➼ I will continue to add to this list as I read. Last updated 3/15/26.
❤️ fluff | 🖤 angst | 💓 smut | 👀 implied smut | 😉 suggestive content but no smut
Below is a compiled collection of my top favorite fics from other writers. They're in no particular order & cover a variety of characters. Please make sure you read the warnings. I am not responsible for your consumption, nor are any of the respective authors. Please respect any boundaries the author has in place when it comes to the consumption of their content, such as age restrictions. I hope you enjoy these as much as I do! 🖤
➼ 'Risky Business' by @angelicarlert (Daryl Dixon x Reader) 💓
Warnings: Smut, swearing, porn with a little plot, quickie, semi public sex (they're in someone else's bathroom), risk of getting caught, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, aftercare, mentions of pregnancy
➼ 'Sweet Like Candy, But He's Such A Man' by @tinysunshine (Daryl Dixon x Reader) ❤️ 💓
Warnings: Fingering, light dom/sub, pet names, oral, swallowing, slightly rough sex, dirty talk, they fuck on a motorcycle, age gap, formersexworker!reader, trauma bonding, violence, death, slut shaming, bullying
➼ 'Imperfectly Perfect' by @morutelolita (Daryl Dixon x Reader) ❤️ 🖤
Warnings: Hurt to comfort, trauma, mentions of childhood neglect & abandonment, mentions of emotional & physical abuse
➼ 'Don't Scream' by @millermouth (Dark!Daryl Dixon x Reader) 💓
Part 1 Part 2
Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT--horror, blood and implied violence, no walkers, motel room encounters, morally grey reader, predator/prey vibes, dubious situations/consent (Reader consents, but they're trying to convince themself this is a bad idea), serialkiller!Daryl, fear-turned-arousal, misattribution of arousal, thanatos/death drive theory, unprotected p in v, fingering, oral (female receiving), some knife play, fear kink
➼ 'In Silliness & Mischief' by @letterstodixon (Daryl Dixon x Reader) ❤️
Warnings: None
➼ 'One Night Or Forever?' by @holdmytesseract (Daryl Dixon x Reader) ❤️ 🖤 💓Warnings: Smut, slight dom/sub dynamics, unprotected p in v (y'all know better), oral (male receiving), Daryl's a little mean in this one, slight angst, a bit of drama, alcohol, drunk-ish Daryl, tipsy Reader, swearing, bickering
➼ 'Teach You' by @millermouth (Daryl Dixon x Reader) 💓
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Warnings: Foreplay, oral (both male & female receiving), unprotected p in v (I do not endorse), dirty talk, fingering, Daryl is a man possessed in one part, Reader is gentle with Daryl in other parts, some of Daryl's POV
➼ 'Sex Deck' by @deansapplepie (Daryl Dixon x Reader) 💓
Warnings: Smut, talks about sex, a sex deck, virgin!reader, virginity loss, age gap (Reader is in her late 20s/early 30s), unprotected p in v (don't do this y'all), fingering, oral (female receiving), creampie
➼ 'The Horror and the Wild' by @lightning-hawke (Daryl Dixon x Reader) ❤️ 🖤Warnings: Angst, hurt/sort of comfort, injuries, awful communication skills, canon-typical blood, canon-typical violence, blood, death, injuries, mutual pining, gore, mild sexual content, unnamed animal death and butchering, fluff and bonding
➼ 'Feed My Frankenstein' by @lightning-hawke (Daryl Dixon x Reader) ❤️ 🖤 💓Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only, coffin sex, mutual pining, sort of established relationship, assumed death of the others, grieving, hurt/comfort, angst, smut with feelings, hand jobs, unprotected p in v, brief mention of pregnancy fears/contraceptives
➼ Domestic playing house drabble by @tinysunshine (Daryl Dixon x Reader) ❤️ 😉
Warnings: Swearing, suggestive content, a lil' spanking
➼ Cuteness aggression drabble by @tinysunshine (Daryl Dixon x Reader) ❤️ 😉Warnings: Swearing, biting, suggestive content/commentary
➼ 'Faded' by @lightninghawke (Daryl Dixon x Reader) 🖤
Warnings: Hurt/comfort, Reader has a period, past self-harm & explicit talk about recovery (Reader and Daryl)
➼ 'Performance' by @angelicarlert (Scud Frohmeyer x Reader) ❤️
Warnings: None
➼ 'Stay Quiet, Pretty Boy' by @angelicarlert (Scud Frohmeyer x Reader) 💓Warnings: Oral (male receiving), semi-public (they're in the workshop), praise kink, pet names, risk of getting caught, swearing
➼ Scud x 'Iris' drabble by @holdmytesseract (Scud Frohmeyer x Reader) ❤️
Warnings: So much fluff, Scud being a cutie patootie, established relationship
'So Strong' by @angelicarlert (Murphy MacManus x Reader) ❤️
Warnings: None
'Irish Man In A Closet' by @angelicarlert (Murphy MacManus x Reader) ❤️ 😉
Warnings: Suggestive content
➼ 'Do You Feel It?' by @stellar-waves (Connor MacManus x Reader) 🖤
Warnings: Major angst, Reader has a panic attack, implication of past self-harm
➼ 'The Only Heaven I'll Be Sent To' by @stellar-waves (Connor MacManus x Reader) ❤️ 🖤 💓
Part 1 Part 2
Warnings: Smut, slight angst, virgin!Connor, unprotected p in v (you know better than this), fingering, handjob, multiple orgasms, explicit language, Catholic guilt, canon-adjacent
➼ 'The Hat Rule' by @ghost-proofbaby (Eddie Munson x Reader) 💓
Warnings: Smut, Reader is dressed as a black cat, 'slutty' costumes, pet names, public teasing, unprotected p in v (again, wrap it up), choking kink, oral (female receiving), ass slapping
➼ 'Tomato Soup Girl' by @charliedawn (Eddie Munson x Reader) ❤️ 🖤
Warnings: None
➼ 'Hitting The Soft Spot' by @of-apollo (Eddie Munson x Reader) ❤️ 🖤
Warnings: Mild profanity, Reader is an absolute sweetheart, protective!Eddie, very minor hurt/comfort vibes, mutual pining
➼ 'Tell Me Your Thoughts On God ('Cause I'd Really Like To Meet Her)' by @bluepenguinwrites (Eddie Munson x Reader) ❤️ 🖤
Warnings: Fluff, drug use, marijuana, bad high, crying
➼ 'Pretty Girl' by @millermouth (Joel Miller x Reader) ❤️ 💓
Warnings: MDNI 18+, Joel is down bad in love, self conscious reader, no physical description (except 'soft belly') but reader is insecure of their body, no specific timeline, age gap mentioned but not specified, p in v, oral (female receiving), little bit of ass play (female receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, daddy kink, soft!joel, he calls you like every pet name in the book. some aftercare
➼ 'Cause I'm So Into You' by @angelicarlert (Joel Miller x Reader) ❤️ 💓
Warnings: Swearing, mentions of unrequited feelings, smut, oral (female receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie, a lot of petnames from Joel (darling, baby, etc), no use of y/n, maybe ooc Joel.
➼ 'Family Matters' by @millermouth (Joel Miller x Reader) ❤️ 🖤 💓
Warnings: Fluff, angst, smut, MDNI 18+, p in v, no outbreak, talk of infertility, situation that starts off as definitely not kosher but lowkey evolves into cheating & very unhealthy dynamics, baby makin', breeding kink, dirty talk, size kink, boundaries being crossed, oral (female receiving), rule breaking, riding, Joel starts to catch feelings he shouldn't, some mentions of pregnancy, blowjobs, love triangle (?), jealousy, possessiveness, power play, bad communication, threesome, some dubious consent at first then reader fully consents, Tommy is an asshole, pregnancy, soft/domestic Joel & Tommy, mentions of gender/sex, arguing, fingering, pregnancy kink?, possessive Joel, thigh grinding/riding, handjob, fighting (physical and emotional), labor & delivery
➼ 'Heated' by @angelicarlert (Joel Miller x Reader) 💓
Warnings: Smut, swearing, porn without plot, dom!Joel, edging, orgasm denial, praise, dirty talk, fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie
➼ 'Do It For Dale' by @millermouth (Joel Miller x Reader) 💓
Warnings: Smut, MDNI 18+, cheerleader!reader, bratty!reader, overprotective!joel, grumpy!joel, sarah's best friend!reader, sbf!reader, bfd!joel, college au, brattamer!joel, no outbreak, p in v, Reader is on birth control, blowjob, oral (female receiving), no use of y/n, riding, dirty talk, tiny bit of degradation but also praise kink, spanking, big girthy age gap (Reader is 21+)
➼ 'Forever And A Day' by @millermouth (Joel Miller x Reader) 🖤Warnings: Angst, pregnant!reader, big feelings!, unspecified timeline, soft!joel, angry!joel, blood, descriptions of vomit/vomiting/nausea, (dumb dumb) tommy cameo
➼ 'Two Die For' by @millermouth (Joel Miller x Reader) 💓Warnings: smut MDNI 18+, horror, uncanny valley, doppelgänger, threesome, pinv, f!receiving oral, m!receiving oral, upside down blowjob, anal, double penetration, biting, dubcon toeing the line into non con but Reader fully consents-it's just that she is pretty spooked the whole time, slightly possessive sex, no outbreak, labeling as ooc joel since he's a little too chill lmao
➼ 'Gibson Girl' by @millermouth (Joel Miller x Reader) 💓
Warnings: smut MDNI 18+ dark!joel x reader, QZ!Joel, reader is a sex worker (though there is only 1 scene with any semblance of 'work' with a customer that isn't joel), joel goes by 'hazel eyes', reader goes by the stage name 'kitty', dark themes, brothel, power imbalance, size difference, kind of innocent!reader, possessive!joel, jealous!joel, angst?, joel miller is a dangerous man, actually he's pretty scary too, touch her look at her and you die, pinv, grinding, lap dancing, fingering, f!recieving oral, some rough sex, missionary, stoic joel but he gets a filthy mouth when he's turned on, pet names, reader has no physical description but is starving from poverty, reader is afab, tension tension tension
➼ 'Green Is The Color' by @lostcherise (Jesse Pinkman x Reader) ❤️ 💓
Warnings: Roommates!au, pining, jealousy, allusions to masturbation, light angst (if you squint), jealous Jesse, smut, oral (m and f receiving), p in v
➼ 'Press Four For More Options' by @amywritesthings (Levi Ackerman x Reader) ❤️ 🖤 💓
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, alternate universe (modern), slow burn, smut, sex work, phone sex, pet names, guided masturbation, dirty talk, dom!levi, light dom/sub, alcohol, sex toys, mention of body image
➼ 'Dating On Airplane Mode' by @amywritesthings (Levi Ackerman x Reader) ❤️ 💓
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, alternate universe (modern), slow burn, neighbors au, newly established relationship, eventual smut, sex work, phone sex, pet names, mention of body image, alcohol, tags to be added as story progresses
➼ 'Call My Name' by @bumblebeeonthistle (Levi Ackerman x Reader) ❤️ 🖤 💓
Warnings: Strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, smut, mutual pining, Reader has a default name, no use of y/n, reader is Eren's kind-of older sister, canon-typical violence, grown-up characters, angst, nonbinary Hange Zoë, explicit sexual content, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), OP Reader, betrayal, Reader is not related to Levi, friends to enemies, panic attacks, implied/referenced sexual assault (groping nothing else happens), torture, will add more as the story continues
➼ 'Answers To Callings' by @amywritesthings (Levi Ackerman x Reader) ❤️
Warnings: medieval au, adult language, prince!levi, reader!knight, childhood friends turned unresolved tension, yearning and pining, first kisses, masquerade ball, dancing
➼ 'Writer's Choice Halloween Special' by @ackerslut (Levi Ackerman x Reader) 💓Warnings: mdni, modern au, serial killer!levi, mentions of murder, yandere behavior, kidnapping/stalking, bloodplay, knifeplay, dubcon/noncon, DARK (dead dove and all that), levi is a little ooc but that’s what aus are for
➼ 'Noir & Lace' by @inkedwhimsee (Levi Ackerman x Reader) 💓
Part 1 Part 2Warnings: Modern AU, spy!Levi x stripper!reader, plot & shameless smut, flirting thru banter, let's crack levi ackerman's perfect self-control, touch-starved!levi, paid for "happy ending" and reader is SO happy about it, no use of y/n, reader goes by stage name, strangers to lovers/one night encounter, power dynamics, fingering, protected sex, marking/hickeys, ass play, sex toys (butt plug, nipple piercing interaction), public setting-ish (private room of strip club), possessive language
➼ 'Foreign Tongue' by @alizha (Levi Ackerman x Reader) 🖤 💓
Warnings: MDNI, alternate universe (wwii), soldier!levi, porn with feelings, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, bittersweet ending
➼ 'The Stars Don't Glow, The Moon Can't Shine' by @bumblebeeonthistle (Levi Ackerman x Reader) ❤️ 🖤 💓
Warnings: royal knight!levi, thug!levi, (he's both it'll make sense), arranged marriage, slowburn, childhood friends to lovers, forbidden love, virgin!levi, angst with a happy ending, MDNI, smut, old-fashioned views on women and psychology, mentions of sex work, mentions of character death
➼ 'Sanctum Ignis' by @alizha (Levi Ackerman x Reader) 🖤 💓
Warnings: MDNI, no use of y/n, alternate universe, cursed knight!levi, mage!reader, dubious consent, sex pollen, rough sex, multiple orgasms, guilt, angst, perceived sexual assault, cunnilingus, female ejaculation, smut with feelings
Georgianna Marianne Hawkins
Created by: @angelicarlert
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Paired with: Daryl Dixon
Tag(s): georgie hawkins, 𝑚𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙 ࣪𖤐.ᐟ, 𝑔𝑒𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑒 𖤐.ᐟ, 𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑙 ࣪𖤐.ᐟ, 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑡𝑝 𖤐.ᐟ
Matthew Christopher Hawkins
Created by: @angelicarlert
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Paired with: N/A
Tag(s): matt hawkins, 𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑡 𖤐.ᐟ, 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑒𝑗𝑎𝑦 ࣪𖤐.ᐟ
Elena Michelle Jensen
Created by: @stellar-waves
Fandom: The Boondock Saints
Paired with: Connor MacManus
Tag(s): elena jensen, colena
Amelia Fawn Hayes
Created by: @bambidixon
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Paired with: Daryl Dixon
Tag(s): amelia hayes
Ivory Walsh
Created by: @bambidixon
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Paired with: Daryl Dixon
Tag(s): ivory walsh
Meave Rosie McGinty
Created by: @sa1nt-bambi
Fandom: The Boondock Saints
Paired with: Murphy MacManus
Tag(s): 🌷 meave
Cortana Yvette Riley-Dixon
Created by: @vivicannotread
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Paired with: Noelle Meyer
Tag(s): cortana riley
Noelle Meyer
Created by: @vivicannotread
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Paired with: Cortana Riley-Dixon
Tag(s): noelle meyer
Anastasia Ostorova
Created by: @imadisneyprincessiswear
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Paired with: Daryl Dixon
Tag(s): anastasia ostorova
Maya Valentina Ashford
Created by: @angelicarlert
Fandom: The Last Of Us
Paired with: Joel Miller
Tag(s): maya ashford, 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑎 ࣪𖤐.ᐟ
Catherine Eleonor Greene
Created by: @deansapplepie
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Paired with: Daryl Dixon
Tag(s): catherine greene, catherine eleonor greene, cathy greene, cath greene
Rosemary (Rose) Harris
Created by: @d1xonss
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Paired with: Dary Dixon
Tag(s): desert rose
Dahlia Bodea
Created by: @sayrahsunshine
Fandom: Attack On Titan
Paired with: Levi Ackerman
Tag(s): dahlia bodea
D'jai
Created by: @levi-sforbiddenfruit
Fandom: Attack On Titan
Paired with: Levi Ackerman
Tag(s): levi x d'jai
Tyler J. Addison
Created by: @millermouth
Fandom: The Last Of Us
Paired with: Joel Miller
Tag(s): tyler oc
i do not own any of the above works or characters. each piece of work and original character belongs to its respective author. banner (pic found on pinterest), 'you are responsible' banner, character dividers & five-heart divider were created by me.
a collection of my favorite nanami x reader stories.
disclaimer: none of the fics are my own works. all writers will be credited. please read all warnings provided by the writers in their respective stories.
stand alone fics
12 days of desire by @simplygojo (nsfw, fluff)
aftercare with nanami after he fucked the guts out of you by @serikai (nsfw-ish, fluff)
a little push by @sukirichi (sfw, fluff)
apologize by @kingkaisen (sfw, angst/comfort)
baby blues by @nanamisgirly (sfw, angst/comfort)
baby of mine by @chosobf (sfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
being needed and being loved by @augustinewrites (sfw, fluff)
blessings by @peachsayshi (sfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
conbini by @pseudowho (sfw, fluff)
couple trivia by @bananami (sfw, fluff)
domesticated by @carlislefiles (sfw, fluff)
don’t by @thenanamis (sfw, light angst/comfort, fluff)
gentle intimacy by @bluukive (nsfw, fluff)
gentleman by @sttoru (sfw, fluff)
gloaming by @wibben (nsfw, hurt/comfort)
happy birthday my love by @cntloup (sfw, angst/no comfort)
his tie by @itsfairly (sfw, angst/comfort)
home cooked meal by @cheriecoke (sfw, fluff)
husband!nanami comforts you during a thunderstorm by @kentospeach (sfw, fluff)
husband nanami taking care of you after your wisdom teeth surgery by @eraserbread (sfw, fluff)
if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? by @seiwas (sfw & nsfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
inside voices by @cassiefromhell (sfw, angst/comfort)
in the hush of it all by @sixxels (sfw, light angst/comfort, fluff)
jealous of his balls by @j3llyc4kes (nsfw-ish, fluff)
kento helping you with your blouse by @n0cturnnymph (sfw, fluff)
life after death by @screampied (sfw, angst/no comfort)
my anchor by @smilesandspills (sfw, angst/comfort, fluff)
nanami is the kind who… by @mahgyu (nsfw)
nanami makes a big decision after your labour by @reignpage (sfw, angst/comfort)
nanami reading thirst tweets by @mooningningg (nsfw-ish)
night after the wedding by @sinkuna (nsfw, fluff)
pocketful of candy by @satorusugurugurl (sfw, angst/comfort, fluff)
ratio overtime by @starmapz (nsfw, fluff)
scary dog privilege by pseudowho (sfw, fluff)
shopping trip by pseudowho (sfw, fluff)
stay by sinkuna (nsfw, fluff)
take care by @buggyluv (nsfw, fluff)
taking care of you by @nanamisweetgirl (nsfw-ish, fluff)
the cunnilinguist’s curse by @aesthetically-dying101 (nsfw, fluff)
the ghost of you by @em1e (sfw, fluff, angst/no comfort)
the secret wife by @chuluoyi (sfw, fluff)
thinking about nanami… by mahgyu (sfw, fluff)
tie my tie, marry me by @kenananamin (sfw, fluff)
to love and to cherish by @capricornlevi (nsfw, fluff)
when your comfort is his priority by @sproutoru (sfw, light angst/comfort, fluff)
writer’s cock by aesthetically-dying101 (nsfw, fluff)
your ex never got you off? by @obsesssedblerd (nsfw, fluff)
you’re his to love by nanamisweetgirl (nsfw, fluff)
series
career day by wibben (sfw, fluff)
furry little problem by pseudowho (sfw, fluff)
let me love you (like a woman) by @kentwos (sfw & nsfw, angst/comfort, fluff)
like real people do by @svthui (sfw & nsfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
the ties that bind by @swearimnevergivingup (sfw & nsfw, angst/comfort, fluff)
you found me by @madamechrissy (sfw & nsfw, hurt/comfort, fluff)
smau/text au
**other jjk characters are included in these fics**
bf texts with nanami by @shotosjupiter (sfw, fluff)
i just wanna be your sweetheart by @cinnamorollcrybaby (sfw, angst/comfort, fluff)
in which nanami thought he could say no to you by @chastiefoul (sfw, fluff)
pranking you by texting you “he’s busy rn” by @nanaslutt (sfw, fluff)
stay the same by @coralbae (sfw, fluff)
their reaction to you not saying ‘i love you’ back as a prank by chastiefoul (sfw, fluff)
when they find your baby photos by nanaslutt (sfw, fluff)
last updated 02.13.2026
writers: if you would like your fic and/or name removed from this collection, please message me. i will update the list at your request
thank you to @ saradika-graphics for the dividers!
Suguru Geto doesn’t kiss. Only hits it from the back. Doesn’t stay the night. And he definitely doesn’t chase. Everything with him is simple and transactional— until the new girl at the party rejects him without blinking. Now he’s got something to prove. The only problem? The closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend it’s just a game.
a/n: chococat and frat!geto are both so underrated >:( and the amount of times i accidentally wrote fart instead of frat
(credits to @/VoidBringerr on x for that lucious fanart :P credits to @bhavihelps for the divider :D)
Suguru Geto, vice president of the frat, walked like the world had already signed itself over to him. Girls gravitated toward him like it was instinct. He didn’t chase. He didn’t try. He didn’t need to. They lined up anyway.
