “I was joking!”
Megumi exhales slowly. “Read the room. Or boat.”
Gojo still hasn’t said anything.
Nobara steps up beside him, quieter now. “You don’t have to tell us what happened.”
Gojo’s voice finally breaks through, low and flat, “I left her behind.”
Silence spreads like fog.
“I didn’t want to,” he adds, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “I had to.”
Shoko crosses her arms. “Is she in danger?”
He doesn’t answer at first. Then—barely audible—“I don't know.”
And that’s all he says. No one jokes after that. Not even Yuuji.
-
The silence in your chambers has been so loud lately, it’s almost a relief when the door bursts open. Your sister rushes in, breathless, hair wild from swimming too fast. “They’re moving.”
You blink, still half-curled on the smooth stone floor, tail tucked beneath you like you were trying to disappear into it.
Her voice is breathless. Urgent. “The guards—Father’s men—they’re already close. Too close.”
Your heart stutters. “No,” you whisper, sitting upright fast, tail shifting beneath you, trembling. “He—he promised me time.”
“He never meant it,” she says, voice thin and breaking. “He just wanted you calm. You know how he is.”
The charm at your neck pulses once—weak and frightened. “How close?” Your voice comes out barely audible.
She hesitates. That alone is answer enough. “Close enough that you might not make it in time,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
Your chest feels tight. Like the water around you is thickening, pressing in, suffocating. “I should’ve gone sooner,” you murmur, guilt blooming like ink in your gut. “I should’ve warned him.”
Your sister moves closer. “If you leave now—if you swim hard—maybe…”
You don’t respond. Because maybe isn’t good enough.
You move, slow at first, like your body is still catching up to what your mind already knows—then faster, faster, until you’re flying through the water, heart in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears.
Please, you think, over and over, please let me be wrong. Please let them be safe.
Because if you're not—if they aren’t—then it’s already too late.
-
The ocean is too quiet. Not calm—quiet.
The kind of stillness that makes even seasoned sailors look over their shoulders.
Gojo leans against the railing, forearms braced, eyes fixed on the horizon like he’s trying to find something he can’t name. His hair’s still damp from a morning swim he swore he wasn’t waiting around for. Salt clings to his skin. But his charm’s gone dim.
Behind him, the crew stirs with a strange energy.
Shoko’s brow is furrowed as she peers into the distance through a spyglass. “Feels wrong,” she mutters.
“Like storm weather?” Yuuji asks, quieter now.
“No,” Nanami says, voice low and firm. “Worse.”
Gojo turns finally, eyes narrowed just slightly. “How long until we’re ready to move?”
“Half hour, if the wind holds,” Megumi replies.
Gojo doesn’t nod. Doesn’t speak. Just looks out again—toward nothing—and feels something tightening in his chest.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but they can all tell:
Something’s coming.
The first jolt doesn’t come from above—it comes from below. A violent lurch rocks the ship, enough to knock Megumi sideways and send a bucket skittering across the deck.
“What the hell—?!” Shoko grabs the railing.
“Something hit the hull,” Nanami barks, already moving.
But it’s not just one strike. The second comes harder. Something slams into the underside of the ship with a dull, sickening crack, the kind of force that splinters wood. The whole vessel groans in protest.
“Below deck! Check for breach!” Geto shouts.
Gojo doesn’t move. He knows what this is. Not a storm. Not sea creatures.
This—this is retribution.
Another strike. This time from the side—something sharp tearing into the boards just above the waterline. A wave sloshes over the deck.
“Someone’s attacking us,” Nobara shouts, already drawing her blade.
“No ships in sight,” Shoko says, snapping the spyglass shut. “No sails. Nothing.”
“Because it’s not human,” Gojo says softly.
Everyone goes quiet. The water stills again. Only for a breath.
Then—something breaches. A dark, jagged figure shoots up from the depths, slicing the surface like a living spear before diving back under. Sleek. Fast. Not quite human.