Suguru Geto who rolled into lectures twenty minutes late—that was if he even showed up at all—and still somehow pulled stellar grades. Suguru Geto who submitted assignments seconds before the deadline, unbothered, unhurried, like time itself would wait for him. Suguru Geto who never really had to work for anything.
Things just came easy to him. Until you.
Shoko introduced you at one of the frats parties.
You’d been her childhood best friend before your parents moved overseas for work, and when she found out you were coming back—same college, same city—she nearly lost her mind. Promised she’d show you everything. The best cafés. The quiet corners of town. And of course, the “hot parties.”
The hot parties were always at the same place.
Infamous brothers. Infamous parties. The kind of place people warned you about and went to anyway. Geto and Gojo at the center of it all, like twin pillars of chaos and charm.
They carried a reputation like cologne—expensive, heavy, impossible to ignore.
Even you, the new girl, had heard the stories.
Frat boys who only did casual. Hook up, have their fun, and send you home before you could even fully come down from the high of it. Don’t linger. Don’t catch feelings. It was practically printed in invisible ink on the walls of that house.
And honestly? The rumors didn’t bother them. If anything, it saved them the trouble.
Most girls knew exactly what they were walking into. Some even liked it that way. No strings. No expectations. No pretending it was something deeper.
And Suguru was always clear. He didn’t chase, he selects.
No lingering.
No feelings.
No kissing.
No sleeping over.
Clean lines. Clear rules. Strictly transactional. Mutual pleasure, nothing more.
You walked into the party trying not to look as out of place as you felt.
People moved through the frat house like they owned it—like they’d been born under neon lights and bass-boosted speakers. You followed behind Shoko as she pulled you through the crowd, grinning like she was about to present you with a prize.
“Satoru, Suguru!” Shoko called out.
Shoko looked like she had personally delivered a miracle. Her hands in the air around you. Basically like that one picture of Will Smith.
They turned immediately.
“Shoko has told me so much about you!” Satoru beamed before pulling you into a hug that was all limbs and spilled alcohol. His drink sloshed onto your top and his shirt. He didn’t even care, or didn’t notice.
“I’m glad I can finally put a pretty face to the name.” He pulled back, still holding your hand, and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. Surprisingly gentle. Almost princely.
You laughed, easing your hand back. “I’ve heard a lot about you too.”
From the side, Suguru’s eyes dragged over you—slow, assessing.
“Good things, I hope?” Satoru grinned. He knew better. Most things people said about him weren’t flattering. Just accurate.
“Something like that.” you smiled, soft and amused.
The sound of your laugh did something strange to Suguru’s chest. A small, sharp skip. He frowned internally. That was new. He’d watched girls strip in front of him without so much as a pulse change. Why did a simple smile from you feel different?
“You must be Suguru, right?” you turned toward him.
He’d already been staring. He didn’t even pretend otherwise.
“Yeah,” he replied smoothly, confidence sliding back into place like it had never left.
“It’s nice to meet you.” You said. He stepped forward and pulled you into a hug, hands settling at your waist. Familiar. Controlled. Easy.
“Nice to meet you too, pretty girl,” he murmured, shifting so his arm rested around your shoulders afterward, keeping you tucked neatly under his side.
“Let’s get you something to drink.”
The kitchen counter was cluttered with liquor bottles, and red cups stacked in the corner. He grabbed one and started mixing something without asking what you liked. You took the cup when he handed it to you. Your fingers brushing.
“Thank you.” It was small. Polite. Not breathless. Not flustered.
He showed you around the house, introducing you to the brothers and the regular girls who might as well have been honorary members at this point. The house was massive, loud, vibrating with music blasted by DJ Yu—a freshman who’d apparently been given the job mostly to prevent him from launching himself off the roof into the pool and breaking his bones.
You laughed at that. Suguru liked the sound again. Too much. “Thank you for the tour, Suguru,” you said eventually, still loosely under his arm.
“We’re not done yet,” he replied quickly. “Haven’t shown you upstairs.” He winked. This was the part where girls usually blushed. Leaned closer. Whispered something suggestive. Begged, even. Instead—
“I’m fine.” You stepped away. His arm dropped. The music kept playing. People kept going around him. But something in his head went quiet.
Rejection? That… didn’t happen.
“I’m going to look for Shoko. Thanks for the tour though.”
You waved lightly before heading toward the couch where Shoko sat between Yuki and Satoru. You slipped down next to her, and she draped her arm around your shoulders—the same place Suguru’s had been moments ago.
He stood there for half a second too long.
Then he followed.
He sat on the armrest of the couch, close enough to still be in your space, but not touching this time. Not claiming.
Something in his ego felt… dented. You hadn’t blushed. Hadn’t hesitated, hadn't chased. You just walked away. A strange feeling settled in his chest. It was small, but sharp. Annoying. His pride stung in a way it never had before. This didn’t happen to him. Usually it was easy. A lazy wink. A hand at someone’s waist. A low comment spoken close enough to feel. Girls were already leaning in, already asking to go upstairs before he even decided if he wanted them.
He didn’t chase. He never had to. So why did the thought of you walking away still sit wrong with him? It wasn’t about you. It couldn’t be. It was just the rejection. He had something to prove something to himself now. He saw you as a challenge.
And Suguru liked winning.
He had been so sure he would win.
There was something in him that needed to prove it — not just to himself, but to his friends too. Even though they hadn’t seen him get rejected by you.
Drunk,immature, and his ego bruised in a way he’d never experienced before, he’d walked straight over to the other frat brothers — Satoru, Haibara, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna — like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. “I can bag her,” he’d said with a careless laugh. “Even when she’s being difficult.”
They’d teased him, of course. Raised brows. Doubt. Curiosity. He’d leaned back in his chair, drink in hand, acting like it was already decided.
“I like the challenge,” he’d added. “She’s my challenge.”
And Suguru had always been the one who could make even the most stubborn girls soften. Fold. Give in. And to him you were certainly one of those.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Next Friday, he stood near the couch, drink loose in his hand, eyes fixed on the front door more than he’d admit.
Waiting for you.
Satoru had insisted on the pajama party. “Intimate,” he’d called it. No one bought it. It was just an excuse to see girls in lace and silk. Satoru looked unfair as usual. Blue plaid pajama pants hanging low, thin white shirt clinging in a way that made people stare too long. He acted oblivious. He wasn’t.
Suguru wasn’t exactly subtle either.
Grey sweatpants. Black shirt. Sleeves pushed up just enough to expose strong forearms, veins faint but still prominent beneath warm skin. The cotton of his shirt clung lightly to his chest and shoulders, outlining muscle without trying too hard. It stretched when he moved, hinting at the strength underneath.
He looked comfortable. Relaxed.
The sweatpants hung low on his hips, the fabric thin enough to suggest more than it hid. When he shifted his weight or leaned back against the counter, the outline of his bulge noticeable. Not exaggerated. Just there. Impossible to ignore if someone let their eyes wander.
And people were looking. He could feel it. A few girls tried to be subtle. Most weren’t. Normally he’d smirk. Maybe lean back a little more. Let them look. Tonight, though, his attention stayed fixed on the door. Until you walked in.
Your eyes met his from across the room before you started walking toward him.
And just like that, something shifted. The air felt heavier. Quieter.
You were wearing a small purple lace and silk sleep dress — delicate straps resting on your shoulders, the fabric catching the light with every step you took. It skimmed your body just enough to leave very little to his imagination.
He loved your outfit.
The way the lace traced your silhouette. The way the silk moved softly against your thighs. The way it looked like it had been made just for you.
Heat pooled low in his stomach before he could stop it. His hand tightened subtly around the cup he was holding, pupils dilating as his gaze dragged — slow, deliberate — from your face down to the hem of your dress and back up again.
But it wasn’t just desire. It was the way you walked toward him. Calm. Unhurried. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
When you hugged him — when your body pressed against his — he felt exactly how you fit against him. The thin layers of fabric between you did very little to dull the contact. Warm. Close. Distractingly close.
His body went rigid for half a second, hyperaware of every point of contact. The heat pooling low in his stomach felt even heavier, unwelcome in how fast it came.
You pulled away first. His hands lingered at your waist a second too long before dropping. He followed you into the kitchen without thinking about it. “Do you always do this?” you asked, not turning around, focused on pouring yourself a drink.
“Do what?” he replied, leaning back against the counter, palms resting against the edge behind him. Casual. Like he wasn’t watching you over the rim of his cup. “Following girls around,” you clarified, taking a sip before leaning back as well. Now you were beside him. Close enough that your arms brushed lightly.
He didn’t move away. “No. Just you.” Smooth. Effortless. Delivered like it wasn’t a line.
“You’re so rehearsed,” you snickered into your drink. You barely looked at him. Your attention drifted to the kitchen, the music, the people passing by. You adjusted the hem of your dress. Anything but him.
And that — more than anything — got under his skin. Because he was used to being the center of attention.
He was used to being watched. But you? You acted like he was optional. His jaw tightened slightly, though his smile stayed lazy.
“If I’m rehearsed,” he said, pushing off the counter. He stepped into your space, one hand bracing against the surface behind you. Close enough to crowd. Not close enough to touch.
“I wouldn’t be standing here trying to figure you out.” His head tilted slightly as he leaned in, just a fraction closer. There was something different in his tone now. Less polished. Less automatic.
He let it show — just a little — that this wasn’t routine. That he was actually trying. You raised a brow lazily, finally meeting his eyes. “But go on,” he continued, softer, almost coaxing. “If I'm rehearsed, tell me what you think I’m going to say next.”
His other hand came to rest on the counter behind you, boxing you in without quite trapping you. Testing. Seeing how much you’d tolerate. How far he could push before you pushed back.
You only chuckled. Took another slow sip of your drink. Like his proximity meant nothing. Like he wasn’t practically caging you in. You set your cup down and crossed your arms. “You’re trying to figure me out?” you said evenly. “You’re doing a bad job, then.”
A quiet beat passed. “Am I?” His voice lowered, amusement threading through it. He liked this. The resistance. The way you didn’t melt or giggle or fold. “And yet…” A lazy smirk curved his mouth. “You’re still standing here.”
The confidence was still there — but thinner now. Sharpened. His eyes dropped to your lips for a second. Just long enough. Just slow enough.
“I’m still here because I’m entertained. Not because I’m doing you a favor by letting you figure me out,” you said evenly. Calm. Almost absentminded.
You took a small sip of your drink. “I’m also curious what cheesy line you’re going to try next.”
Suguru’s lips twitched. A quiet breath left him — not quite a laugh, but close. “Cheesy?” he echoed softly. He reached up without asking, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. Slow. Deliberate. Tucking it behind your ear like he had every right to. Then he leaned in. Close enough that his breath ghosted over your skin, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear. “Wanna find out?” he murmured.
He pulled back just enough to watch your reaction. Waiting for the shift. The blush. The swallow. The crack in your composure. It never came. Your expression stayed the same. Relaxed. Mildly bored.
“I'm good.”
Two simple words. You nudged his arm away — not aggressively, just enough to move past him — and walked back toward the couch where Haibara, Shoko, and Yuki were sitting. Like it was nothing.
Like he hadn’t just made a move on you. Suguru stayed where he was. For a second, he didn’t move. He didn’t fully process it. The rejection hit slower this time. Not sharp. Just heavy. Settling somewhere behind his ribs.
His heart was still beating too fast from the closeness. From the warmth of you. From the almost. He wasn’t sure what churned in his stomach more.
The sting of being brushed off. Or the fact that he wanted to try again.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru was fucked.
The scene from last Friday wouldn’t leave him alone. It replayed in his mind in sharp, unforgiving detail. The way you looked at him. The way you sounded. The way you said I’m good like he wasn’t worth your time.
He could still remember how close you were. The warmth of your body. The faint trace of your perfume that seemed to linger in his memory no matter how many showers he took.
He had thought about that single interaction more than the dirtiest things he had ever done. And he hadn’t even properly touched you. Every time it replayed, something twisted low in his stomach. Not lust. Not exactly. Something heavier. Stranger.
Something he’d never felt before.
His lecture dragged on endlessly. Some rant about foreign economies and stock markets. The professor also spiraling about his own investments tanking.
Suguru didn’t hear a word. His thoughts kept circling back to you. When class finally ended, he left without thinking, shoulders tense, jaw tight.
Everything felt dull. Boring. Until he saw you. Sitting on a bench outside. Headphones in. Sunlight spilling over you like it was intentional. Like the universe was presenting him with something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
You looked… beautiful. Your legs crossed neatly. Your outfit soft, effortless. Your hair falling perfectly over your shoulders. Brows slightly furrowed as you stared at your phone.
Beautiful.
The word made him pause.
He’d called girls hot. Sexy. But beautiful? Perfect? That was new. And he didn’t like how easily it was when it came to you.
He swallowed the thought down quickly. It was just the chase. That was all this was. Right?
He called your name as he approached. You looked up at him. And his heartbeat ticked up, just slightly. “Oh, hi,” you said, tugging one headphone out.
“You done for today?” he asked casually, already calculating how he could stretch this interaction. “One lecture left,” you sighed, slipping your phone into your pocket and pulling the other headphone out.
“When?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Come on. I’ll walk you.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He picked up your bag from the ground and slung it over his shoulder like it belonged there.
“You don’t have to,” you called, following behind him as he started toward the main building.
“Where’s your lecture?”
He ignored the protest entirely.
“018.”
He adjusted his pace slightly so you could keep up, leading you toward the back of the building without another word.
The hallway was quieter here.
Room 018 came into view on your right.
He stopped in front of you. You stepped closer, reaching up to tug your bag off his shoulder. “Thank you for walking me,” you said lightly. “Even if it was against my will.”
He scoffed, crossing his arms. “So charming,” he muttered.
“I’ll see you later.” He ruffled your hair — casual, almost teasing — before stepping past you and walking away.
Good thing he walked away. Otherwise he would’ve seen it — the slight widening of your eyes, the faint warmth rising to your cheeks where he’d ruffled your hair.
The last time — at the party — he had been closer to you. Closer than this. But there had been dim lighting and music loud enough to swallow hesitation. Alcohol warming your skin. Shadows to hide behind. This time there was none of that.
No haze. No flickering lights softening the edges. Just daylight pouring through the windows. Just the quiet hum of campus around you. Just him standing there, fully aware, fully sober. Good thing he walked away.
Otherwise he would’ve seen it — the slight widening of your eyes, the faint warmth rising to your cheeks where he’d ruffled your hair. He would’ve known he’d affected you.
An hour later, you stepped out of your lecture hall. And stopped. Suguru was leaning against the wall across from the door. Like he’d been there the whole time.
His phone hung loosely in his hand, forgotten. He found your eyes almost immediately, a lazy smirk spreading across his face like this had been inevitable. “What are you doing here?” you asked, walking up to him.
He hadn’t prepared an answer. Not really. “Thought I’d walk you home,” he said honestly. The words leaving before he could dress them up. You blinked at him. “You waited an hour to walk me home?” A small huff escaped you — half disbelief, half something else.
“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to,” he replied, pushing off the wall. His hands slipped from his pockets, reaching for your bag again and slinging it over his shoulder like it belonged there.
You fell into step beside him this time. “For someone with such a reputation,” you said lightly, “you’re being such a gentleman.”
“And what does that reputation entail?” he asked, glancing down at you like he genuinely didn’t know. Of course he knew. He just wanted to hear what you thought and heard.
“Come on,” you muttered, looking away. “You know what people say about you.”
“I do,” he replied smoothly. “But I’m wondering what you heard.” There was something different in his tone now. Less teasing. More searching. Because for once, it wasn’t about what the campus thought. It was about what you thought.
“You’re a manwhore,” you said plainly. No hesitation. No sugarcoating. His eyebrow twitched slightly. “You don’t do face-to-face,” you continued. “And you don’t kiss.” Your gaze stayed forward, focused on the path ahead. His eyes, however, were locked on you.
“People talk,” he said simply. Even though most of it was true. He had kissed a few girls back in freshman year. Early on. Back when he was still figuring out what he preferred during hook ups.
He’d learned quickly that he didn’t. Kissing complicated things. It made girls linger. Made them think. Made him pretend he wanted something more. “So it’s not true?” you asked, your gaze snapping up to him.
“I didn’t say that,” he chuckled, glancing back at you. This time, you were the one who looked away first. A quiet beat passed.
“Why no kissing?” you asked. There wasn’t judgment in your voice. Just curiosity. That made it harder to brush off. He exhaled through his nose, shoulders rolling slightly as he considered how to phrase it.
“Keeps things easy,” he said finally. “Sex is transactional. You feel good, I feel good. End of story.”
His tone was matter-of-fact. Almost clinical.
“But most people don’t get anything out of kissing,” he continued. “You kiss someone because you want to be close to them.” His eyes flickered toward you. “Seems more personal than sex to me.” He said it like it was obvious. Logical.
Like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. And you could follow what he meant. You understood the train of thought. You just couldn’t understand him. Because to you, that sounded backwards.
Detached. Safe. And maybe that was the point. “How do you even get in the mood without kissing?” you asked. You were trying to follow his logic. You really were.
“You just do,” he replied easily. “You don’t really get in the mood to do your assignments either, but you still do them.” He said it like it made perfect sense. You giggled. It was soft. Unfiltered. And something in him twitched at the sound.
He’d had girls whisper filth in his ear. Beg. Moan. Say things far more obscene. And yet a simple giggle from you did more to him than any of it ever had. “That’s… one way to put it,” you said, shaking your head slightly.
“What about you?” he asked.
“Mh?”
“What do you like?”
The question caught you off guard.
“Uh…”
You frowned faintly, thinking.
No one had really asked you that before.
You knew how to flirt. You’ve had boyfriends before — not many, you could still count them on one hand. From the outside they’d all seemed fine. Good guys. But when it came down to it… They hadn’t really known what to do with you. Everything had always revolved around them. Their pace. Their finish. “I don’t… know?” you admitted, shoulders lifting slightly.
“What do you mean? Even virgins know what they like.” He looked at you, genuinely confused.
“I’ve had a few boyfriends,” you said quietly, a hint of pink rising to your cheeks. “But they weren’t really any good. And whenever I tried to explain or try something different… it didn’t really work.” There was embarrassment there. Not dramatic. Just subtle. Like you’d quietly decided somewhere along the way that maybe you were the problem.
“Maybe I’m just not made for sex,” you added with a small, almost self-conscious laugh.
Something in Suguru hardened at that. Not lust. Not entirely. Something sharper. Because the idea of you thinking that — of some mediocre guys fumbling their way through you and leaving you convinced you were the issue — irritated him more than it should have.
“Or,” he said calmly, cutting in, “you just didn’t have the right partners.”
“When it happens with one boyfriend, it could be coincidence,” you said with a faint, bitter chuckle. “When it happens with two? That’s not really a coincidence anymore.”
He looked at you differently then. Not like prey. Not like a challenge. Like something he wanted to prove wrong. “If you had the wrong ones twice,” he said evenly, “that just means your sample size was bad.” There was a faint smirk there, but softer than usual.
“It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.” His tone wasn’t teasing. It was steady. Certain.
And for once, he wasn’t trying to get you into bed (well not completely) He was trying to undo something someone else had planted in your head. And that might’ve been worse for him. Because this wasn’t about winning a challenge anymore. It was about wanting to be the one who showed you differently.
“Thanks,” you said softly. “That’s… oddly comforting.” For a second, something warm settled between you.
“Maybe I could be the one to show you,” he added, a wink following right after.
And just like that, the warmth shifted. A quiet bucket of disappointment washed over you. Right. He was still him. Still the campus manwhore. Still the guy who turned everything into an invitation. “Yeah,” you said lightly, pushing his shoulder with two fingers, “no thank you.”
He laughed, not offended. But something flickered behind his eyes — quick. Almost unreadable. The conversation eased after that. Safer topics. His time in college. Your time overseas. Gossip about mutual acquaintances. Who dated who. Who cheated. Who dropped out.
It felt normal. Almost easy. And that was the dangerous part. Because you genuinely enjoyed talking to him. By the time you reached your building, the sky had softened into late afternoon gold. You stopped at your door. “Thank you,” you said, taking your bag back from him. “I really enjoyed our talk.”
And you meant it. His expression shifted — subtle, but softer than the smirking version he wore so easily. “My pleasure,” he replied. Polite. Controlled.
“I’ll see you around.” He gave you a small wave before stepping back from the entrance, giving you space as you unlocked your door.
He didn’t linger. But as he walked away, hands sliding back into his pockets, something about the interaction replayed in his mind.
He enjoyed talking to you. Not flirting. Not teasing. Talking. And for the first time, Suguru wasn’t sure if that made things easier… Or infinitely more complicated.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
“Where are you going?” he asked when you took a different turn instead of heading toward your building. He was standing outside your lecture hall again, like he had been for the past few weeks. It had become a routine of sorts — he would wait for you, walk you home, and talk with you about nothing and everything.
“I have to go to the library,” you replied. “My professor assigned something last minute, and I want to get it done before the weekend.”
Suguru fell into step beside you without hesitation. “Mind if I join?” he asked, his arm settling over your shoulder in a way that had slowly become familiar. At some point, you had stopped shrugging it off.
“Sure,” you said, looking up at him with a stern expression. “If you promise to be quiet.”
“I promise,” he replied, lifting his pinky in a childish gesture.
You sighed, but your lips curved slightly as you hooked your pinky around his. A pinky promise. The library was warm and quiet when you stepped inside, the faint scent of paper and coffee lingering in the air. You led him toward a quiet corner where a small table with two chairs sat facing each other.
To your surprise, he actually kept his promise. He opened his laptop and pulled up his own assignment, though he barely looked at it. Most of his attention was on you. He watched the way your hair fell forward when you leaned down to write, the way your sweater slipped slightly off one shoulder, the crease between your brows when you concentrated, the back of the pen resting against your soft bottom lip. His textbook sat open and untouched, the words blurring together because he couldn’t stop glancing up at you.
“I have to grab something,” you said eventually, standing from your chair. He stood immediately. “I’ll come with you.”
“You do that a lot,” you remarked as you scanned the shelves. “Following behind me.”
“Are we having this conversation again?” he replied lightly, his eyes focused on you rather than the rows of books.
“You’re like a big puppy.”
He laughed at that, an actual, unguarded laugh. “That’s what I’ve been reduced to?”
“That’s what you’ve been upgraded to,” you corrected as you spotted the book you needed. It was on the top shelf. You stretched up on your toes, your fingers barely grazing the metal edge beneath it. Suguru stepped closer behind you, not quite touching you but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. He reached over you easily and grabbed the book.
Instead of handing it to you, he lifted it just slightly higher. You turned around with a small frown, your brows knitting together as you tried to reach for it again. He watched you from above, his smirk lazy but his heartbeat louder than he liked to admit.
“Not even a thank you you? Or a please,” he teased. “Didn’t think you were ill-mannered.”
“Do you want me to beg you?” you countered, your tone unimpressed. The thought alone made something stir in him. “Would you?” he asked, leaning a fraction closer.
“No,” you replied immediately, crossing your arms despite the way your stomach fluttered at his proximity.
“Then you’re not getting your book about…” He glanced at the cover. “International politics.” You flushed faintly, embarrassed that he had said the title out loud when it was perfectly normal.
“Fine.”
He waited, expecting more. “Please, Suguru,” you said flatly.
It wasn’t breathless or sweet like he had imagined, but hearing his name leave your lips so casually still did something to him that caught him off guard.
“Not good enough,” he replied, shaking his head.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you said, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. “Do you have some sort of worship kink?”
He chuckled and stepped closer until his chest brushed lightly against your body. “Just trying to teach you manners.”
You scoffed. “Fine. Keep the book.” You pushed past him and walked back toward the table, your pride too intact to play along with whatever game he was trying to start. After a second, he followed you, the book still in his hand. This hadn’t gone the way he imagined. You didn’t fold. You didn’t beg. You didn’t give him what he wanted.
And he hated how much he liked that. “I’m going home,” you said as you began packing your bag. “Already?” he asked.
“Might as well. I can’t really go any further without that book.”
You walked ahead of him again, refusing to look back, your pride too strong to let him win.
And as he followed behind you — because of course he did — Suguru realized he admired that stubbornness far more than he should have.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
His room was quiet, the late afternoon light spilling lazily across the floor. Suguru lounged on his bed with his phone in hand, half-reading through the fraternity council group chat. Over a hundred messages flooded the screen about some reckless freshmen stunt that could get the house in trouble. Arguments about whether to kick them out or just put them on social probation dragged on endlessly. He barely cared.
His phone suddenly rang. Your name lit up the screen. The number you had reluctantly given him two weeks ago. A smile spread across his face before he even realized it.
“Sweetheart—”
“You really took that book with you?” you half-yelled through the phone.
His smile shifted into a slow smirk as he leaned back against his pillows. Usually you were composed, cool, untouchable. Hearing you slightly ruffled did something to him.
“You said I could keep it,” he replied lazily.
“I didn’t expect you to actually take it.”
“You told me to. Who am I not to comply?”
“Did you even register it, or did you just steal it?”
“It’s not stealing if I bring it back.”
He could practically hear your eye roll through the phone.
“What do you even want with that specific book?”
“For someone as smart as you, you’re awfully slow.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I dont want that book. I just want to hear you say please.”
“I already did,” you snapped.
“That wasn’t good enough.”
“Then you should’ve been more specific.”
“I was specific,” he said calmly. “Just say the words and I’ll give it to you.”
“Oh, please, Suguru,” you replied in an overly sweet, dripping tone.
It was sarcasm.
But the effect was very real.
“Go on,” he murmured, smirk widening.
“Fuck off.” The line went dead. He stared at his phone. You really just hung up on him. He almost pouted. Still, he was getting closer. You wouldn’t be this annoyed if you didn’t care.
Twenty minutes later, a knock sounded at his door. He rolled off his bed, expecting Satoru, maybe Haibara or another brother.
Instead, you stood there. Arms crossed. Cute frown firmly in place. “Give me that book.” No greeting. No smile.
“So impolite,” he tsked, leaning against the doorframe. He found it amusing that you had come all the way here for a book you could probably find online. A part of him wanted to believe you were enjoying this just as much as he was.
“Suguru, please. I have plans this weekend, and the deadline’s Monday.”
“You’re getting closer,” he replied.
You stepped inside his room without waiting for permission. It was surprisingly tidy for a frat house. You went straight to his desk and began rummaging through the drawers.
“It could save you a real headache if you just asked nicely enough,” he said, watching you search. You straightened and finally turned to face him. There was something different in your eyes now. Determined. Slightly desperate.
“Suguru,” you exhaled. “I really need the book. Please.” That one was more sincere. And it hit harder than the sarcastic ones. He didn’t move. From the outside, he looked unbothered. Inside, his stomach was flipping and his heart was beating fast enough to power a small city.
“Please,” you said again, softer this time. He swallowed. “Knew you could be polite,” he said lightly, ruffling your hair before stepping past you.
He grabbed the book from his bag. It hadn’t moved since the library. Your hands reached for it immediately. He pulled it back again. “What are your plans this weekend?” he asked casually.
Your expression shifted to mild annoyance. “Seeing a friend.”
A friend? His jaw tightened slightly. What kind of friend? Why did that word suddenly irritate him? “What friend?” he pressed.
You scoffed. “I came here to get a book, and now you’re interrogating me about my social life.”
“You want the book?” he challenged. You hesitated for a second. “I’m going on a blind date. Now can I please have my book?”
A blind date. The word landed heavier than he expected. Jealousy flared before he could stop it. It didn’t make sense. You were a challenge. A game. A mission to see how long it would take to get you in his bed. So why did the idea of someone else sitting across from you make something ugly twist in his chest?
He lowered the book without another word. You grabbed it immediately. “Thank you,” you said, smiling.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru laid quietly in his bed that same night you came storming into his room. His head clouded with jealousy and also lust.
You saying ‘please' and almost begging him really did something to him. It may have been because you wanted a book and not because you wanted him, but that didn't matter to him. The words that bordered on begging had taken their toll on him, and especially on his cock.
The room was dark, except for the faint glow of moonlight slipping through the curtains, casting shadows over the rumpled sheets. Suguru's chest rose and fell unevenly, his mind replaying the scene over and over.
'Suguru, I really need this. Please.' Fuck, the way your eyes had locked on his. It twisted something deep in his gut, even when he had completely taken your words out of context.
A hot coil of envy still in his stomach because of that stupid blind date, but his dick still throbbing with need.
He groaned low in his throat, palming himself through the thin material, feeling the heat radiate from his skin.
With a frustrated huff, Suguru shoved his boxers and sweats down his thighs, freeing his cock. It sprang up, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening with pre-cum in the dim light. He wrapped his hand around the base, squeezing firmly, and let out a shaky breath.
His mind flooded with images: you on your knees, not for your blind date, but only for him. Begging to touch him, to taste him.
'Please,' you'd probably whisper, lips parted, eyes dark with want.
He started stroking, slow at first, his fist gliding up the shaft, thumb swiping over the sensitive head to spread the slickness. A jolt of pleasure shot through him, making his hips buck involuntarily. Fuck, he was so hard it ached, veins pulsing under his grip. He picked up the pace, hand twisting slightly, imagining your mouth instead—wet and warm, sucking him down greedily.
His free hand clutched the sheets, knuckles white, as he jerked faster, the slick sound of skin on skin filling the quiet room. His balls tightened, drawing up as the pressure built low in his belly.
He muttered your name, head falling back against the pillow.
In his mind, you were there, begging louder, your voice breaking as you rode him, pussy clenching around his cock. He thrust into his fist, chasing that fantasy, breaths coming in ragged pants.
He couldn't hold it anymore.
With a choked groan, Suguru came, hot spurts of cum shooting over his hand and stomach, his body shuddering with the force of it. He milked himself through it, every last pulse, until he slumped back, spent and sticky. The jealousy lingered, a dull ache.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru had almost manifested it — the worst possible outcome.
And somehow, the night had gone exactly that way.
That’s how you ended up still wearing your date outfit — burgundy dress, black heels — on a grimy frat couch, completely out of place in the chaos of the house. But right now, you didn’t care.
The bass thumped through the house hard enough to rattle the walls, music vibrating through the floorboards. The air was thick with sweat, perfume, and cheap alcohol. Out in the yard, a small group lingered in the glow of porch lights, passing a blunt between them and laughing too loudly. Satoru stood near the kitchen island, effortlessly charming two girls at once, his grin bright and shameless, while across the dance floor Toji had a girl pressed flush against him, moving in a way that made it very clear neither of them cared who was watching.
Suguru sat beside you, arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders. His thumb traced slow, absentminded patterns along your arm while he held his cup in the other hand, occasionally bringing it to your lips so you could take a sip.
You leaned into him slightly.
He leaned back into the couch, gaze lazily fixed on you, pretending he wasn’t studying every expression on your face.
“He was barely taller than me,” you complained, arms crossing. “And in the same sentence he claimed he was 6’1.”
Suguru brought the cup closer to your mouth again. You took a sip.
“That sucks, sweetheart,” he murmured, rubbing your arm soothingly.
“He wore this stupid expensive watch and could not stop talking about it. I swear I just sat through a forty-five minute TED Talk about watches.”
You let your head fall back lightly against his chest.
His heartbeat picked up immediately.
Your perfume. The warmth of your body. The way you looked — dressed up for some idiot who didn’t deserve it.
He kept his expression neutral. Secretly, he was relieved it had gone badly.
“And then,” you continued dramatically, “he showed me his stock portfolio. And then not even his car — the car he’s planning to buy after college. Like that’s supposed to impress me.”
“Business major?” Suguru asked knowingly.
“Ugh. He was.” You groaned into your hands. Hands completely covering your face now.
He chuckled quietly, then set his drink down and gently grabbed both of your wrists with one hand, pulling them away from where you’d buried your face.
You reached for his cup instead and took a long drink before handing it back to him.
“I don’t get it,” you sighed. “I think I’m cursed when it comes to men.”
His jaw tightened slightly at that.
“Or,” he said calmly, “your taste is just terrible.”
You shot him a look. He smirked faintly. “Good thing I could fix that for you.”
You chuckled and nudged him lightly with your shoulder. For once, you didn’t follow it up with a snarky comment or a casual rejection. You just laughed. And he hated how much that did to him.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a laugh. Just you relaxing around him for once. But something warm and unfamiliar twisted low in his stomach. Maybe turning this into a challenge hadn’t been his smartest idea. Because somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like one. He told himself it was still about the chase. About winning. About proving that even you would fold for him eventually.
But hope had started to creep in. And that was dangerous. “Wouldn’t that just make you one of my bad decisions?” you asked, tilting your head up at him.
His eyes were already on you.
“You think I’d treat you like that?” he asked, and for once there wasn’t much teasing in it. There was something almost earnest there, like he genuinely needed to know.
“You want me to be honest?” you chuckled lightly.
“Depends,” he said, though his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be.
You studied him for a second.
“I think some bad decisions could be worth it.”
His breath caught before he could hide it. For a split second, his composure cracked — eyes widening just slightly, jaw tightening like he was processing what you had just given him.
Worth it.
His heart was pounding in his throat now, loud enough that he was sure you could feel it through his chest.
His hand on your shoulder tightened slightly, pulling you closer without him fully realizing he was doing it. Your gazes didn’t break — not once. Slowly, his free hand slid down to your wrist. He lifted it carefully, like it was something fragile.
His lips brushed against the pulse point there — soft, lingering just long enough for you to feel the warmth of it.
Then higher, to the center of your palm. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t showy. It was deliberate. He looked back up at you. The music in the other room felt distant now. The world narrowing to the space between you.
“You won’t regret me,” he said quietly.
At first, the kiss was soft — exploring, tentative. But as it went on, it took on a life of its own. His tongue flicked against your lower lip, seeking entrance. When your mouth opened for him, he pressed closer, his body fitting against yours.
The kiss grew more urgent, more demanding. His hand left your cheek and tangled in your hair, pulling you even closer. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his body pressed against yours without an inch to spare. And the sounds he made — low, almost desperate — sent a shiver down your spine.
His mouth left yours, trailing hot kisses down your jawline, to the spot where your pulse thundered in your throat. You felt him smirk against your neck — he knew what he was doing to you.
“Wanna go?” he murmured against your neck, his breath hot where your pulse fluttered.
You nodded eagerly. he was already on his feet.
Your hand stayed in his as he pulled you up with him, fingers tight around your wrist as he led you through the crowd and up the stairs. The music downstairs faded with every step, replaced by the sound of your own breathing and the rush of blood in your ears.
The second you stepped into his room, the door shut behind you with a heavy click.
He didn’t waste time.
His hands gripped your waist firmly, pulling you closer as his mouth crashed back onto yours. Tongues tangled languid and heated– exploring each other with deliberate strokes.
You toed off your heels with a quick kick, the clatter lost in the thrum of music drifting up from downstairs. His fingers found the zipper of your dress, tugging it down slowly.
The fabric loosened, slipping around your shoulders like a whisper of surrender. "Let me make you feel good," he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough, pulling back just enough for the words to sink in.
"I'll show you what your previous ones couldn't." His hands slid the straps down your arms, the dress pooling at your feet in a silken heap, leaving you exposed in nothing but your lingerie—lace clinging to your skin, a fragile barrier.
His mouth claimed yours again, the wet smacks of kisses echoing in the room, mingling with the bass-heavy rhythm from below. Both hands cupped the underside of your ass, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs hooked around his hips, and he carried you like that, devouring your mouth as if it were the last kiss he'd ever steal—deep, insistent, stealing your breath.
He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, settling you on his lap. One hand traced the curve of your waist, skin warm under his palm, before dipping lower to toy with the delicate lace of your panties.
His fingers lingered, teasing the edge, brushing close enough to make you ache. Then he slipped inside, parting your folds with a confident stroke. His thumb circled your clit in slow, firm circles while two fingers curled into you, pressing against that sensitive spot deep within. The stretch was perfect, building friction with each deliberate thrust—curling, twisting, scissoring to stretch you open. "This okay?" he asked, voice a husky murmur, smirking as he watched your face twist in pleasure.
"Must feel good, huh?"
You could only nod, breath hitching as he ramped up the pace, fingers pumping faster, thumb relentless on your clit. He leaned in, capturing your mouth briefly before his lips trailed to your neck, nipping at the skin. With his free hand, he reached behind you, unhooking your bra in one smooth motion. The lace fell away, and he palmed your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples, rolling them until they peaked hard under his touch.
Your whimpers filled the air, soft and desperate, and he groaned low, his cock twitching harder against your thigh. It had been straining against his pants since you kissed him back, thick and insistent, your sounds only adding to it.
Pressure coiled tight in your core, his fingers relentless, curling just right to hit that spot over and over. Your body arched, thighs trembling around him as the wave crested. A burst of colors exploded behind your closed eyelids—an orgasm ripping through you, fierce and shattering, the kind you hadn't felt in ages. Your walls clenched around his fingers, pulsing as you came undone, slick coating his hand.
You panted, chest heaving, but he was there instantly, mouth sealing over yours, swallowing your gasps like they were his to claim. You tried to kiss back, lips clumsy against his, but the aftershocks still quaked through you, leaving you boneless.
"Need a moment?" He leaned back onto the bed, propping himself on his elbows, biceps bulging against the fabric of his shirt, veins standing out in sharp relief.
The haze cleared just enough, and you slid off his lap, dropping to your knees on the cool hardwood floor. The chill bit into your skin, grounding you.
"You don't have to," he said, thumb brushing your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.
"Let me give you something back," you whispered, hands already at his belt, fumbling with the buckle in your eagerness. Your fingers shook, haste making them clumsy.
"Calm down, sweetheart," he chuckled, the sound dark and fond, his hand covering yours to steady it, unfastening the belt and popping the button with ease.
His cock sprang free as you tugged his pants down, thicker and longer than any you'd known before—heavy, veined, the tip already glistening with precum. You wrapped your hand around the base, stroking once, twice, before leaning in to swirl your tongue around the head, tasting him on your tongue.
He hissed, fingers threading into your hair as you took him deeper, lips stretching around his girth. You bobbed slowly at first, hollowing your cheeks, tongue pressing flat along the underside as you sucked. Saliva slicked him, your hand twisting in tandem with your mouth, working him with eager pulls.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned, hips bucking slightly. "So proud of you, taking me like this. My sweet girl." His praise washed over you, spurring you on, but just as his breaths grew ragged, his grip tightened in your hair.
He pulled you off with a wet pop, right before he could tip over the edge. "Not yet," he rasped, eyes dark with intent. "I want to be inside you when I come."
In one fluid motion, he shrugged off his shirt, revealing his muscular chest and abs. Then he scooped you up from the floor like you were weightless, manhandling you onto the bed. He flipped you flat on your stomach, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settled behind you. His cock pressed hot and heavy against your ass.
"Sugu," you moaned, voice muffled against the sheets, body arching back in desperate invitation.
He didn't make you wait. Lining up, he thrust in deep, filling you in one smooth stroke. The prone position let him grind against you, cock dragging along your walls with every snap of his hips.
His hands roamed—one sliding up to cover your mouth, fingers pressing against your lips, "Open," he commanded softly, and you did, sucking on his fingers as he fucked into you harder, the wet sounds of skin meeting skin filling the room.
"Bet you've never felt this good, huh?" he groaned against your ear, pace unrelenting. "You're so gorgeous like this.”
“How does my cock feel? Come on, tell me."
You could barely form words, pleasure overwhelming you—mewling around his fingers, body rocking with each thrust. It felt too good, too full, his dirty words stoking the fire higher.
But after a few minutes, he slowed, a frustrated huff escaping him. This position—it wasn't hitting right– not like he thought it would. He usually stuck to from behind, keeping emotional distance, but now... He pulled out fully, the sudden emptiness making you whine.
Grabbing your waist, he flipped you onto your back with effortless strength, manhandling you again, your legs splaying open. His cock looked even harder, flushed and straining as he positioned himself between your thighs.
"Fuck, needed to see you," he muttered, slamming back inside, the angle deeper, hitting new spots that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"Want to see your pretty face." His hand found your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he drove into you, mouth descending to yours in a messy, claiming kiss.
The combination shattered you—his cock stretching you, thumb working your clit, lips bruising yours. Tension snapped like a wire, your orgasm crashing over you, walls fluttering around him as you cried out into his mouth.
"I'm right behind you," he panted, thrusts erratic now, chasing his release. With a final, deep grind, he came, spilling hot inside you, body shuddering. "My pretty girl," he whispered, voice wrecked. "So pretty just for me."
You both rode out the waves, breaths mingling as he collapsed beside you, pulling you close. The high faded slowly, but even as warmth lingered, his thoughts lingered.
He had broken two of his rules to get you into his bed. No kissing. No face-to-face. Both gone. And he had hopefully broken your man-curse.
This was supposed to be simple. A challenge. A bruised ego that needed repairing. A girl who had rejected him and needed proving wrong. That’s what he had told himself from the beginning. That he was chasing the thrill, not you.
But somewhere between kissing you and needing to see your face, something shifted. He had never needed that before — never cared about eye contact, never cared about expressions. It had always been easier that way. Detached. Controlled.
With you, it hadn’t been controlled at all. He wanted to see you. Needed to. Needed your face in front of him like proof that this wasn’t just another meaningless night.
And that realization unsettled him more than anything. He liked you. Not because you rejected him. Not because his pride had taken a hit. Not because he had something to prove. He just liked you.
Still, even as that truth pressed against his ribs, he tried to smother it. This is why you don’t kiss. This is why you don’t do face-to-face. It complicates things. It makes it real.
You were just a challenge– a bet he had made with himself. So why did something twist painfully in his chest when he saw you slipping out of his bed?