There’s a chorus of shouted commands, boots thundering across wood, hands grabbing ropes and weapons. But Gojo doesn’t shout. He steps to the edge, staring down into the deep.
You promised him time. And he knows now—you never had it.
The first crash nearly knocks the mast loose. It hits low—beneath the waterline. A sickening jolt, wood shattering like ribs, sends barrels tumbling and sailors cursing.
“What the fuck was that?!” Nobara yells, grabbing onto the railing.
“Something’s under us!” Megumi shouts, already disappearing below deck.
Another impact. This one’s higher—near the stern. It scrapes deep, long, like claws carving into the hull.
The crew scrambles, chaos erupting.
“Plug the breach!” Nanami orders, voice like iron even as water pours through the cracks. “We’re taking on fast—!”
Then silence. Not peace. Stillness. It only lasts a second.
And then something launches from the water. It isn’t human. Slippery, scaled, and lean. Gills flaring. Hands like knives. A sea-creature—no, a hunter—lands on the deck.
“Starboard!” Shoko shouts, throwing a harpoon from behind a barrel. It pierces straight through the creature’s side—sends it flailing back over the railing with a screech.
But more are coming. Dozens. Fingers claw the sides of the ship. Webbed hands. Serrated weapons. Shifting forms dart just under the surface, circling like sharks.
Geto kicks a supply crate toward Yuuji. “Arm everyone—now!”
Nobara’s sword is slick with blood already. “I’ll gut every last one of you scaled fuckers!”
Gojo’s still at the edge. Frozen. Not with fear—but with a gut-deep knowing.
This isn’t a random attack. This is a message. From the sea. From the ones who’ve taken you.
Another clawed hand slams onto the railing beside him. He reacts fast—kicks it off, blade out, breath heavy.
Behind him, Nanami grabs rope and starts tying barrels together. “If we have to abandon ship—”
“We’re not abandoning shit,” Gojo snaps, spinning around. “We hold until we can’t.”
But even as he says it—his eyes flick toward the horizon. Still no sign of you. No soft laugh. No glowing charm.
Just the black, roiling sea.
The ship groans—loud, guttural, like it’s begging to stay afloat. They’re everywhere now. Climbing over the sides, pouring up from the sea. Not all of them fully formed—some half-human, half-monstrous, with fins instead of feet, barbed tails slashing through the air. The deck is slick with seawater and blood, bodies scrambling between debris and weapons, screams barely heard over the crash of the waves.
“Get back!” Nobara snarls, kicking a writhing thing off the main mast ladder.
“Too many!” Geto yells. “We won’t hold this!”
“I told you something felt wrong last night!” Shoko ducks under a spear, slices its wielder’s throat clean with a broken bottle. “Where the hell is Gojo?!”
Then they see him. At the far end of the deck. Standing above the chaos, coat soaked and sticking to his skin, hair clinging to his forehead, hands trembling just enough to show he’s running on pure adrenaline. His blade’s buried in one of the creatures—but he doesn’t look back at it. He’s looking at them. “Get to the rafts!” he shouts. “Now!”
“No—” Yuuji tries to argue, but Gojo’s already throwing a crate across the deck, knocking one of the attackers away from a half-loosened life raft. “We’re not leaving you!”
“Just go!” he shouts again, this time louder—eyes hard, desperate. “I’ll keep them off you!”
One of the creatures lunges at him from behind. He ducks it. Spins. Stabs. Another comes from the side. He doesn’t flinch—slams his elbow into its gills, kicks it back into the sea.
And when Geto opens his mouth to argue again—he sees it.
Gojo’s not planning on coming with them. Not yet. This happened because of him. He’s not letting anything happen to his crew—his family.
He’s buying them time. A distraction.
“Move!” Nanami grabs Yuuji by the collar, dragging him toward the rope ladders. “He made his choice—don’t waste it!”
The crew rushes to untie the rafts, each member fending off attacks as they scramble toward escape. The ship lurches again—one final groan from the keel, deep and ugly.