You moved quietly, gathering your dress from the floor, smoothing it down like you were preparing to step back into your own world.
His hand reached out before he could stop himself, fingers closing gently around yours.
“Where are you going?” he asked, and the softness in his voice surprised even him.
You glanced over your shoulder at him with a faint, knowing smile.
“Thought you had rules,” you said lightly. “No staying over, and all that”
His thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles. Instead of letting go, he lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a slow kiss against your skin.
He tugged you back toward him, and you fell against his chest, your body fitting against his like it had earlier. “I don’t think those rules really matter when it comes to you,” he admitted quietly.
He leaned in, pressing slow, unhurried kisses along your cheek, your jaw, your temple. There was no rush this time. When he reached your mouth, he paused, studying you for a second before kissing you softly. “Rules don’t apply to you,” he murmured against your lips.
You smiled despite yourself. The rational part of you knew better. It told you he probably said similar things before, that this was just another smooth line delivered in the afterglow.
But the part of you still tangled up in him, warm and softened and wanting to believe, chose not to argue.
“Besides. I'm not done with you”
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
You and Suguru had settled into something dangerously undefined in the six weeks you’d been seeing each other.
Not official. Not casual.
If he wasn’t at your apartment, you were at the frat. There was barely a day you didn’t see him. He still walked you home almost every evening like it was routine, like it had always been his place beside you. But now it didn’t end at your door.
Now he’d stop halfway down the street and say, “You studied for hours. That deserves food.”
He called it a reward. He always paid. And when you’d protest — because you always did — he’d just shrug with that lazy grin of his. “You already do enough for me,” he’d say lightly when you would try to pay him back. And without fail it would always send a wave of heat within you.
And it turned out you weren’t cursed when it came to men. The men before had only cared about themselves. Suguru had proven that wasn’t a universal rule.
Your things had started to mix with his. Your apartment was slowly overtaken by his hoodies, sweatpants, jackets, a toothbrush he’d left behind and never taken back. But his room wasn’t much better. Duplicates of your skincare products lined his sink because he “wanted you to feel at home.” Your panties mixed into his laundry. Your perfume soaked into his sheets.
It was a challenge for Suguru at first, but that feelings were quickly replaced by something real– feelings? love?
You were tucked away in the library now, headphones snug over your ears, soft music humming in the background as you tried to focus on your textbook. Four hours of studying had drained you, and nothing new was sticking.
With a quiet sigh, you packed up your bag and started weaving between the shelves toward the exit. That’s when you heard it. “Have you seen Suguru and his girl?”
Satoru. You recognized his voice. Too loud for the library. You slowed instinctively. “Looks like he’s finally mature enough to have a girlfriend. Finally done with the ‘I have rules’ bullshit,” Satoru added, amused.
“Yeah, right,” another voice responded. Sukuna his voice.
You couldn’t see them clearly from where you stood, just shapes a few shelves away. You should’ve walked away. You didn’t. “Remember what he said?” Sukuna continued.
Satoru sounded confused. “What?”
“His ego got dented when she rejected him at that first party she showed. Said it was a challenge for him. Wanted to see how long it’d take for her to give in.”
The words hit before you could brace for them. Your heart dropped. The air felt thin.
“Oh,” Satoru muttered after a beat. “I feel bad for her. She’d be good for him.”
“She would,” Sukuna said. “Too bad he’s… him.”
Your vision blurred before you even realized tears had gathered.
Challenge.
The word echoed louder than anything else.
All the late nights. The borrowed hoodies. The way he’d said rules didn’t apply to you. Your stomach twisted violently. You didn’t wait to hear more. Your legs moved on their own, carrying you down the aisle and out of the library before your brain could catch up.
You were supposed to go to him today. You couldn’t. If Satoru and Sukuna knew, how many others did? How many people had watched you and thought you were just part of some ego game? The humiliation burned hotter than the hurt.
By the time you stepped outside, tears were already spilling freely down your face. You walked fast, almost blindly, ignoring the strange looks from people passing by.
You didn’t care. You just needed to get home.
You got home after what felt like eternity, and let your bag drop by the door. Your apartment felt different now. Smaller. Louder with memories.
Every corner held him. The couch where he’d pull you into his side. The kitchen where he slow danced with you at 4:00am after a rager. The bed where he made love to you multiple times. The faint trace of his cologne still lingering in the air like it refused to leave.
You walked to your closet to grab pajamas. It was littered with his stupid hoodies and shirts. You’d stolen them absentmindedly over the weeks, and he’d never asked for them back.
You pulled one down. Even after sitting in your closet for days, it still smelled like him. Ridiculous. Your throat tightened again. You changed slowly, forcing yourself to breathe, pushing the tears away with the heel of your hand. But the second you lay down on your bed, it all came rushing back.
Challenge. You were just a challenge to him
The words echoed over and over. Apparently that’s all you were. A dented ego. A game. A timer he had started the moment you rejected him. Your mascara smudged against the pillow, but you didn’t bother fixing it. You were too embarrassed. Too humiliated.
How many people knew? How many had watched you walk into that frat house nearly everyday while they secretly pitied you. The room blurred. You cried until exhaustion dragged you under.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
When you woke up hours later, the apartment was dim. Your face felt tight, puffy. You reached for your phone. Notifications flooded your screen.
Seven missed calls.
Twelve messages.
All from Suguru. Right. You were supposed to go over after the library. Your chest twisted. You dropped the phone back onto the mattress like it burned.
In the kitchen, you opened the fridge and stared at it without seeing anything. There was food. Plenty of it. You just weren’t hungry. Your stomach felt full of something heavier. Regret. Shame. Hurt. You closed the fridge and went back to your room, curling in on yourself again.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru stood outside your lecture hall the next morning, scanning the crowd. You weren’t there. He checked his phone again. Still nothing. That wasn’t like you. You always texted back. Always.
He sent another message.
Then another.
Then called. This time it went straight to voicemail. You declined him?
Something cold slid down his spine. Had he done something? He replayed the last few days in his head, searching for a misstep.
Nothing made sense.
Within minutes he was outside your apartment, slightly out of breath from walking too fast. His heart pounded harder than it should have.
He knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
His jaw tightened as he knocked a third time, more urgently.
The door finally opened while you stood half-hidden behind it. Your eyes swollen. Skin blotchy. Dark circles under your lashes. It hit him like a punch.
“Sweetheart—” He stepped forward instinctively, but you shook your head. “Don’t,” you whispered.
His chest tightened immediately. “What’s wrong?” he asked, voice softer than he meant it to be.
“I’m not feeling well,” you said. The lie was obvious. Being sick might explain missing class. It didn’t explain the puffy eyes.
“Let me take care of you,” he said quickly. There was uncertainty in his voice now. Fear, almost.
“I’m fine.”
You started to close the door, but his hand caught it gently. Your eyes lifted to him again. God. The sight of you like this hurt more than he expected.
“Sweetheart, please,” he said quietly. There was no cockiness left. No smirk. No lazy grin. Just concern.
“No,” you said, firmer now. “I said I’m fine.” There was bite in your voice this time. He hesitated. But then slowly stepped back.
His hand dropped to his side and the door closed. And he stood there, staring at it, something unfamiliar and heavy settling in his chest.
He knew it now. You were mad at him.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru tried everything. For two weeks straight, he showed up at your door.
Sometimes you didn’t open it at all. Sometimes you did. And every single time, his heart climbed into his throat. The seconds between knocking and hearing the lock turn felt unbearable. A mix of dread and hope twisted together in his chest. Relief when you opened it. A selfish flicker of happiness just from seeing you.
And then the guilt.
Because every time you stood there, you looked a little more tired. A little more guarded. Like something inside you had dimmed. It was subtle to anyone else but not to him.
Your eyes didn’t light up when you saw him anymore. You didn’t lean into the doorway. You didn’t tease him. You didn’t call him Sugu.
He stood in front of your door with coffee from your favorite place and the sandwich you always ordered. It was early, but he knew you’d be awake by now. He had gotten up earlier than usual just to make sure he got it before the morning rush.
It took a while before the door opened. When it did, you looked the same as the night before. Puffy eyes. Skin slightly blotchy. A fragile kind of tiredness that made his chest tighten.
“How are you feeling?” he asked carefully, like speaking too loudly might break you. “Fine,” you said again, your voice still rough from sleep.
“I got you breakfast,” he added, holding up the cup and the small paper bag. He tried to smile, but it felt wrong when you didn’t mirror it. You took the food from his hands.
“Thank you,” you said politely. The door closed before he could say anything else.
You didn’t eat it. You couldn’t. The sandwich stayed untouched in the fridge. You took a few sips of the coffee, but even that tasted wrong.
The next day he showed up again, this time closer to evening. You still opened the door for him. That alone gave him a flicker of hope. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly.
Your eye bags were lighter, but the tiredness hadn’t left. Your lashes looked heavy, your nose faintly red like you’d been crying recently. He noticed. He didn’t mention it, he didn't want to push it.
“Dinner from your favorite place,” he said, lifting the bag slightly. You hesitated before taking it.
“Thank you.” The door closed again. More firmly this time.
The day after that, he tried something different. Maybe it wasn’t about food. Maybe it was about effort.
It was noon. You didn’t have lectures. He stood outside your door with a bouquet of your favorite flowers tucked under his arm. He raised his hand to knock. The door opened before he could.
You startled slightly when you saw him there. You were dressed to leave — skirt, sweater, jacket, scarf wrapped around your neck. You looked put together.
Beautiful.
But the dullness in your eyes was impossible to miss. The spark that used to be there when you looked at him wasn’t there.
“Hi,” he said quietly. It felt strange standing this close to you again.
“Hi,” you replied.
“Going somewhere?”
“grocery store.” A lie. Your fridge and pantry were still stocked. You just needed some air.
“Ah,” he said, holding out the bouquet. “These are for you,” He watched your face carefully, searching for anything — softness, annoyance, something.
You took them. “Suguru, please stop doing this.” The flowers rested against your chest.
“Doing what?” he asked, though his voice was tighter now.
“Whatever this is. Stop wasting your money.”
You stepped back into the apartment and walked toward the kitchen. He half expected you to throw them in the trash. Instead, you grabbed a vase and placed them inside. Careful.
That hurt more.
He stepped inside slowly, unsure if he was overstepping. You returned to the doorway and stood there, leaving a respectful distance between you. Too much distance.
He took a step closer. You took one back.
His heart shattered.
“Please tell me what’s going on.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Not angry. Not screaming. Just tired.
“Did you win?” Your voice was steady. Cold. But your eyes betrayed you — glossy with tears you were trying very hard not to let fall. He frowned slightly. “What are you—”
“The challenge,” you cut in, your hands sliding into the pockets of your jacket like you needed something to hold onto. “Did you win the challenge?”
You said it clearer this time. Slower. His stomach dropped.
It had started as something stupid. A careless comment. An ego he didn’t know how to soothe when you rejected him. He had never been rejected before. Not like that. Not calmly. Not without you even flinching. You had unsettled him. And instead of admitting that, he’d turned it into a game. A challenge. Something to conquer. He had said it drunk once. Careless. Laughing it off in front of people who didn’t matter. But somewhere between chasing you and actually knowing you, it had stopped being about pride.
It had become something else. Something he hadn’t planned on. You leaned back against the counter, watching his expression carefully — the shock, the dawning realization.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.
“That’s what matters to you?” you scoffed, pushing yourself off the counter. You walked toward the door.
A bitter laugh slipping out before you could stop it. One tear finally escaped, sliding down your cheek. He moved before thinking, his hand closing gently but firmly around your wrist.
You didn’t turn around.
“It started out that way,” he admitted. The words felt heavy coming out. “But it didn’t stay that way.” Silence filled the space between you.
“The first time you rejected me, at that party” he continued quietly, “I didn’t know how to handle it. I’ve never been told no like that. You left me feeling… off. And instead of dealing with that like an adult, I said something stupid to my friends.”
He stepped closer. You didn’t pull away this time.
“But when I got closer to you— when I realized I actually wanted to get closer to you… not to win, not to prove anything, but because I wanted you—” His composure held, but his voice cracked just slightly. “That’s when it stopped being a challenge.”
You finally turned your head just enough for him to see your profile. “How does that fix anything?” you asked quietly.
Your eyes were glossy now, tears threatening to spill, but you refused to let them fall again. You stood straighter, trying to hold yourself together. He saw through it immediately. And it broke him.
“I can’t fix how it started,” he said, voice low, steady but strained. “I can’t erase what I said. I can’t pretend I didn’t humiliate you.”
For a second, he just looked at you.
Then, before he could overthink it, he let go of your wrist — only to drop down in front of you.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just… down. Both knees hit the floor. You blinked in shock.
“Suguru—”
He took your hands in his before you could pull away, holding them gently, like he was afraid they’d disappear.
“I can’t change the past,” he said, looking up at you now. No smirk. No ego. No control. “But I can change what I do next.”
Your breathing faltered.
“I don’t want to win you,” he continued. “I want to deserve you.”
His thumbs brushed lightly over your knuckles.
“It started stupid. It started with my pride. But after everything. it stopped being about proving anything.” His jaw tightened slightly. “You weren’t a game to me. You weren’t something to conquer. You were the first person who made me want to stay.”
That word hung heavy between you.
Stay.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he added, quieter now. “And I don’t expect you to believe me just because I’m here.” His grip softened.
“But I’m not getting up until you understand that you were never just a challenge.”
Your fingers threaded through his hair, the movement so natural it felt like second nature. When your lips met his, he inhaled sharply, the sound almost a gasp. Your touch was soft, the kiss gentle but filled with longing.
His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into the kiss, his hand coming up to cradle your face. He held you like you were something precious, something fragile.
As you broke away, he looked up at you, his expression vulnerable.
“Stand up," you ordered, voice sharp like shattered glass, cutting through the heavy silence of the kitchen. He rose slowly, eyes locked on yours,
You pushed up on your tiptoes, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was more punishment than passion—fierce, biting, a reminder of the hurt you carried. Pulling back just enough, your breath ghosted over his mouth. "I'm still mad at you."
Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly, not in affection but in the raw need to anchor yourself to something, anything, amid the ache in your chest. "That's okay," he murmured, voice breaking just a fraction as he leaned in, capturing your lips again.
His hands found your hips, shoving you back against the counter, the cold marble slamming into your spine like a slap. It stole your breath, the chill seeping through your shirt. He broke away for a heartbeat, eyes dark and pleading. "Take it out on me."
Your hands fisted the collar of his jacket, yanking him with you as you backed toward the bedroom, the hallway blurring in your periphery. He followed without resistance, letting you lead, letting you use him like a weapon against your own pain–something he caused.
In the dim light of the bedroom, you shoved him down onto the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You climbed onto his lap seconds later, straddling him, your skirt riding up your thighs. His hands hovered at your sides, hesitant, waiting for your cue. "Tell me what you need," he said, voice thick with desire, eyes burning into yours like he was memorizing every fractured line of your face.
"Touch me," you replied, the words vague, laced with the numbness you wielded like armor. But he knew. God, he always knew.
In a swift move, he flipped your positions, pinning you beneath him on the bed. The shift stole the air from your lungs, his body heavy and warm over yours, a stark contrast to the ache inside. His hands slid down, hooking into the waistband of your skirt and panties, dragging them off in one rough pull. Leaving you bare and exposed for him.
His fingers parted your thighs, tracing the slick between them before diving in. One digit slipped inside you first, slow and deliberate, testing your readiness despite the tension coiling in the room.
You were wet—traitorously so—your body responding even as your heart screamed no. He added a second finger, curling them deep, pressing against that spot that made your hips buck involuntarily. His thumb found your clit, rubbing in firm, insistent circles, building the pressure with each thrust of his hand.
The wet sounds of his fingers working you filled the space, obscene against the quiet sobs building in your throat.
He watched you, unblinking, as your breaths turned ragged, your walls clenching around him. "Let go," he whispered, voice raw, like he was begging for absolution.
The coil snapped, pleasure ripping through you in a violent wave—your orgasm crashing hard, leaving you trembling and spent. Tears welled up, spilling hot down your cheeks, not from bliss but from the pain he gave you, the reminder of what he had done to you. You cried softly, the sound muffled against his shoulder as he held you through it, his touch gentling but never pulling away.
He kissed the tears from your skin, murmuring your name like a prayer, but you turned your face away, the intimacy too much, too raw. When the haze cleared enough, you shifted, rolling onto your stomach, presenting your back to him—a wall he couldn't breach. He paused, hands stilling on your hips. "Why are you turning around?" His voice cracked a little, laced with confusion, the question hanging heavy in the air.
"Don't wanna see you right now," you said, the words heartless, slicing through him like a blade. You heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the way his grip faltered for a second, his heart shattering audibly in the silence. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. Positioning himself behind you, he freed his cock—hard, aching, a testament to how deeply he still craved you, even in ruin.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you with a stretch that bordered on pain, your body yielding despite the emotional chasm. He moaned your name, voice breaking on each syllable as he began to move, thrusts deep and measured, grinding against you from behind. "I missed you so much. Fuck, I missed you–." His words were a litany, desperate pleas wrapped in groans, his hips snapping harder as if he could fuck the distance away.
You bit the pillow, stifling the moans that threatened to betray you, the pleasure building traitorously even as tears soaked the fabric. He reached around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in time with his pace, drawing you under despite yourself. Your body clenched around him, the orgasm pulling you apart—waves of heat pulsing through you, leaving you gasping, spent once more. He followed seconds later, spilling inside you with a broken groan of your name, his release hot and claiming, body shuddering as he collapsed over you.
He always came with you, your body the one thing that could still unravel him completely. But the warmth faded fast. He barely caught his breath, chest heaving against your back, before you were shoving him off, scrambling out of the bed. The sheets tangled around your ankles as you snatched your discarded clothes, pulling them on with frantic hands.
"I have to go," you said coldly, the fleeting spark of vulnerability from moments ago snuffed out like a dying ember. You didn't look at him, couldn't bear the devastation in his eyes. "Please leave as soon as you can."
The words landed like a final blow, the door clicking shut behind you as you fled to the bathroom, leaving him alone in the wreckage of the bed, heart in pieces on the floor.
To your surprise, when you stepped out of the bathroom, Suguru was gone. For a second, you just stood there, staring at the empty space where he had been. You had expected him to still be there. Leaning against the wall. Waiting. Stubborn.
A part of you had wanted him to stay. You just didn't want him to see you fall apart again. During Sex? a little embarrassing but could just be from the pleasure. But afterwards?
You needed a distraction. And he was right there. But now the silence felt heavier.
The tears came again, hot and uncontrollable. You didn’t bother wiping them away this time. You let them fall as you changed back into your clothes, hands trembling slightly as you pulled your sweater over your head.
You didn’t crawl into bed.
Instead, you slid down beside it, sitting on the cold floor with your back against the frame. Your knees pulled tightly to your chest, arms wrapped around them like you were trying to hold yourself together.
You missed him. That was the worst part. Not the humiliation. Not the anger. The missing. Because after he made a joke out of you and your self-respect, you still missed him.
His words replayed in your head.
It started that way, but it didn’t stay that way.
You didn’t know if you were strong enough to believe.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru was a wreck.
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. The dark circles under his eyes were deeper than they had been when he’d stood outside your door. His room was quiet, but his mind wasn’t.
It felt like he was already halfway to completely losing you.
You had gone cold. You stopped replying the way you used to. No calls. No lingering touches. No softness in your voice. And the worst part was that just a few days ago, he’d thought things were finally going well.
You had let him into your space. You had kissed him. You had sex with him. And then you’d looked at him with those same eyes and said you didn’t want to see him when he fucked you. When you told him to leave, he felt something in his chest physically crack.
A knock sounded at his door. He didn’t move. “Come in,” he called out, his voice rougher than usual. Satoru pushed the door open without hesitation. “You missed the meeting today.”
Right. The fraternity council meeting. It had completely slipped his mind. Then again, everything had slipped his mind lately. The only thing replaying on a loop was the way you had looked at him when you said he needed to leave.
“Sorry. Forgot,” he muttered, still staring at the floor.
Satoru raised a brow and walked further into the room before dropping down beside him on the bed.
“What’s up with you?” he asked, nudging Suguru lightly with his elbow, trying to keep it casual.
Suguru turned his head slightly.
The dullness in his eyes, the exhaustion etched into his face, the way his hair hung loose around his shoulders — it was enough to wipe the grin off Satoru’s face. Suguru looked forward again, jaw tightening.
“She found out.” That was all he said. Satoru didn’t need more context.
“I’ve been trying to fix it for two weeks,” Suguru continued, his voice quieter. “I thought I was getting somewhere.” He stopped there, but the strain was obvious. Satoru leaned back slightly. “What happened?”
“She let me in,” Suguru said. “She let me into her apartment. She kissed me. We had sex. And then she told me she couldn’t look at me when i was fucking her. Said she didn’t want to see me.”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “And then she made me leave.”
Satoru tilted his head. “Isn’t that usually your thing?”
Suguru let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah. It was.”
The old him would have shrugged it off. No strings, no expectations. A girl walking away first would’ve been convenient. But this wasn’t convenient. “I don’t want that with her,” he said quietly. “I don’t want it to be casual. She’s not like the others.”
Satoru studied him for a moment before placing a hand on his back. “Then tell her that.”
“I did.”
“Then tell her again,” Satoru replied simply. “And again. Until she believes you. You don’t get to mess something up like that and expect one confession to fix it.”
Suguru frowned.
“You hurt her pride,” Satoru continued. “You made her feel like a joke. That doesn’t disappear because you look miserable.”
Suguru’s jaw clenched.
“So what do I do?”
“Show up. Not to win her. Not to convince her. Just show up because you want to be with her. "Be consistent." Satoru said while he gave Suguru a pat on his shoulder.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
A month had passed. Almost every single day, he showed up at your doorstep and would walk you to school or the library.
At first, it was awkward. You would put your headphones in and walk a step ahead of him, pretending he wasn’t there. But he didn’t complain. He was just grateful you hadn’t told him to leave.
After a while, the headphones disappeared.
You still weren’t chatty like you used to be. Conversations were short, polite. “Hi.” “How are you?” “Good.” But even that felt like progress. Hearing your voice again felt like something he didn’t deserve but desperately needed.
He felt like he was starting over. Now he carried the weight of every silence, wishing he could go back to one stupid drunken comment and erase it from existence.
Two weeks in, you spoke to him first.
Just a question about class. It was small, almost insignificant, but it felt like a door cracking open. After that, conversations came in fragments — short, cautious exchanges. He didn’t push. He took whatever you gave him.
His feelings didn’t fade with time. They worsened.
Every day you looked impossibly prettier to him. He found himself craving small things — the sound of your voice, the way your perfume lingered when you walked past him, even your soft smile that wasn't even directed at him but a stray cat lounging on the pavement.
After three weeks, it almost felt like before. You walked beside him instead of ahead. You talked about something dumb a professor said. You even laughed once. You were still guarded. He could feel it.
But he was a greedy man.
After four weeks, you let him wrap an arm around you once. Just once. He had to focus on breathing because his heart felt like it was trying to climb out of his throat.
And now, a full month had passed. He stood outside your apartment like he had every day before.
“Hey,” he said softly when you opened the door. You weren’t dressed for class. You were wearing a simple white dress and a jacket. Casual, but clearly not for studying. You looked beautiful.
“Suguru… it would be better if you didn’t walk me today,” you said, leaning against the doorframe.
Something uneasy stirred in his chest. His brows furrowed. “Why?”
You hesitated just a second. “I have a date.” The word hit him harder than he expected.
Date.
His mind went blank for half a second, like someone had cut the power. “What do you mean?” His voice came out softer than he intended.
“I’m going on a date,” you repeated.
He felt it then — panic. Not loud. Not explosive. Quiet and suffocating. Like something tightening around his lungs.
“Why?” he asked again, the question more raw this time.
“I thought it would be good for me to get back out there,” you replied.
Get back out there.
Like he was already something behind you. He stood there for a moment, unable to process it. He had known he wasn’t entitled to you. He had known you didn’t owe him anything. But hearing it felt like the ground shifting under his feet.
“Please don’t,” he said quietly. The air between you grew heavy. He wasn’t jealous in the old way. This wasn’t ego. It wasn’t competition. It was fear. Fear that he had taken too long. Fear that the progress he thought he’d made wasn’t enough. “Please don’t go,” he repeated, his voice unsteady now. You looked at him, unreadable.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me whether I can,” you said, crossing your arms. You were right. That made it worse. “I’m going to be late,” you added, pushing off the doorframe.
He moved without thinking, his hand landing on your shoulder. He stepped closer, gently pressing you back against the frame. Not rough. Not forceful. Just desperate.
His hand slid from your shoulder down to your hand, his fingers wrapping around yours.
“Please,” he said again. His eyes were glossy now, and he didn’t even try to hide it. “It took me too long to say this properly,” he continued, his voice cracking just slightly. “But I’m in love with you.”
The words hung between you, heavier than anything he’d said before. “I still want you,” he went on. “I still need you. This past month has been torture. Watching you walk ahead of me. Not knowing if you’d ever look at me the same again.”
He swallowed hard. “I don’t care about pride. I don’t care about being right. I just— I can’t watch you walk away like this.”
“I’m so sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t trust me,” he said, the words rushing out before he could stop them. His grip on your hand tightened slightly, not to hold you there, but like he needed something steady. “I would do anything to prove to you that you’re going to be it for me.”
“Suguru,” you said softly.
Your voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was tired.
A tear slipped free despite yourself, trailing down your cheek. His thumb came up instinctively, brushing gently beneath your eye to catch it before it fell further.
“Stop,” you whispered. But he shook his head slightly. “You’re the first girl I’ve ever wanted to prove myself to,” he said, his own eyes glassy now, his composure barely holding. “And I plan on you being the last.”
Your breath hitched, and that small sound almost broke him.
“I don’t want to win you,” he continued, his voice quieter now, steadier in its vulnerability. “I don’t want to chase you because my ego’s bruised. I want to choose you. Every day. Even if you don’t choose me back right now.”
“I want to be better for you,” he said. “I really do. Even if it takes the rest of my life to prove it.”
There was no cockiness left in him. No pride. Just something raw and honest sitting in his chest, waiting for your answer.
Your hand found his wrist and gently pushed it away from your face.
“I want to believe you,” you said, your voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. “But I don’t trust you.”
This time, you wiped your own tears away. He didn’t try to stop you.
“I felt used and stupid” you admitted, the word sticking in your throat. “Because of you.”
His expression shifted immediately, something wounded flashing across his face. “I never used you,” he said quickly. “And you’re not stupid.”
“But that’s how I felt.”
That landed. Hard.
It knocked the air from his lungs because he knew it was true. It didn’t matter what he meant. It mattered what you felt.
And he had done that.
He had let you fall for him while knowing how it started. He had kept that piece of truth tucked away because it was easier.
“Please,” he said quietly now. “Give me the chance to replace that feeling.”
He looked wrecked. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just… worn down. Like someone who hadn’t been sleeping properly. Like a man who knew he had messed up something precious and was terrified of losing it. His shoulders weren’t squared the way they usually were. His confidence wasn’t sitting on him the same.
“I’m scared, Suguru,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “I don’t ever want to feel like that again.”
His jaw tightened. “Then I won’t give you a reason to,” he said, almost immediately.
His hand rose slowly, carefully, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to. When you didn’t, his fingers slipped gently beneath your chin, tilting your face up just slightly. So gentle.
“Please,” he murmured. “Let me prove it.” There was no arrogance in him now. No ego. Just hope. And for the first time in weeks, you smiled at him. Small. Fragile. But real. The tight, suffocating feeling in his chest loosened instantly, like something had finally unclenched.
“I really don’t know what to do with you,” you said with a shaky chuckle, another tear slipping free. The sound of your laugh — even broken like that — made warmth spread through him. That faint sparkle in your eyes, the one he’d been missing for a month, flickered back to life.
And he realized he would spend the rest of his life protecting that sparkle if you let him. “Don’t make me regret this,” you whispered as you wrapped your arms around him.
For a second he just stood there, stunned. Then his arms came around you — firm, almost desperate — pulling you into his chest like he had been holding that hug in for weeks. His warmth surrounded you again, familiar and grounding, and something inside you finally unclenched.
He exhaled into your hair. When he pulled back, it was only enough to look at you. Your eyes met his. You rose onto your toes slowly, giving him more than enough time to move away if he wanted to. Instead, he stayed completely still.
You pressed the smallest kiss to his lips. Barely there. Soft. Careful.
It had been a month, but it felt like relearning something delicate. Testing if you still fit each other.
His breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
One of his hands came up to cradle your cheek, not guiding you, not pulling you closer — just resting there. Letting you know he wasn’t taking control this time.
You were. You kissed him again. Still soft. Still unsure. Like the two of you were introducing yourselves all over again.
When you tugged him gently inside and shut the door behind you, he followed without resistance. No urgency. No hunger.
Just closeness.
Your lips met his once more — slow, polite, almost shy. There was no claiming in it. No desperation.
Just warmth.
He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your skin. For a moment neither of you moved. It felt fragile — like one wrong step could undo the careful rebuilding of the past month.
You kissed him again. Soft. Intentional.
He followed your lead immediately, matching your pace, letting you set the rhythm. There was no urgency in him, no greedy pull of his hands. Just patience. Every time you shifted closer, he responded. Every time you slowed, he did too.
He wanted you to feel it — that you were in control.
His hands rested at your waist, steady but light, as if he was afraid of holding you too tightly. When your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, he let out a quiet breath against your lips.
Not rushed. Not claiming. Just there.
You tilted your head slightly, deepening the kiss by a fraction, and he followed without hesitation, his thumb brushing gently along your side in a slow, grounding motion. He wasn’t leading. He was responding. Learning you again.
When you pulled back just slightly, he didn’t chase your lips. He stayed close, his nose brushing yours, waiting.
He let himself be guided by your movements, his mouth moving softly against yours. His hands remained at your waist, his touch light but firm, anchoring you to him.
He was almost hesitant with the way he kissed you, like he was re-learning the shape of your lips, the touch of your tongue. Every movement was deliberate, every breath synchronized.
He was letting you set the pace, following your every whim, like your body had become his compass. And as your hands tangled in his long hair, drawing him closer, he went willingly.
Every sense was heightened — the taste of him, the way he smelled, the way he felt under your fingertips. It was intoxicating, the way he responded to your touch.
You pulled away from his lips, but only to wrap your arms around him again. Your hands slid around his neck, your cheek resting against his shoulder as if you needed to make sure he was real.
“I missed you,” he whispered, his voice low and almost disbelieving.
One hand stroked gently over your hair, slow and soothing, while the other traced absent patterns along your waist.
“Me too,” you replied softly. It was barely audible, but he heard it. He always did.
His arms tightened slightly around you, like he was afraid the words might disappear if he didn’t hold you close enough. Without rushing, he slipped one hand beneath your thigh and lifted you carefully. You instinctively wrapped your legs around him as he carried you toward your bedroom, steady and protective.
He set you down gently on the edge of the bed. Instead of climbing next to you, instead of escalating, he walked to your closet.
He pulled one of his hoodies from where it hung among your clothes and handed it to you.
“Change,” he said quietly. In his other hand were the sweatpants and shirt he’d left at your place weeks ago.
“I’ll change in the bathroom,” he added before stepping out.
When he returned, he was wearing gray sweatpants and the black shirt you loved on him— the one that made you stare a little too long whenever he wore it. The hoodie swallowed you the way it always did, sleeves falling past your hands, fabric bunching around your thighs.
You sat on the edge of the bed waiting for him.
You did actually have a date tonight.
But you hadn’t been excited about it. Not really. Shoko had pushed you to try. To move on. To protect yourself. But your thoughts stayed on Suguru.
And here you were, listening to Suguru like it was second nature. He placed his folded clothes neatly on your desk before turning back to you. Then, instead of climbing into bed, he knelt in front of you. Right at your feet.
His head rested gently against your knee.
“Wanna be with you today,” he said quietly. “Forget that date please. I just want it to be me and you.”
Your fingers slipped into his hair, guiding his face up slightly. Your thumb brushed over his cheek.
“Please don’t go,” he added, looking up at you — eyes soft, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see.
“I won’t,” you said. You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips — slow, certain.
Then you tugged at his hands, pulling him up with you. He let himself fall back onto you– his arms keeping from crushing you, both of you landing in a quiet tangle of limbs and fabric.
He pulled the blankets over you instinctively, wrapping them around the two of you like a shield from the outside world. For the first time in weeks, there was no tension. No fear. Just warmth. He held you close, your head tucked beneath his chin, your legs tangled together.
His heart felt full — steady, content. And this time, he wasn’t going anywhere.
The rest of the day blurred into something warm and quiet. You stayed in bed far longer than either of you meant to. At some point your phone buzzed again — the date calling, then texting, asking where you were.
Suguru reached over without hesitation, glanced at the screen, and blocked the number before you could even respond.
You blinked at him. “What?” he muttered defensively. “He doesn’t need an explanation.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.
Eventually you crawled out of bed, but Suguru followed immediately — wrapping himself around you and following behind you like an oversized puppy. you complained half-heartedly as you tried to move toward the kitchen.
“And yet you’re not pushing me away,” he replied, his chin resting on your shoulder.
You ended up making dinner while he hovered behind you, arms loosely around your waist, occasionally pressing a kiss to your shoulder or cheek. It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t heated.
It felt like he was afraid that if he let go for too long, the moment might disappear.
You ate at the small table in your kitchen, talking about mundane things — a professor’s weird habit, something stupid Satoru had said, a cat you saw earlier that week.
Halfway through a show on the couch, you noticed Suguru wasn’t even watching.
He was watching you.
When you caught him staring, he didn’t look away.
You fell asleep curled into him, his arm firm around your waist, your legs tangled together. The television kept playing long after neither of you were awake.
Morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the room. The TV screen displayed a quiet, glowing message:
Are you still watching?
Suguru was breathing steadily behind you, his chest rising and falling against your back.
You tried to gently shift out of his hold, wanting to brush your teeth and freshen up before he woke. His grip tightened instinctively. “Don’t go,” he murmured, still half asleep, his face nuzzling into your shoulder.
“I’m just going to the bathroom,” you whispered. He groaned softly but loosened his arms.
A few minutes later, as you stood at the sink, toothbrush in hand, you caught movement in the mirror.
Suguru was leaning in the doorway, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep.
He walked over without saying anything and reached for his toothbrush — still sitting in the cup beside yours.
He paused briefly, almost surprised it was still there. You hadn’t thrown it away. He didn’t comment on it. He just started brushing his teeth next to you.
The bathroom was quiet except for the soft sound of running water and the hum of the light above you. It felt strangely intimate — domestic in a way that didn’t require effort.
When you finished and set your toothbrush down, he immediately stepped closer again.
His front pressed gently against your back, arms slipping around your waist.
He rested his chin on your shoulder, eyes half closed.
You could feel it now, his hard-on pressing against your ass. He left a small kiss on your shoulder, before turning your chin gently to meet his gaze in the mirror. His eyes held yours, full of quiet intensity. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispered, voice low and earnest, giving you the space to breathe, to choose.
But you didn't want to stop. You leaned into him, your head tilted to his and he captured your lips in a deep kiss.
His hands slid up your sides, turning you around when he broke away for a second. He lifted you effortlessly onto the bathroom sink counter, the cool porcelain a sharp contrast to the heat of his body. Your legs parted instinctively, the kiss growing hungrier, tongues sliding together in slow, languid strokes.
His palms roamed your body without a word, one hand cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaked under his touch. The other hand traced the curve of your hip, dipping lower to squeeze your thigh, pulling you flush against him. You arched into his caresses, fingers threading through his long hair, tugging lightly as his mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, nipping softly. He kneaded your ass, grinding his erection against you through the fabric, the friction building a delicious ache. Your breaths mingled, heavy and uneven, bodies pressing and shifting in a wordless dance of rediscovery, his touches tender yet possessive, mapping every inch like he was afraid you'd vanish.
Finally, he broke the kiss just enough to scoop you up again, carrying you from the bathroom to the bed with ease. He laid you down gently on the soft sheets, his eyes never leaving yours as he hovered above.
Starting at your collarbone, he pressed a feather-light kiss there. He moved to your nipple, taking it into his mouth with a gentle suck, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud until you gasped, his mouth ghosted wet kisses across your stomach, each one a promise, leaving a trail of heat.
His hand was already between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He rubbed slow circles at first, coaxing slickness from you, before dipping lower to tease your entrance.
Then his head followed, settling between your legs. He licked a broad stripe up your folds, groaning against you as if savoring the taste. "You're so gorgeous," he murmured, voice muffled but fervent, before diving in fully—tongue lapping at your clit with frantic urgency, sucking gently as his fingers slid inside, curling to stroke that perfect spot.
"Missed you so much," he breathed between licks, the vibrations humming through you. His free hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as you writhed. "Never letting go of you again."
He sucked harder onto your clit, tongue swirling, drawing whimpers from your throat. "So sweet," he praised, fingers thrusting deeper, faster. "Let me spoil you—let me make it all better." The words spilled out in a rush. His mouth working you relentlessly until the pleasure washed over you, your body tensing and releasing in shuddering waves.
“Sugu” A soft cry on your lips.
He crawled back up, lips glistening, and kissed you deeply. You didn't care about the taste of yourself on his tongue—it was intimate, raw, a shared secret that made your heart swell.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as he positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open with a delicious burn that turned to fullness. You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed it, kissing you through the initial thrust, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm.
It was all soft moans and heavy breathing now, the room filled with the quiet sounds of skin meeting skin. He braced on his forearms, gazing down at you with eyes full of adoration, thrusts deep and unhurried, grinding against your clit with each pass. "My sweet girl," he whispered against your lips,
voice breaking with emotion. "I love you." He kissed your forehead, your cheeks blushing with each declaration. "I'm so in love with you." His pace quickened, but it stayed tender, loving.
"I'm all yours—always." He said through panting. You clung to him, nails digging into his back. Lost in the connection, the way he filled you completely, body and soul.
A few tears slipped from your eyes, A mix of overwhelming joy and the relief of being wanted so fiercely.
He noticed immediately, pausing to kiss them away, his lips soft on your damp cheeks. "I've got you." he murmured, nuzzling your nose with his
He shifted then, pulling back from your face to grab your leg, lifting it gently. He pressed a kiss to your calf, eyes locked on yours, before draping it over his shoulder. The new angle let him sink deeper, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, drawing gasps from you both.
The pleasure coiling tighter with each shared breath, each whispered endearment. Your walls fluttered around him, and he felt it, hips stuttering as he chased the edge with you. "Come with me," he breathed, voice husky, and you did—climax crashing over you in sweet, rolling waves, your body arching into his.
He followed right after, spilling deep inside with a muffled groan against your neck, holding you close as tremors shook you both.
His arms wrapping around you, peppering your face with lazy kisses as you came down, murmuring how much he loved you.
He stayed buried inside you for a moment longer, his chest heaving against yours in rhythm with your slowing breaths. His weight was a comforting anchor.
He lifted his head just enough to gaze into your eyes, a soft smile curving his lips. “So proud of you,” he whispered. He brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead with his thumb, then leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your temple.
Slowly, he eased out of you. “You did so well for me,” he murmured, his lips finding the shell of your ear. “My perfect girl.”
You melted into his touch, the praise wrapping around you warmer than the sheets tangled at your feet. He left you for a short while to come out of the bathroom with a warm damp towel.
With deliberate care, he began wiping you down, starting at your neck where sweat glistened on your skin. The cloth glided over your collarbone, tracing the swell of your breasts, circling each nipple until they pebbled again under the gentle friction. He paused to kiss the spot he'd just cleaned.
The cloth pressing tenderly between your thighs. Mindful of your sensitivity, his free arm holding you steady. “Look at you,” he said softly, eyes dark with lingering heat but softened by love.
“Still so beautiful, even after I wrecked you.” He kissed your shoulder, then your arm, working his way down to your wrist.
He tossed the cloth aside and gathered you closer, pulling the rumpled sheets over both of you. His body molded to yours from behind now, spooning you perfectly, one arm draped over your waist while the other pillowed your head. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling deeply.
Your eyelids grew heavy under the weight of his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling you. His hand splayed possessively over your stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles as sleep crept in. You drifted off, limbs entwined, hearts beating in sync—the world reduced to this moment.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru was waiting outside your lecture hall again. He still insisted on walking you everywhere. To class. To the café. Back home. Today, though, he didn’t turn toward your apartment. He turned toward the frat. You glanced at him but didn’t question it. He held your hand the whole way up the stairs, a little quieter than usual.
When you reached his room, he opened the door and then turned to you with a strange expression — somewhere between excited and terrified. “Stay here,” he said. “And close your eyes.”
You raised a brow. “Suguru—”
“Please.”
You sighed dramatically but shut your eyes anyway. You heard him moving around. Something fell over. A soft curse. Then the sound of plastic rustling. “Okay,” he said, a little breathless. “Open.”
You opened your eyes.
He was standing there holding a huge Chococat plushie and a bouquet of your favorite flowers. The plushie had a small tag tied around its neck.
You took a step closer, reading it.
Will you be my girlfriend?
Your lips parted in surprise before you let out a soft giggle.
“Sugu…”
You took the plushie from him first, then the bouquet. He looked almost painfully nervous — hands hovering like he didn’t know what to do with them.
It had only been a couple of months since you’d started seeing him again. Officially unofficial. Rebuilding. Healing.
And even though your anxiety had lingered in the beginning, even though some nights you still remembered the hurt — the way he treated you now didn’t feel like strategy. It felt like certainty. He looked at you like you were the only person in the room. Like you were the only person.
“Well?” he asked, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. You stepped forward, your hand sliding up to rest against the side of his neck. Instead of answering, you kissed him. Slow at first. Then a little deeper. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide.