And through it all, Gojo fights. Face bloodied, body bruised from the impact of too many claws and spears. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look away. He stays. Waiting. Hoping.
Because maybe you’ll come. Maybe you know.
-
The water is far too calm.
Too still for what should’ve been here—shouts, battle cries, fire and fury. All that’s left is quiet. A quiet so deep it feels wrong, like the ocean itself is holding its breath.
You break the surface, expecting chaos. Expecting the fight. But there’s only ruin.
Pieces of the ship drift past you—shards of splintered wood, torn cloth fluttering uselessly. A piece of railing, a shattered crate. The scent of smoke still clings faintly in the air.
You swim further in. Your eyes are wide, darting. Searching. Where is he?
You don’t realize you're whispering his name until your voice cracks.
The deeper you go, the worse it gets. A mast, snapped clean in two. Ropes hanging uselessly. No figures. No sound. Just wreckage.
And blood—thin, diluted trails fading into the tide.
You pass the remains of a lifeboat. Empty.
Your stomach turns. Your hands tremble, barely keeping you above water now.
Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Just a hollow breath. The glow of your charm dims at your chest—flickering, like it, too, has begun to mourn. You turn slowly in the water.
And then you see it. A large, flat piece of the ship’s hull—still afloat, barely. And on it, unmoving, soaked through, arm dangling off the side—Gojo.
Your breath catches violently in your throat. You freeze. For a second, you don't move. Your body forgets how. Your mind goes blank. Then you’re flying through the water, limbs cutting through it as fast as you can move. You reach him and he’s still there. Still whole. Still—
“Satoru,” you whisper, pulling yourself up onto the debris, crawling to him on shaking arms. “Satoru—”
His skin is cold. Salt-stung. Pale.
You don’t know when you started shaking. Not from the cold, not from the sea.
From what rests in your arms.
You cradle him as best you can atop the broken hull, dragging his weight against you as your tail propels you toward shore. The waves are gentle now—cruelly so, as if mocking what the sea just took.
His head slumps against your shoulder. His skin is ice. No breath. No movement.
And still you keep going. You drag him onto the sand, gasping, coughing. The glow at your chest is frantic now—wild, erratic, pulsing like a heartbeat that doesn't belong to you anymore.
You drag him onto the sand, gasping, coughing. The glow at your chest is frantic now—wild, erratic, pulsing like a heartbeat that doesn't belong to you anymore.
You barely feel the shift until it’s already happening—muscle pulling, fins splitting apart, the weight of your tail giving way to something softer. The cool press of sand meets your knees. Your calves. Your feet. Legs.
Breath shudders out of you. You clutch at the charm, still burning warm against your palm, as if it’s trying to hold you together. But all you can see is him—still too still, too pale, the sea in his lungs and salt on his skin.
“Please,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, your hands pressed against his chest. “Please—” You don’t know who you’re begging. Him. The ocean. The gods. Anyone.
You press your forehead to his, still dripping, still trembling. Saltwater pools around his body. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t breathe.
He’s gone. You know it.
But you refuse.
“No,” you breathe, louder this time, almost choking on it. “No—I didn’t come this far for you to leave me. You can’t—,” your voice breaks. Your chest heaves.
You sit there for what feels like forever—holding him, cradling his lifeless face, brushing damp white strands from his eyes.
“You said you'd always find me,” you whisper. “Even if I was hiding beneath the sea.”
Silence answers.
And still you stay there, beside him, your charm glowing so desperately it hurts.
Until the sea turns quiet again. Until your tears dry with the wind. Until you're left with nothing but the weight of him—and the crushing ache of everything you didn’t get to say.
You’re not sure how long you’ve sat there.
Long enough for the stars to shift overhead. Long enough for the tide to creep higher around your legs. Long enough to feel the weight of him turning cold in your arms. And still, you can’t let go.
Your fingers slip to your charm. It’s still glowing faintly—soft white, barely flickering, as if mourning with you. You don’t know what you’re doing until it’s already in your palm, the knotted cord pooling there. Your voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m so—so sorry.”