“Is that a yes?” he asked, a nervous laugh slipping out. You nodded eagerly. Relief washed over his face so fast it was almost funny. He let out a breath he’d clearly been holding for the last thirty seconds — maybe the last month.
“You bought Chococat because I said you reminded me of him?” you teased, hugging the plush to your chest.
He nodded immediately.
“You said I had the same energy,” he defended. “You do,” you giggled.
He didn’t waste another second. He wrapped his arms around you, lifted you clean off the floor, and spun you around like he couldn’t contain himself.
“You’re officially my girlfriend,” he said, grinning like an idiot.
You laughed, clinging to him.
He set you down only to cup your face and press a firm, happy kiss to your lips.
“Won’t be long until you’re my wife,” he added, half-joking, half-not. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile.
tags: thréesome (obv), unprotected p in v, oral (m receiving), porn without plot, close friend dynamic between the two of them, abby degrades you, jinu is still a loser <3, singular instance of spanking
m.list
"don't stop moving, doll," abby groans from behind you, big hands groping the fat of your ass as he watches you grind on his cock. it's hypnotic how it slides out a little each time only to disappear again between your sopping folds. he spreads the skin gently, the new sensation making you whine around jinu's length.
he winces at the vibration in your sweet mouth, hips bucking reflexively. his hands held the back of your head in a vice-like grip, seemingly more to steady himself than to help you take him down your throat.
you met his eyes through your lashes, decorated with tears from trying to supress your gag reflex. you teased the back of his tip with your tongue, lust dripping from your gaze. he hissed through clenched teeth, need seeping through his stare. he but his lip, canines pinching into the flesh as his he threw his head back, rolling his hips into your mouth and making you take him deeper.
your hips moved languidly on abby's girth all the while, spelling their names and gently bouncing, but admittedly jinu's reactions had you a little... distracted. your slick walls fluttered around abby as your hips slowed, focus shifting to jinu's pleasure.
you gagged on jinu's thick cock, abby's sudden thrust jolting your body forward.
"s-shit baby- don' do that," jinu groaned, hand sliding through your hair. "throat squeezin' the shit outta me enough already."
which, of course, makes abby thrust into you harder, hips snapping up to meet yours and sending you lurching forward onto jinu's dick. it reaches new depths in your throat, your lips wrapped tight around the hilt and nose pushed into the soft skin of his groin.
"look at that, taking me so well," abby croons, thumb prying open your folds to see himself sink into you. with his other hand, he dips a finger in, your arousal connecting you two with strings when he pulls away. addressing jinu, he tries and fails to hide the groan in his voice. "should see how she's sucking me in. so sloppy too, made a mess on me like a fucking slut."
jinu tucks lose strands of hair behind your ear, hands traveling to your shoulders as you suck harder, tongue writing your name in playful licks on the underside of his throbbing length.
"nngh- hard to imagine it feels better than her -hah- mouth," he whines as you pull him out, suckling on his tip. you blink up at him innocently as you litter his shaft with sloppy kisses, tongue tracing his veins in thick stripes. he moans, pretty and broken, and you swear you can feel abby smirking behind you.
hands back on your ass, he slams your hips into his relentless thrusts, your hold on jinu's cock tightening as you try to stabilize yourself.
"fuck her throat. slutty girl's gonna make me cum soon-" he groans through gritted teeth. "fuck- that feels so good- won't be able to -hah- keep doin' what she's been doin',"
jinu looks like he's been hit by a train.
can he really do that??
fingers catch under your chin as he lifts your face to meet your eyes. your eyes are glossy, lips and chin messy with his precum and your own saliva.
you look so fucked out.
and so beautiful.
"'s that okay?" he asks, no, pleads– he sees how ruined you are but he needs this. he's afraid to hurt you but his cock aches, balls heavy and desperate for release.
you give a shy nod, straightening your throat and opening your mouth, tongue stuck out, inviting him in.
"shitttt," he groans, tapping the tip on your tongue before sliding his length in steadily. the rough snap of abby's hips makes it harder for you to not gag, and it's getting harder to stay in control of your own body as you get absolutely ruined from both ends.
jinu's pace gets rough quickly, hips frantically rutting into your face, balls smacking against your slick chin. you're being pushed brutally back and forth between the two men, back sinking deeper into an arch and your legs shaking as you approach your own high.
a sharp smack! resounds in the room, a familiar stinging spreading like fireworks across your ass. abby gropes the skin after, his squeezing soothing yet rough, his thrusts getting sloppy. heavy balls hit against your sticky clit, wet noises mingling with heated breath and labored moans.
jinu's pace as he fucks your throat pushes you down further onto abby's length. you feel so full, so utterly fucked out. the overstimulation and pretty moans from behind you are enough to send you hurtling into your own high, vision going dark as you shake, walls spasming around abby.
"fuckkkk-kk-k," he groans, burying his fat cock in you to the hilt, giving small thrusts to try to reach impossible depths in your poor, weeping pussy. his balls tighten as he cums, hard, heavy cock twitching inside you.
he shoots thick ropes in you, hands grabbing desperately at your skin. his eyes roll back, head thrown against the pillow. his hips slow, but he keeps fucking you, making sure you milk him good and take every drop.
jinu doesn't even see the two of you coming undone together, his own head tilted up with eyes screwed shut and brows knitted tight in pleasure. his jaw slacks, gentle whines slipping from his throat.
you swallow around him absentmindedly, still recovering from your orgasm. he spills into your throat, hot load coating your throat. abby's hand weaves into your hair, pulling your head back from jinu's cock as he spurts one last time, mouth releasing from his tip with a lewd pop!
you fall back on his chest, jinu laying beside you two in the bed, all three of you panting. rolling you onto your side, abby whispers into your ear.
"catch your breath, baby, round two is coming soon,"
Author's Note: Not a chapter update. Characterization prompts for all the boys just to give you a glimpse of their personalities and characters for my fic The Crimson Pact. Thank you to everyone for your lovely comments! I'll be posting chapter 2 most likely tomorrow.
Story Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.
Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.
They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.
And now that you’ve returned?
They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.
Warnings: Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, romantic psychological tension, intense emotional fixation, yearning.
Read the story here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
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The Saja boys are all demons.
They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.
And yet, before her, they kneel.
Because she is the Heart.
Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters.
Because they were bound by her love and her curse.
They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.
Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.
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A little bit about the boys
🖤 JINU – The Leader. The First. The Curse You Chose.
“She said my name like it tasted wrong on her tongue.
But one day, she’ll moan it like a prayer.”
He’s the one who holds the leash on everyone else’s insanity—but barely.
Jinu is calm. Controlled. Refined. Until he’s not.
He craves reverence. He wants to be chosen by you, even if he has to manipulate fate to make it happen. He’s your shadow in every life. Your ruin in silk and soft words.
He doesn’t raise his voice.
He doesn’t need to.
“I don’t need to take her.
She’ll give herself to me.
She always does.”
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❤️ ABBY – The Protector. The Fire. The First to Bleed for You.
“I don’t care if she loves me. I just want her safe.
And I’ll break every bone in this city if someone makes her cry again.”
Abby is loud. Brash. Playful on the surface.
But underneath the teasing is volcanic violence barely suppressed by loyalty. He notices everything—every flinch, every unspoken hurt.
He doesn't know how to be gentle with the world.
Only with you.
“Let the others beg for her. I’ll show her.
I’ll be the one she runs to when she’s scared.”
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💋 ROMANCE – The Liar. The Lover. The Puppetmaster of Her Heart.
“If she won’t choose me willingly… then I’ll become the only choice she has.”
Romance is silk sheets and shattered mirrors. He weaves his love like a trap—one you're not supposed to see until you’re wrapped in it.
He’s the one who makes you smile through tears.
The one who makes you think he’s the victim.
He’ll build you a fantasy, then chain you to it.
“She thinks she’s free.
That’s what makes this fun.”
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🐾 MYSTERY – The Echo. The Creature. Her Devoted Shadow.
“She looked sad again today. So I smiled until she stopped.”
Mystery doesn’t understand the world without you in it.
He doesn’t need you to remember. He just wants you near.
Touch-starved and terrifying, he mirrors your feelings like instinct. He’ll growl at your sadness, purr at your joy. He’ll follow you until you call his name again.
“I don’t want her to be afraid of me.
But if fear keeps her close…
I’ll take it.”
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🕷️ BABY – The Quiet Obsession. The Sadist. The End of the World.
“She doesn't need to love me. She just needs to stop looking at anyone else.”
Baby doesn’t speak much.
He doesn’t have to.
Everything he does is for you, and only you. The rest of the world is white noise. People? Disposable. Obstacles? Erased.
He would burn down centuries of work to keep you looking at him.
He smiles softly while thinking of tearing everything else apart.
“They can touch her first.
That just means I get to touch her last.”
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Author's Note: I'm so excited to continue this series! I feel like having a glimpse of the boys' individual drive and character may help when reading the rest of the fic. (Also of course, to help make the fannies flutterrrr ✨✨) Also, I tried tagging some people but tumblr wouldn't let me? Not sure why. :(
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Tag list: @faerie-soirxx @strayharmony943 @ibby-miyoshi-nerd @anonymousewrites @cottonheadedninnymugggins @apelepikozume
Azriel has a bad habit of finding random females falling onto the River House lawn. This time, the female in question catches him off guard, and she seems to be even stranger than the last.
Warnings-
canon typical violence, mentions of blood and injuries, angst, eventual spice/smut
A/N: I meant to write this for October since it sounded spooky, but honestly I’m happy I didn’t because now I get to write something supernatural in the lead up to Christmas!
You’ve always had a strange fixation with the phantasmal night of all hallows eve. Something particular about the thought of ghastly apparitions being freed to sew discord and chaos through the monotony of everyday life entices your pulse to spike dangerously. Blood thrumming in your veins.
Clouds seal the full moon to the sky, casting shadows throughout the already dense and dark woodland. Twigs snap and crackle beneath your feet as you continue along the path through the ancient forest. Gnarled branches reach into your way, like talons of some malignant beast stretching to grasp you in its claws. Heart bumps against its cage, pale robes swishing provocatively in your wake, a pale glow of white contained within the darkness of night.
Before you, the abandoned castle looms, cutting a towering silhouette as it’s lit by a crack of lightening, splitting the heavens in two. Ravens caw and crow, taking sudden flight to the stormy skies, wind picking up as it whips the leaves from branches, thunder and rain coming on in an abrupt onslaught, seemingly out of nowhere. The water lashes at your skin, thoroughly soaking your robes, slicking the thin fabric to your skin.
Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to follow the tug toward the old castle site, a chill running up your spine as you’re lured closer, path quickly muddying beneath your feet as you stumble through the howling wind and screaming rain, reaching the base of the entry way. Hurriedly trample up the carved steps, passing by the large carved gargoyles hunched either side of the case. Lightening crackles again, bursting across the thundery sky and you dive for the cover of the hewn-rock archway, seeking shelter from the torrent of heavy droplets.
Plaster yourself to the looming door, the skull knocker digging into your shoulder as you rest against it. The wood gives way, and you yelp as you stumble back, tripping up over your feet, cloak getting caught as you’re sent falling onto your ass. A stray wind whips through the interior, door slamming shut before your very eyes, locked in darkness. Tendrils of hot breath curl before your face in the low temperature of the castle, and you hurry to your feet.
Flinch as the room comes alight, allowing your eyes to sweep across the grand entrance: rich, polished floorboards bathed with blood-red rugs, a glass chandelier hanging like an abnormal spider above the room, the two sets of large winding staircases, and the dark figure at their peak. Candle light warms the castle hall, and you press back into the locked door, breathing heavily.
“My, my,” the character calls softly, “what has the storm brought in?”
Blink quickly, returning to your senses as reason and rationality are returned. You hadn’t known the castle was occupied… “I’m so sorry, Lord,” you call, hoping your voice carries to his looming perch. “I was out in the forest when the rain came on out of nowhere,” you explain, “I came seeking shelter, but the door wasn’t closed properly, and I fell in.” Heat flushes your cheeks, and you self-consciously step back from the rich rugs, trying to keep the mud from the spotless fabric.
“Fell in?” He echoes, and you could swear you hear the faintest laugh. “There’s been many a grand entrance in these halls, and yet none quite as theatrical as your own.” Suck in a quiet inhale of embarrassment, smoothing down the cloak in attempts to look vaguely presentable for the young aristocrat. “If it’s not too much to ask,” you call out, thankful for the evenness of your voice. “I would like to request shelter until the storm passes, then I promise I will be on my way.”
“Of course,” he replies, “be my guest.” His arm sweeps across the grand hall, encompassing the room with a deliberately relaxed gesture. “What’s mine is yours. Stay as long as it pleases you.”
Almost immediately, your shoulders lose their tension, relieved to not be forced back out into the horrific storm—it really had broken out of nowhere. You dip into a light curtsey, the least you can do to demonstrate your gratitude. “My deepest thanks, lord…?”
“Rhysand,” he calls, voice smooth as velvet, sinful as silk. “You may call me Rhysand.”
————
Strangely, you hadn’t seen another soul since you had arrived, which can’t be right, since the place was clean enough you might have thought it unlived in. Missing the mess of life, a strange deathlessness stalking the flame-lit halls.
Perplexities aside, the lord—Rhysand, as he’d informed you with that strange smile—had been more than welcoming, offering a spare bedroom larger than your home, with clothes to change into. You’d had to fight to keep your mouth from parting in awe from the decadent luxury at his fingertips, the sheer mass of wealth he’s shrouded in. How blasé he is about the display of opulence, immune to the shock and wonder of it all.
“You are free to stay as long as you please,” he’d reminded, glancing over to you from where he stands on the threshold. “Dinner will be served at eight. I’d be delighted if you joined me,” he says, offering the invitation graciously. Brows raise on your forehead, grateful for your stroke of luck. Dip your head in confirmation. “That would be wonderful,” you answer sincerely, “I can’t thank you enough for your generosity, my lord.” He waves his hand dismissively, yet it comes across as charming rather than arrogant. “Rhysand will suffice perfectly,” he replies, sharp eyes cutting to you, lips fashioning themselves into a distinctly feline smile. “Rhys if you feel otherwise inclined.” There’s a suggestive lilt to his honeyed voice that has your hairs standing on end, toes curling in spare slippers.
Dip your head again. “Thank you, Rhysand.”
Something pleasured passes through the darkness of his gaze, but it’s quickly covered as he nods, turning to leave, but pausing. “Feel free to adorn yourself as you please,” he adds on, framing it as an after-thought, despite embodying the antithesis of someone who would speak without thinking. He inclines his head toward the vanity, various sparkling gems strung together, contained within the jewellery armoire. Lips part to politely refuse—he’s already offered so much, it would feel wrong to take advantage of such an opportunity.
But he beats you to it, giving you a smile that suggests he knows exactly what you were about to say. “God turns a blind eye to my castle,” he purrs, lips sinfully curved. “Indulge as you like.”
Then he’s gone, striding away down the blood-red corridors, disappearing out of sight and leaving you alone in the offered room. Completely out of your depth, on unfamiliar ground.
Glance at the grandfather clock—you have a quarter hour to swiftly change into clothes of his taste. You waste no time, hastily closing the door before heading to the armoire provided. He’d told you everything was already prepared, which had initially drawn some questions, but you suppose someone with such a vastness of wealth would always have his doors open to passersby—a different way of displaying opulence.
You settle on the simplest gown you can find, still obscenely intricate, with tiny detailed patches of embroidered lacing the hem and sides. The bodice fits nicely, easy to change into and resting comfortably over your now-dry skin. The skirts are held up by an in-built petty-coat, giving the illusion of shape by flaring out past your waist, grazing your ankles. While the rest of you has been ridden of the lasting effects of rain, your hair remains damp, so you decide to allow it to hang at your back—you’d hate to sleep on the crisp pillows with wet hair.
A single look to the clock reveals you have five minutes before dinner is served, so you decide to peer at the jewellery, making sure to leave time for finding the dining hall. Within the small armoire are a menagerie of necklaces, but you pick out a small string of pearls, the clasps rendered in gold to match with the cream of your gown. Heart beats with infantile excitement at getting to adorn yourself in such expensive clothing, enjoying the cool brush against your skin, the weight of the pearls as they skim your breasts—plumped by the front of the bodice.
The clock ticks, and you turn for the door, leaving no time to change from the slippers that had been offered as you swish out into the hallway, returning the way you had come. Surely the dining hall would be located upon the ground floor…
You head for the swirl of stairs, pausing at their peak—where the sharp-featured lord had stood, surveying his lonely kingdom. The glass pendants suspended from the chandelier glitter and gleam like diamonds, and you span your hands delicately across the polished wood of the banister, taking the time to drink in and admire the antique beauty of his home.
Startle when a palm slides around your waist, spinning fully upon turning to see who’s approached. The banister presses to the base of your spine as you lean to it, his hands lightly holding your sides, resting without squeezing. “I’m glad you were able to find your way,” he says lowly, no need for volume with the proximity you are to one another. “I had worried you might find yourself lost in my halls, and I would have to go searching.”
A polite smile plays on your lips, attempting to calm the flush his silken words inspire beneath your features. “I was admiring your home,” you murmur, one hand pressing atop your breast to calm your heart—maybe also to direct his attention to the softness of cleavage. “The chandelier is wonderful, with how it catches the light. For a moment I thought it was winking at me,” you laugh quietly, demurely ducking your head, casting your gaze away from the sharpness of his own.
Rhysand chuckles lowly, “you have the eyes of a magpie.” Hand lightly raises to the set of shining beads at your throat. “Seemingly the taste of one, too.” He threads his fingers with those atop your breast, bringing your knuckles to the softness of his lips. “May I say, you look positively regal,” he purrs, pressing a kiss to your skin. You’re surprisingly relieved at the coolness of his mouth, soothing the fire that’s thrumming wildly in response to the delightful liberties he’s taking.
This time you can’t bring yourself to look away. Enchanted by the swirling depths of violet.
“If I look regal,” you breathe softly, “it is thanks to your exquisite taste in dress.” He raises a single, neatly groomed brow, and you’re rather glad to have the banister to lean back on. “A raw gem is beautiful even before it’s refined,” he purrs, cool lips skimming your knuckles with each word. “The clothing merely enhances what was already there.”
Open your mouth to deny his flattery, but once again he beats you to it, as if able to read minds. “Now,” he says, standing to his full height, “shall we?” He guides your arm to link with his own, hand pressing to the firmness of muscle beneath the fine fabric of his jacket. All you can manage is a dip of your head in acquiescence before he’s gracefully guiding you to the stairs, leading the way to the dining hall.
“In the mean time,” he says casually, “why don’t you tell me what you were doing, traipsing through the woods on such a morbid night?” Clasp your skirts in one hand, descending the case on his arm, quietly enjoying the gentlemanly mannerisms even if you’re undeserving of them. “It’s all hallows eve,” you answer, honestly, “I found myself yearning the company of the forest.”
“So you decided to play at red-riding hood,” he drawls, mirth coating his teasing words. You manage to shoot him what you hope is a playful glance. “There are no wolves in these forests, Rhysand,” you smile, returning your gaze to the steps. “Besides, these robes are white, not red.”
The two of you reach the base, and he moves to escort you through the archway on your right, leading away from the entrance hall. “That’s the lovely thing about white though, isn’t it,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “So open to change.” Your brow dips in a subtle show of confusion, narrowing. “What do you mean by that?” Lips carve themself into something distinctly vulpine, sharp canines gleaming beneath the warm light. But he shakes his head, murmuring a “never mind” before continuing through the ornamented room.
“Tell me more about this so-called yearning for the forest,” he goads, drawing you through yet another exquisitely decorated hall, rugs a shade darker now you’ve strayed from the entrance. It’s your turn to shake your head, unsure how to describe it without sounding utterly off your rocker. “It’s hard to say really,” you say truthfully. “The temperature was crisp but not biting, and the sky was overcast without promising a storm— well, I had thought not, though I was clearly mistaken,” you smile, though there’s an intensity to his gaze you hadn’t noticed before. You quickly avert your eyes, peering instead at the large banquet table you’re swiftly approaching.
“I think, if I’m being quite plain, the quiet suited me in that moment,” you admit softly. “I didn’t know those forests were capable of being quiet,” he mutters, “they must like you.” You shoot him a questioning look, but he simply smiles, again shaking his head. “I was merely thinking out loud,” he clarifies, pulling out your chair. You politely take the seat, smoothing out your skirts as he tucks you in. “I’d be interested in hearing more of your inner thoughts,” you say, “they sound quite intriguing.”
Rhysand pauses, hands resting atop the back of your chair, “would you now?” Spine stiffens when you feel icy air brush your temple, tilting your head to figure where the stray breeze came from. Freeze when his lips graze the shell of your ear, fingers halting in your lap. “Would you like to know what I’m thinking right now?” He inquires lowly, startling heat simmering in your lower abdomen. Manage a slight dip of your chin in tense confirmation. Lips trail lower, ghosting below your ear, brushing your neck. But then he pulls away, standing straight, offering a charming smile. “I’m thinking it would be a shame to be seated so far apart from you, and that I will have to move to be at your side.” Then he’s striding to the end to retrieve the crockery laid out, cutlery held in his free hand.
While his back is turned, you take the moment to try and calm your racing heart, startled by the vivacious beat being drummed against your ribs. You should be better equipped to face him, yet he’s seamlessly pulling you apart, stitch by stitch. All effortless charm and debonair grace. By the time he’s returned, you’ve managed to reach a state of near relaxation, just an edge of tension still gnawing at your spine.
“So, Rhysand,” you say quietly, nervous to intrude too deeply into the air of the castle. “Does your family live with you?” When he begins taking food to his plate, you follow suit, assuming the dinner has commenced, and that it will be fine for you to now start on the delicious meal laid before you. “Occasionally they fly by,” he answers with that playful smile, its reflection mirrored upon your lips. “I have two brothers who will visit from time to time, though they have their own hunting grounds to preside over.”
He hunts? You would have thought someone dressed as finely as he is would have little interest in such a superficial task. Particularly if there’s no one to converse with during the process. An image of him dressed in hunting leathers flashes through your mind, as if put there by an encouraging hand. “Preside over?” You ask, raising a forkful of food to your mouth.
Rhysand nods, smiling faintly as he watches you. “Indeed. They require a surprising amount of attention. Making sure the game are well-kept so none are driven from the lands,” he elaborates, and you nod along, surprised to find yourself interested in the subject. “What counts as being well-kept?” You ask once done with the food in your mouth, eagerly moving to the next piece. “Making sure they are well-fed,” he answers with a playful smile, “that generally keeps them happy.”
You blink, then smile. It’s nice to know he takes care of the animals on his land. That they’re looked after before their death. More humane than some of the things you’ve seen in your small hamlet. “I take it you hunt for pleasure?” You asks, eager to learn more about the charming lord. But he shakes his head, “not regularly. Or rather, not as regularly as some others I know.” A frown seems to dip his brows, and you wish to change the subject. His knife slices through the meat on his plate, carving it up into neat little squares for polite, bite-sized snacks. “Besides, I fear if my game notices it’s being picked off, it will run for the hills.”
Laughter bubbles across your breast-bone with his little quirks. The idea that his prey would be at all self-aware is rather amusing, while also strangely heart-warming. “If hunting is not a hobby of yours, how do you spend your time?” You ask, relaxing into the pleasantly stimulating conversation. “Welcoming rain-soaked women into my castle, of course,” he drawls, a wide smile spreading across your lips, quickly raising your hand to cover your mirth-filled grin. “You’ve given me no reason to doubt, yet I haven’t laid eyes on a single other soul here,” you reply, peering at him.
Lips quirk, and he reaches for his glass of red wine, thoroughly opaque, darkened in the flame light. “Everyone else has gone home for the night,” he answers, sipping at the thick liquid. “It’s just us, my lady.” Flush at the title, returning to concentrate on the meal. “I am no lady, Rhysand,” you respond softly, cutting into the rich meat on your plate. “And yet if I were to walk through those doors and find you dining alone, I would not think you looked even a spot out of place in my home,” he says, equally hushed.
Cutlery stills in your hands, raising your eyes to swirling violet. It strikes you then what a spectacular colour it is. Manage a shy smile, “your flattery is outrageous.” He’s quiet for a short spell, before also lowering his cutlery. “Do I look like I’m lying to you?” You’re surprised by the sincerity of his tone. Throat rolls as you observe him, head still lowered shyly. “I’ve known you for not even a night,” you murmur, unable to quite pull your focus from him. “You could,” he answers lowly, voice pitched down a few keys.
Blink, taken aback. You must be misunderstanding. Swallow thickly, making to return to your plate, but— “Don’t look away,” he instructs softly, coaxing your eyes back to his. Mind swims through heat, the world dimming around him, as if blanketed by a thick fog. “I…I couldn’t say,” you manage, a strange wariness prickling at the nape of your neck. Hairs rising with the intensity of his gaze.
The lord is quiet again, watching you with those strange, wonderful eyes. But then he pulls away, spearing a sectioned piece of meat with his fork. “Forgive me,” he says, “I shouldn’t have been so crass with you. I find myself so rarely with civilised company my manners are often forgotten.”
You shift in your seat, a bout of cold icing your skin in the absence of his attention. “No, it’s fine,” you say, finished with your meal, gently setting down the knife and fork. “I was simply caught off guard. The truth is I would feel as though I was taking advantage of your generosity, Rhysand.” You notice he’s also finished, but are unable to recall at what point. “What’s mine is yours,” he reminds lowly, eyes glinting.
Pulse spikes in response, something dark in that look that has you urging to run. The question is: in what direction?
“You seem tired,” he observes, glancing at the grandfather clock. Brows raise as he reads the time. “Appropriately. It’s nearing midnight,” he drawls. Lips part in surprise, how has it been that long? It feels like you sat down to eat less than an hour ago, yet it’s already beginning the ascent into morning. “Nearly midnight?” You echo, following his gaze. The clock indeed reads twelve, the hour hand raised as if poised to strike down.
Rhysand stands from his chair, refolding the napkin before stretching out his hand. “I would hate for you to sleep poorly because of me. Allow me escort you back to your room,” he asks quietly, all traces of previous heat removed, replaced by well-mannered charm. You manage a nod, arm once again overlapping with his own, making to follow him through the labyrinthine halls.
It hits you then, the vastness of his castle—how desolate the space must be. Especially with how rarely he apparently gets to meet with anyone he cares for. “You know, before tonight I had thought your castle was abandoned,” you say absently, taking in the elaborate decorations with more appreciation. “I’ll admit, it sometimes feels that way,” he replies, deep voice tracing down your spine. Push the heat aside for the moment, turning to glance at him. “Do you ever get lonely?” You ask quietly, aware of the ice you’re treading.
He hesitates, momentarily meeting your gaze before continuing onward, reaching the stairs. “Quite possibly,” he answers, “it would certainly be reason for my appalling lapse in manners earlier tonight.” His lips are lifted at their edges, yet you can’t quite manage to return the smile. It must be difficult, having all this space with only his self to fill it. Then again, with the intensity he’s occasionally pinned you with, that doesn’t seem like a particularly hard task.
“Tell me about your own hobbies,” he requests, breaking from your inner thoughts. “I feel as though I’ve spoken more than enough for tonight.” But you’re shaking your head before you can help it, speaking before you can stop it. “I like the sound of your voice,” you admit quietly. Violet eyes flick to you, weighing on your cheek…your neck. “It’s soothing. Like a lullaby.”
You don’t know what’s gotten into you.
He stares, and heat blossoms beneath your skin. That was incredibly uncalled for on your part.
“I hope not,” he says at last, humiliation burning at your insides as you hastily look away. But then he comes to a stop, hand reaching for your jaw, drawing your helpless gaze to lock with his own. “Because putting you to sleep right now is the last thing on my mind,” he breathes lowly.
Oh.
Chest rises and falls steadily, becoming aware of how breathless you feel, how utterly bare you are beneath that look of his. Tongue flicks out over your lower lip, mouth parched. “Tell me…what’s the first thing on your mind then, Rhys.” Attention pierces to the plushness of your lips, and you’re suddenly in need of that banister from earlier. “You want to know what I’d do with you if you let me?” He asks, voice rougher than it was moments before. Pulse spikes beneath that intensity, breath shallowing, but you manage a nod.
He groans lowly, hand dropping to your waist, lightly resting along the seam of the bodice. Cool fingers stroke away a lock of hair, pads grazing the heat of your cheek as he stares down at you. “I’m not sure such things are for your ears, magpie,” he grits out, applying a light bit of force to your waist. “Tell me anyway,” you breathe, hands raising to the fine lapels of his jacket, more eager to put them in his hair.
A rough sound of conflicted pleasure rumbles in his chest. “Such lovely things,” he promises, violet darkening with desire, swirling and dancing as he drinks you in. “So lovely you wouldn’t be able to pull away once I’d started.”
Heat numbs rationality, mind melting as the words warmly splash over your bones, sinking into marrow as you become soft and supple beneath his touch. Step into the lines of his body, feeling as his fingers press to your sides with tension. “Do it,” you breathe, quietly. “Please.”
Cunning satisfaction releases through the male, pleased with how quickly you changed your mind once he applied himself to the task. He’d gotten a sense of your taste before dinner, when he’d pushed you in, and it had been enough to convince him even though he’d fed not even a week ago, he would have to sample you. Now here you are, head tilted, eyes having fluttered shut, offering yourself to him for an entirely different set of wants. Maybe he will indulge your desires—if you satisfy his, that is.
You’ll be on the floor colder than ice if you fail to do so.
He moves in, hand cupping the nape of your neck as he lowers his mouth to yours. Lamb had been served over dinner, and he finds the taste pleasant on your tongue, stoking the embers of his hunger as he presses himself against the soft shape of you, partially hidden by the blasted dress and pearls. A small sound gets caught in your throat, and he revels in the feeling of your fingers tightening on the lapels of his jacket. As if you’re experiencing even a fraction of the hunger he has for you.
Works his way down your jaw, taking his time as he descends to your neck. Nosing at the pronounced pulse, liking how you tilt your head to one side, freely gifting him access. Lips graze the spot he’s chosen, tongue flicking out to drag along hot skin—so hot it practically burns.
Razor-sharp canines scrape, and he feels the exact moment you go rigid in his arms. But by then it’s too late, his teeth piercing your throat, injecting his philtre-laced venom into your bloodstream. The familiar taste of adrenaline and arousal spills on his tongue, bursting from the small puncture marks he’s made, quick to heal over with the aid of saliva. Drinks you down, savouring the richness of your blood, sealing his lips over the incisions, taking more, and more, and more—
He forcefully drags himself away, vision turning hazy, the scent of your life-force spinning his mind. Breathes heavily, the rich and spicy tang still prominent in his mouth, sapid and hot. Tongue darts out to wet his lips, gathering up faint traces that remain there, and then he’s being pulled back, already so deeply enamoured.
Canines re-pierce that same spot, reopening the incisions as your blood burns his throat, inspiring heat in his long-dead body. It’s as if he’s returning to life, having it shot through his veins, snaring him in the addicting flavour. Lips seal over the puncture marks, drinking deeply, swallowing down more and more.
He should stop.
He knows he should stop—he’ll bleed you dry, and then he’ll never have another taste. Arousal coats his tongue, and heat spreads across his skin, bone-deep aches making themselves apparent, as if forcefully dragging him to you. Your hands have dropped from his jacket, instead weakly rubbing at his shoulder and chest, unable to do much more than hold yourself up.
But the taste—the sheer heaven you’ve put into him again. If he stops drinking, it will pass, and he’ll return to that permanent state of death, cold and solitary. But you’re bleeding sunlight into him, sunlight that’s dappled and controlled instead of the unrestricted blaze that would incinerate him in the blink of an eye.
A quiet gasp slips from your lips, fingers losing their grip on his clothing, beginning to slip, but just a little more…one more gulp…one more sip…
“Mercy, devil,” he breathes onto your neck, as if in pain. “What God-damning angel are you?” He growls, trembling hands cupping your cheeks, sharp violet eyes locked on the small marks to your throat. “You’ve bewitched me. I must…” Then he’s surging forward, slamming you against the wall with inhuman force, hand gripping your jaw as he roughly tilts your head to the side. Groans, hot tongue licking over the soft skin, elongated incisors pricking as they again pierce.
Pulse spikes beneath his grip, growing dizzy as he drinks deeply, hands pressed to your shoulders to pin you still. Vision blurs, lips parting as you raise your arms in attempt to push him away, but end up desperately clinging to the finely spun fabric cloaking his back. Limbs go weak, turning limp in his hold as he feeds, a pleasurable spin overcoming your mind, turning pliable beneath his teeth.
He groans, pulling away only in favour of going lower, suctioning now-hot lips over a new, unmarked patch of skin. Blood bursts on his tongue, rich and spicy, not yet too ripe but void of the sour bite that’s present in the young. Heaven and hell blend together in his mouth, mixing so appetisingly he could never—
“Rhys…” you whisper, pleading. Less than a breath left before you—
Your body slumps, and his is trembling so violently the best he can do is go with you as you slide down the wall, blood trickling down onto the pure, white pearls. He knew they’d get in the way.
He hauls himself away, shocked at the utter lack of control you had subjected him to. How his discipline shudders in your presence, practically brought to its knees for a single drop more.
Earlier he had considered making a bottle or two out of you to send off to his brothers, ready for consumption.
Looking at you now, he can hardly stand the thought.
What’s mine is yours…and what’s yours is mine.
Your blood is his, and his only.
——————————————————————————————————————————————
general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks
synopsis: When reports of attacks from strange beasts increase up in the desolate Illyrian Steppes, both Azriel and Cassian are tasked with clearing out the malicious creatures. But when Azriel is bitten by one and sweats break out, the High Lord realises perhaps he should have put more time into investigating the ancient species. More specifically, why the attacks started after a millennia’s worth of peaceful cohabitation, and what the consequences will be of their venom once again mixing with Illyrian blood.
warnings: blood, illness, eventual vampire! Az, generic healing descriptions
a/n: so this started off with I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead, then switched to Lust For A Vampyr, and finally ended with Sour Switchblade. Who knows where the next one will start 😔
word count: 7,975
It’s the dead of night. Peaceful.
The moon is high in the sky—a gleaming, crooked, slash of a smile—and the city is dark, revelling in the beloved starlight far above, twinkling like millions of glazed, porcelain teeth, cast into a murky black sea and stitched into the heavens. Your windows are ajar, a cool night breeze circulating your chambers, keeping the air fresh and crisp even while you sleep.
Azriel and Cassian will return in the early morning, eager to be rid of Illyria as soon as possible. Between the two of them Azriel will likely be the one more insistent on a swift departure, though you can’t imagine him ever voicing his distain. Luckily Cassian will be there to pick up on his non-verbal signals.
You’ll have to check in with Feyre too, make sure she’s recovering well after her birth. Physically, the damage was extensive—if it wasn’t for the healing blood in her veins and Nesta’s intervention… Your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose, rubbing to soothe the growing headache before your arm slides across your face, elbow hanging crooked over your brow. She’s been on the mend but it’ll be a long while yet before she can even think about shifting again; longer yet before she can fly. As for her son…he’s healthy. Practically brimming with life. Everyone’s seen the twinkle in his round eyes. You’re certain he’ll grown into a menace soon enough.
As for Elain…
Guilt is a ball of iron in your chest. With everything that’s been happening as of late there’s been little time for either you or Madja to keep a proper eye on her. You just hope the two of you haven’t been too preoccupied with the more obvious matters to disregard the internal ones. It’s hard to gauge where she’s at, and you often have to rely on Nuala’s reports to hazard a guess at what might be going through the young female’s mind. Externally, she’s doing exceptionally well—keeping herself busy: baking, reading, walking, gardening, knitting, sewing, stitching, studying. She keeps herself fresh and put together, skin healthy and strong, hair lustrous and long, a vivid glow about her. No eye-bags nor sallow complexion, she communicates with the twins fine and only has rare days of reclusion where she retreats to her bedroom. By all means she’s doing well.
It’s worrying.
There’s so much to keep an eye on within this family, so many minor tensions to understand—more so than any other setting you’ve been placed in. Each day has its own set events to overcome, a new detail to examine, whether that’s a shift in expression as another family member enters the room or as blatant as the simmering hatred that so nastily permeates any room the High Lord and his eldest sister-in-law, Nesta, are placed in.
Inhaling a dragging breath, your focus slips to the raindrops glittering over the window pane, the piercing light of the moon shimmering like tiny stars, the inky darkness of the city itself reflected upward from below like tight, vicious pupils, hundreds of tiny eyes pressed up to the glass.
A thunderous crash comes from the floor below, the thump pulsing once through your chest, jerking you awake.
At once your feet find the cool wooden floorboards, a nightgown strung over bare shoulders, not a second of movement wasted before the glowing faelight is cupped in your palm and the cold iron of the door handle is twisted, opening up into the yawning darkness of the corridor. A gust of rain-soaked wind funnels down the hallway, whipping hair from your face and the faelight flickers, shuddering once before pushing back against the looming shadows crowding the space.
You hug your thin nightgown tighter, hurrying barefooted down the hall to the staircase, skin tightening to gooseflesh as a second gust of icy wind flushes through the house, howling from the front door that is cast wide. The rug is soaking beneath your feet as you press it closed, following the low light at the far end of the corridor to the kitchen, tiles colder than ice and soaked in puddles of water.
Blood roars through your ears, pausing only for a second of analysis as you take in the rain-soaked scene. Shards of ceramics scatter the floor, a body splayed across the dining room table, two figures stood either side. It’s all you have time for before rushing forward, only now catching the sickening tang of iron in the air, the wind having previously blown the scent away and you tap the fae light twice in your palm before releasing it high above the slumped figure on the table. It’ll have to do for now.
Sour, pale-yellow light fills the dining room and blood gurgles from Azriel’s mouth, wet gasps bubbling up from his chest. Rhysand is stood at one head of the table, hand clutched tight around Azriel’s, the High Lord’s towering figure curved crookedly over his brother’s, close enough their brows are touching and it’s clear enough Rhysand is doing what he can mentally, relieving pain, sorting through panic and adrenaline to find his shadowsinger some order to cling to.
“What happened?” You ask Cassian, darting forward to closer examine Azriel’s state. As far as you can see there are two main wounds, one on the thigh of his left leg and a second having broken into his ribcage on the opposite side. By now the blood flow has already begun to wane, a countdown to his life force bleeding dry. If the wound had been gushing you would have felt more reassured. There’s far too little blood coming from wounds as deep as his.
“There were more than we anticipated,” Cassian grits out. “Their nest was supposed to be on the far side of the mountain. Most of them got cleared out but two we’d already cut down must have been playing dead and bit on our retreat.”
“The chimeras?” You ask, noting the splay of teeth marks that are puncturing the right side of Azriel’s torso, the fleshy grey of broken bone visible through one of the upper gouges.
Cassian nods grimly and you seal your mouth shut to prevent from cursing. It’s bad luck to hear a healer curse—your job is to know what’s going on and get things better, not worse. Adrenalised panic only helps in temporarily keeping pain away. For now you have to do what you can, sealing the wounds, and hope that there’s no fractured enamel trapped inside.
“Has he begun healing yet?” You ask, pressing the second and third fingers on both your hands either side what you guess must be the puncture mark of the beasts’ canine, two significantly larger than the others.
“No. I think he’s lost too much blood to manage anything like that. He wouldn’t stop bleeding the entire flight down,” Cassian replied, voice raw. You wonder how long he was shouting to Azriel over the screaming storm outside in order to keep him conscious. Cassian’s dark eyes shift to his brother’s face, thick brows growing heavy as they stitch together, chest still heaving as adrenaline doubtlessly begins to seep away, leaving stagnant fear to lean on. “I thought he was going to die,” Cassian murmurs, so low you doubt either other male can hear.
“He’s not going to die,” you assure, pushing growth into the surrounding tissue, guiding his open flesh back together like shaping clay. “Hold the wound on his leg until I can let these ones breathe.”
A pulse of rejection seizes Azriel’s chest, blood flecking his sour-toned skin, Rhysand’s own knuckles turning bone white as he grips tighter to his brother. You’re lucky he’s here, or else things would be much worse. You don’t linger on the thought, your own breath beginning to labour as you move to the second puncture gouge in his chest, bone protruding from deeper in the flesh.
A twinge of fear pieces your mind.
Azriel groans on the table, wings deathly still where they’re splayed off the sides, the joints at their ends beginning to curl inward like a spider’s legs on the verge of death. Breath whistles in his lungs, blood no longer gurgling from his chest—barely moving at all.
“Rhys!” You shout, pulling him from that mental bridge he’d been tending Azriel upon, gripping his shoulder roughly. “Pull away! Pull away!”
The High Lord’s chest heaves as he forces himself back, releasing the soothing hold he’d had on Azriel’s mind, hands still clutched together.
The Shadowsinger jolts on the table, body writhing as fresh pain blazes through flesh, senses no longer muted. It’s probably going to be the last thing he can hold onto.
He’s fading.
You look at Cassian, bloody fingers still pressing down on the wound, the miniature, magical stitches sewing tissue back together slowly making their way back to the surface, flesh returning to its healed state. “Fetch Madja,” you instruct, “We’ll have a better chance with both of us. Quick. And Rhys, I want you to find-”
A gasp comes from the doorway and the High Lord’s expression drains. It’s far from ideal to have her within such a high stress environment but it’s really a last resort.
“Feyre, your blood,” you request urgently, feeling the weight as violet eyes cut into your side, but it’s necessary. It’s the boost that will save Azriel’s life, or at least sustain him until Madja arrives. “Only a small amount,” you say calmly, “he just needs enough to keep him alive until I have Madja to help.”
Feyre swallows only once before she’s hurrying forward, blue-grey eyes rushing over the male on the table, tension in her jaw. “How much?” She asks, taking the blade Cassian hands her before he heads out into the night. “A slice across your palm. If you feel faint stop immediately.”