He’s heavy in your arms. Too still. His lips are blue. His skin is cold. You don’t realize you’re crying again until your tears hit his cheek.
Then you slip it around his neck, letting the charm settle over his chest, right where his heart should be beating.
The glow flickers. Soft. Faint. Then—bright.
But it’s not white. It’s blue. The deep, clear cerulean of his eyes. The kind of blue that once made you hesitate mid-sentence. The kind that lit up when he laughed. The kind that stared at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
And then his body jerks. He spasms, and your hands fly to his shoulders just as he twists onto his side, choking, convulsing. He gasps—wet and raw. Saltwater floods from his mouth, spilling over his lips. He coughs hard, body wracked with it, and you hold him through every shudder. “Breathe,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Please. Just breathe.”
Another violent cough. His fingers dig into the sand, weak and scrambling. His chest heaves. And finally—finally—he sucks in a breath. A real one. It’s ragged. Fragile. But it’s there.
His eyelids flutter open slowly. His gaze is unfocused at first—glassy, dazed. But then those eyes shift. Land on you. “…You,” he croaks, hoarse. Barely a whisper.
Your heart cracks open. You lean over him, one hand cradling his cheek, the other smoothing wet hair back from his face. “I thought I lost you,” you whisper.
He doesn’t speak. Just stares up at you like he doesn’t quite believe it either. Like he’s still half between this world and the next.
“I’m here,” you say, softly. “I’m right here.”
And finally, his eyes flutter closed again—not unconscious, just overwhelmed. He lets out a weak breath and presses his forehead against your palm. And you sit there, holding him, while the waves keep rising.
You feel warmth slowly return to him—the cold fading from his skin, replaced by the heat of life. Of him. He’s curled against you on the sand, breathing shallow but steady, as the ocean hums quietly at your back. Neither of you speak for a long while.
Then, his fingers twitch—reach for yours. And when you lace them together, he holds on like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world. “…You saved me,” he says, voice rough.
You don’t look at him. “You shouldn’t have been there.”
“I couldn’t stay away.” Your throat tightens. He squeezes your hand, and when you finally meet his gaze, it steals the air right from your lungs. He’s looking at you like you’re a miracle. Like he’s afraid to blink and lose you again.
“I thought you were gone,” you whisper. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Same,” he breathes, giving you a half smile—soft, tired. “But apparently I’m too pretty to die.”
You let out a shaky laugh. Then a tear slips down your cheek, and he catches it with his thumb. “No more running,” he says. “No more hiding.”
Your voice trembles. “They’ll come after you.”
“Then let them.” His tone is quiet but sure. “Let them come. I’m not leaving you.”
You barely have time to breathe before his hand is on your jaw, tilting your face toward his. He doesn’t kiss you gently. He crashes into you, his hand cupping your jaw, pulling you in as his lips claim yours with raw, aching need. There’s no hesitation, no fear. Just everything he’s wanted to say and never had the words for.
You melt into him, fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt—still soaked, still clinging to him like your touch does now. The taste of salt lingers between your mouths, your breaths shared and stolen, again and again. He groans softly into your lips as you shift over him, your body fitting against his like you were always meant to. His hands—calloused and warm—trail down your back, over the ridges of your spine, holding you closer, closer.
When you pull back to breathe, you hover there, foreheads pressed together, your lips barely apart. “I missed you,” he whispers. “More than I can explain.”
Your eyes flutter shut. “I never stopped thinking of you.”
Another kiss. Slower this time. Full of promise and pain and everything you’ve both fought so hard to bury. His tongue slides against yours—gentle, then greedy. And you let him have you, let him take all of it.
Because he came back. Because you saved him.
Because against every odd and warning, he’s still yours.
And you’re not letting go.
author's note. after almost A MONTH we're back gang. the PAIN i went thru before posting this- FUCK TUMBLR'S BLOCK LIMIT i had to delete an entire scene (but dw the full version will be on my ao3 soon)
please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
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