She doesn’t hesitate, an excess of blood swelling in her hand before spilling into Azriel’s open mouth, pale lips soaked red. His throat works and you rush round to his other side, now pressing one palm to each gash.
There’s no time to pace yourself in this encounter.
It’s a one-time brawl, not a long-spanned battle.
————
Come morning your hands are aching, lungs tired and stretched, throat parched. You haven’t had such a long night since the end of the war.
At least now you have free access to water, which you’d taken full advantage of when returning to your room.
By the time Madja had arrived you’d had all the immediate injuries patched but there had still been little colour to Azriel’s complexion. Pallid save for the blood staining his open mouth. If Cassian hadn’t flown so swiftly; if Feyre hadn’t been there; if Azriel hadn’t the strength to hang on… It’s a small miracle he’s still alive and breathing.
As soon as the sun touches the horizon you get yourself up, preparing to take over Madja’s shift after she’d seen him through the night. There’s still a drained pit where your magic should be, the small amount of sleep you’d managed to grab doing little to aid its replenishment, but it should be enough for today.
It’s only upon seeing the bloodstained bandages wrapping Azriel’s body and leg that you realise all the rainwater from the night before must have been blood, soaking the rugs, the tiled floors, the bare skin of your feet. It’s a good thing those clothes had been stripped down and tossed into a pile before falling into sleep the night just past.
“How is he?” You ask, stepping into Azriel’s room. The thick curtains are drawn, but even so it’s too light.
“Asleep, for now,” Madja replies, raising from her chosen seat at the bedside. “Once I administered the pain reliever he settled down and hasn’t stirred since.” Worried eyes flicker over the male’s body, dark hands tucking her pencil away. You step forward, hand cupping her elbow carefully, “You deserve some rest, too.” Brown eyes don’t leave Azriel for a few moments, but eventually she nods, meeting your gaze, returning the touch on your arm. “You’re a competent healer, you know. You did well last night.” Madja smiles, nodding. “Good work.”
The words remain in your mind all morning while you’re overseeing Azriel, routinely checking his temperature, keeping an eye on his breathing patterns, and pulse, but it’s not until well past midday that he stirs.
You sit silently at his side. It’s his breathing that changes first, a deeper breath than the ones before bringing air deep into his lungs, lips peeling themselves apart. Then it’s a twitch in his brows, lifting once then furrowing over his eyes which screw themselves shut. A low groan rumbles in his throat and you allow yourself a subtle sigh of relief. His eyes are next, blinking open by less than a hair’s breadth, pupils gradually contracting to filter the light away until he can look around freely. It takes him longer than usual to get his bearings, but that’s to be expected.
You wait until he’s ready to speak.
“How bad is it?” Azriel rasps, his vocal cords chewed up. A smile curves your eyes, “You aren’t dead.” Air rattles in his lungs, a wheezing cough stuttering once from his chest and you offer the glass of water from his bedside. Azriel tilts his head to the side, and you retract the glass.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” you tell him, turning to the notebook Madja had left for you. “First of all, what’s your name?” Azriel is silent and you look over to him, concern welling in your chest, but instead his mouth is pursed, expression flat. You sigh, fondness pushing up into your voice, “Come on. It’s routine.”
“Azriel,” Azriel answers, giving you a deadpan look. You nod. “Do you remember where you were going yesterday?”
A pause, then, “Illyria. Cassian and I were returning.”
“Good, but you’re jumping ahead,” you warn, making hazel eyes brighten within the shadowy room. “Can you tell me the names of your two brothers?”
“Cassian and Rhysand.”
“Do you know where you are?”
This time Azriel pauses, eyes darting around the room, his brow furrowing. “The River House?”
You nod, “You’re in a guest bedroom since it was closer. I’m afraid it’ll probably be some time before we can move you to your own room.” But Azriel tips his head to the side again, “It’s fine.”
“Alright,” you reply quietly, keeping your smile to yourself. “Next question. Just a few more,” you add when Azriel exhales heavily. “Do you remember what happened to you?”
“Cassian and I were supposed to be investigating the recent attacks up in Illyria. There was supposed to be no contact.”
You nod, smile faded. “Do you remember how you got your injuries?”
“We thought we’d cleared out the ones that had found us, but we hit their nest by chance and there were too many. On the way out one that had been dead bit me.” You wait for him to continue but he stops, looking back to you.
“Is that all?”
Azriel nods.
You note down his story, along with the point his memory cuts out. “You don’t remember the second bite?” You inquire. Azriel tilts his head, no. “Do you remember getting here?” Azriel tilts his head again, no.
You nod, sitting straighter. Pushing a reassuring expression to your features. “Well, the good news is you aren’t dead, as you’re aware.” Azriel rolls his eyes, then hisses, groaning as something hurts. “Your wings are also unscathed, which I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear.” The Shadowsinger grumbles something you don’t hear. Of course you’re glad he’s okay.
“Right,” you announce, pushing the glass of water to him again which he drinks from reluctantly, “Are you feeling right enough to answer a few more questions for me, or would you like to rest?”
“What time is it?” He asks.
You glance at the clock on the wall, “It’s coming up for four in the afternoon.”
“I can answer a few more questions,” he decides, allowing you to take the glass from his hand once he’s done.
“Firstly, how are you feeling? Any pain or numbness? Changes in temperature? Aches?” You prompt, pencil at the ready. “My head is pounding,” he answers, eyes remaining only half open though you doubt it’s entirely from fatigue. “My lower body is numb, but my left foot feels cold. A dead cold.” You nod, pencil scratching. “My throat is sore, but my eyes and teeth are the most piercing.”
Your brow furrows, “Eyes and teeth, huh… Are your eyes hurting as a part of your headache, or do you feel it’s different?”
“It’s like I haven’t slept in two weeks, and something’s trying to suck them from my skull,” Azriel rasps. Scritch scratch. “And…you mentioned your teeth are hurting… Toothache? I’ll ask Cassian whether your jaw might have had a collision.” You glance over to Azriel who’s still pale. But alive. “What does it feel like? Bruising? Broken?” You’d know if it was broken, though.
Azriel tilts his head. “More piercing. Here.” Azriel guides his tongue to his left canine. “And here.” He touches the right one. Your brows furrow then you remember to keep your face neutral. Azriel wheezes a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Anything else?” You ask, moving quickly past your error. Azriel tilts his head again, no.
“Alright then. It would be best for you to try and rest for a few more hours—think you can fall back asleep?” You ask, closing the leather-bound notebook and setting it upon the side table. The Spymaster sighs, tilting his head. You aren’t surprised. “You should try. Your body needs the rest.” You pause, considering. Then, “Do you feel well enough to try eating something? It would be good for you.”
Azriel’s eyes slide shut, lips curling miserably and you have to muffle your laugh. “I don’t want to be eating plain chicken for the next few days,” he mumbles.
“We need to be careful of your stomach, and your body needs nutrition. Protein.” You reason, “Be happy you aren’t having to drink your meals after mentioning that toothache.” Hazel eyes crack open just enough to send you a piercing glare, but it only results in an upward twitch of your lips. “Would you like me to fetch you anything in the mean time?” You add, knowing it’s not nice to be resting when there’s work that one could be doing.
“My notebook should be on my desk—can you bring me the stack of reports that will be in the uppermost drawer on the right hand side? There’ll be the first thing you see when you look inside.” You raise a brow, mouth pursing. “Already trying to get back to work?”
His lips twitch. “I have a lot of work to do.”
“Well it’s going to have to wait,” you sigh, standing from your chair. “I can fetch your notebook and a book of your choosing—so long as you promise it won’t be work related.”
“All my books are work related.”
Your eyes narrow on the bedridden male, waiting for his mask to slip but it remains firmly in place. “Seriously? Not one?”
Azriel shrugs. Or tries to. It’s more a light twitch of his wings.
You sigh, nodding to yourself. “Alright. I’ll find something.”
You turn to leave but a small shadow stirs in your periphery, dragging your attention back to him. Hazel eyes twinkle as the darkness lifts the silky dark hair from his brow, damp enough to appear like ink even in the shadowed room. You roll your eyes, pacing back over to his side, gently laying the back of your fingers across his brow. A beat passes, then Azriel’s eyes slide shut the rest of the way. Your touch lingers on his forehead, taking longer than necessary to gauge his temperature.
“Your fingers are cool,” Azriel murmurs. Eyes only opening once you pull away again, silky hair flopping back into place.
“You’re still a little feverish,” you tell him quietly, wary for his aching senses. “Hopefully it’ll pass swiftly enough, but if not your recovery will only take a few extra days.” A pause passes through the room, and you should really be writing that temperature down as your hourly mark.
As if on cue, a warmed plate appears on the bedside table, and a look of sorrow dims Azriel’s already dismal features when he spots the plain, boiled chicken.
You offer a pitying smile which earns you a grunt of displeasure before you’re turning for the door, pausing on the threshold. “I’ll make sure it’s a good book,” you offer.
Azriel’s expression turns dour, brow pinched, mouth thinning, and you can practically see his shadows beginning to brood.
‘It had better be,’ he mouths, voice too worn out to reach you across the room.
————
The next morning is the same routine, waking up as soon as the sun bleeds over the horizon, trickling pale gold into your bedroom on the first floor. It’s a swift execution of movements, washing, combing, and dressing before you’re out into the house and heading down the hall to Azriel’s temporary room.
The handle twists before you have a chance to lay your hand on it, Cassian stepping out from the interior. Hazel eyes shift to you, worn and fatigued—usually it’s Azriel who accessorises with the hints of mauve beneath his eyes. “Did you get to speak with him?” You ask, voice kept low in case Azriel’s resting inside. The General nods, leathers stretching as he pushes the dark hair back from his brow, not yet tied back for the day and curling around his shoulders. “Thank you for keeping him alive,” Cassian says, equally quiet.
“It’s my job,” you smile. “Besides, it wasn’t just me. If you three hadn’t been there it could just as easily have turned bad.” You nod to the door, the room where Azriel’s staying, “You helped more than you think, Cassian.”
Cassian offers a stiff nod, then he’s straightening, about to leave.
“I wanted to ask you something about that night,” you say, catching his attention. “Azriel mentioned his teeth hurting, specifically his canines—do you know if he might have collided with the floor after the first bite?”
“Not that I remember,” Cassian contemplates. “He stayed upright and ambulatory until we reached the tunnel exit.”
You nod, thinking. “Alright… Well, we’ll be keeping an eye on him anyway. Hopefully it’s just a side effect of sinus pressure or headaches.”
Cassian nods his head once, then you’re going your separate ways.
The curtains are still drawn, and Azriel still appears pale despite the shadows dimming colours. He’s asleep however, which is good, at least.
After a brief exchange with Madja over how the night went you’re all ready and seated at his side. The plate from yesterday had been removed but the book is still on the side table, no sign that he started it that you can see.
Like the previous day, Azriel doesn’t wake until long past midday, only rising to consciousness around sundown.
His eyes are thick and heavy as they blink open, a darkened tinge to the whites that you can’t quite make out the colour of in shadow. The skin of his lips is cracked, peeling at the bow of his mouth, pulling back from his teeth. Despite the long bouts of sleep the dark smudges beneath his eyes don’t seem to be going anywhere, only further deepening, contrasted against the waning colour of his skin—the once rich brown now turning grey and ashen. The fever will be surfacing, regardless of suppression and attempted appeasement.
His temperature had begun rising overnight, just tipping into the twenties as the moon slipped away. A sure sign the burning flesh is on its way.
Azriel’s chest lifts and lowers shallowly, breath rasping from desiccated lips. A sheen runs across his pale features, brows appearing closer to oil than ink. Heavy lids slide shut as you guide the slick hair over his forehead to the side, the backs of your fingers laying tenderly down—it’s nowhere yet even near the breaking point.
“Azriel?” You whisper, “Can you hear me?”
The restless flutter of his lashes alerts you to his awareness, eyes stirring beneath near translucent lids, mauve capillaries webbing through the thin flesh. He creeks himself apart—he’s gotten abruptly worse. Bloodshot hazel tries to shift about the room but he groans, eyes choosing to remain stagnant in his skull instead.
“How are you feeling?” You murmur, fingers retracting, splaying the notebook across your lap, pencil in hand. “My head…” Azriel rasps, voice more ragged than when you last heard it, like something’s come along and ripped it to shreds, “…it’s splitting.” Your brow furrows—Cassian reported he hadn’t received a blow to the head. He seemed appropriately injured yesterday, but for some reason he’s so much worse. Could the meat have been off? Surely not.
“Madja told me she administered a balm to your skin before dawn, is the rest of your body aching?” You inquire, considering applying a fresh layer to ease the pain that’s begun to bubble back up.
“My stomach’s starving…” Beneath the cream cotton covers his arm passes over his abdomen, resting. “It’s like someone’s grinding me up between stones.”
“Okay hold still, the balm might feel cold but I’ll apply some more.” Already you’re pulling back his covers, preparing to begin warming the cream between your palms to encourage its goodness to act swiftly but something catches your attention. While there’s no need for bandages over his torso, his thigh has been wrapped and sanitised, now mottled with something dark and not-quite blood coloured. More concerning is the black tissue stitching together the sections where his stomach had been gauged open, thin threads of necrotic flesh lacing his surface.
Your jaw bites itself together, cold overtaking your spine. Whatever’s happening to him is different from general infection.
Lips part as a soft curse slips out—venom? Impossible. The beasts have never been reported to posses glands like that. But it’s the only explanation.
Considering explanations though…was the reason for their seemingly random switch in nature ever understood? Before now the chimeras never bothered the Illyrians, cohabiting up in the steppes peacefully, as far as you’re aware. What catalysed this sudden shift in nature?
Another noise of deep-rooted pain groans through his chest, oil-black brows condensing to a point in the middle of his forehead, skin shining with the movement as feverish sweat breaks across his features. Your own brows furrow, heart beating frenetically, “Azriel…?”
His teeth grit, jaw grinding as if in pain, and his breathing becomes ragged; irregular and torn at the seams. Again you lay your fingers across his brow, and he’s noticeably hotter than before, almost burning in comparison.
Water. He needs water.
“Azriel,” you try but his eyes are shut tight, the fabric of his sheets darkening in a close perimeter around his body, sweat staining the cloth. “Azriel I need you to drink some water,” you urge softly, taking the glass and sliding your palm beneath his head, inclining him from the pillow and bringing the chilled glass to parched lips. He drinks deeply, polishing off the water swiftly and you stand to go in search of a rag to lay across his brow. It brings only a temporary reprieve before he’s panting once again. Teeth worry your lower lip.
Whatever’s happening, it isn’t normal.
“Azriel, I’m going to speak with Rhysand briefly. I’ll be back in three minutes,” you tell him gently, pressing the glass back into his palm. “Drop this on the floor if you need me sooner; I’ll hear it.”
Then you’re off into the hallway. Either male will do, but something was wrong with those creatures, and your instincts are telling you it needs to be gotten to the bottom of, and swiftly.
A life might depend on it.
————
It must be the goodwill of the Mother than allows both Cassian and Rhysand to be at that moment in the latter’s office, heads turning when the door is thrown wide.
Apology passes briefly through your eyes but as soon as you step foot in the room it vanishes, door clicking shut as you hurry into the room. “Cassian, I need to you get me one of those chimeras. Dead or alive, but preferably dead. Something’s wrong with Azriel and I think it’s to do with the change in behaviour we’ve been seeing from those animals.”
Violet eyes flicker, “What’s wrong with Azriel?”
“I don’t know,” you inform, expression hard. “His flesh is turning necrotic in places around the wounds and his fever isn’t breaking. Madja reported his temperature increasing around two o’clock this morning and the way he is now makes it seem as if he’s on the third day and untreated.” You turn to Cassian. “I need one of those Chimeras to examine, as quick as possible. They aren’t supposed to carry venom but it seems a mutation is the only reasonable explanation, in which case we need to figure out what that means and fast, or else we won’t have enough time to figure out what that means for your brother and to cure it.”
The General glances once to the High Lord, sharing a nod before Cassian’s making a swift departure, urgency underlying his movements in a way you hope won’t get him wounded. It makes you call after him. “Whatever you do, don’t be reckless. If you get hurt up there or bitten then both of you will be at risk. This isn’t a time to be cutting corners.”
A muscle in his jaw feathers. “I know.”
Then he’s gone.
Sweat glides down your spine, if he’s as swift as he was the night they returned then the journey there and back should take under an hour. Add on the time to locate and kill a chimera…a few hours, tops. With the rate Azriel’s fever is developing, it’s all you can spare.
Violet eyes are strained when you next meet them, but you’ve little time for further apology as you ask, “How is Feyre doing?”
“Resting,” Rhysand replies, the stern grit of his voice telling you he already knows why you’re asking. Your jaw tightens, shoulders tensing at that tone, something inherent wanting to turn away from that fiercely protective look in his face, warning you not to suggest what you know you have to.
“If worst comes to worst,” you say, quietly.
Rhysand’s expression doesn’t give for a long while, and you fight to keep firm. Until tension flickers through his violet eyes. “It’s her choice,” he relents, tension taut, the whites of his knuckles disagreeing with his words. “But if she tries to give too much, if you don’t stop her then I will.”
You nod grimly, understanding the order well enough.
If Feyre tries to give Azriel more blood than she can afford, you’re to pull her back.
Even if it costs his brother’s life.
————
The sun is down, and Cassian still isn’t back.
The rain lashing at the windows and snarling round the house feels like an omen, shadows dancing like snakes across the floor every time a bolt of lightening fractures the sky. Deadened leaves whip through the howling winds, a deluge crashing down on Velaris.
On the bed, shivering and drenched, is Azriel, pallid skin glistening with a deathly pallor. His surrounding sheets have been doused in sweat, a sour, sick smell filling the room, the stagnant odour of the ill. The black threads of flesh have begun spreading further, thickening into sluggish stumps, streams of necrosis reaching across his stomach; snaring his far leg.
If Cassian isn’t back soon, you’re going to have to try and cut it out from the roots.
Madja lays her hand over the slope of your shoulder and you exchange glances; she’s come to the same conclusion you have, her normally warm features for once showing a grim set. You turn your body from Azriel, dipping your head so he won’t be able to hear, though you doubt he’s in any state to eavesdrop.
“How much longer?” You whisper lowly, eyes glued to the dark floorboards, unable to lift them any further. Madja glances once over her shoulder, a heavy silence filling the air. “Minutes,” she answers. “He has minutes to get back here.” You swallow—those are near impossible chances. The odds were steep enough without the crashing storm outside hindering visibility.
“You’ll take his stomach?” You whisper, pushing past the lump in your throat. Madja nods, “Fetch two bowls of water. I’m going to speak with Feyre; see how she’s holding up.” She’s probably quickly becoming the last gleam of hope to give Azriel a fighting chance of surviving until Cassian arrives.
Or until he bleeds out from the incisions you’ll be forced to make to cut away the rot.
Azriel stirs in the bed once you return from the washroom, setting the second bowl down and approaching his side. Once more, you lay the backs of your fingers across his dampened forehead, sticky sweat smearing your skin but it’s nothing compared to the fierce heat radiating from his skull. His temperature has been teetering into the forties for a while now.
Something like a groan strains through his chest, the tendons in his throat flexing as he swallows, and you lift his head from the pillow, bringing the chilled glass to his peeling lips. He’s too weak to push the drink away, hardly strong enough to swallow, and a cool trickle slips from the side of his mouth, streaming over his jaw and into the cushion. Azriel tilts his head when he’s done, and you pull away, setting the glass down upon the cramped side table.
Hazel eyes crack themselves open, except now they’re a mix of yellow and black—pupils blown so wide they’re practically swallowing his irises, the whites of his eyes souring to a sickening yellow, like the congealed scum of rotten milk, red rimmed and watery.
‘Hot,’ he mouthes. Barely. It’s the near silent touch of his tongue to the roof of his mouth that gives the word away.
You don’t know what to do anymore. There’s nothing else you can do, besides offering water.
“Azriel, can you hear me still?” You ask, crouching down to be by his side, mixing your hand with his. He groans, fingers weakly flexing around your own. It’s a small piece of hope, that he isn’t yet completely gone. You lean closer. “Just a little longer, Az,” you whisper, thumb swiping back and forth gently over his burning skin, “You need to keep going. You can’t leave them behind.”
His hand is silent in your own.
Where is Cassian?
A shadow careens past the window and a flashing red thud slams into the front garden, the doors being blown open a few moments later as fresh rain and howling wind whips inside, sparing not a second in removing mud-caked boots or blood-slicked leathers before he’s marching into the house. From the floor below you hear his name called out, but there’s no cause for relief.
Voices murmur and footsteps hurry, boots clumping about on the lower floors and you hurry to the bedroom door, looking just in time to see Rhysand near the top of the staircase. “Does he have it?” You call, the pound of your heart making your voice breathless. Rhys nods but his eyes are dark and unusually shadowed, “He has it.”
It’s only when he descends the case that you spot the thick book he had clutched beneath one arm on his far side, as if anxious to keep it as hidden as possible. You want to follow, to see the chimera for yourself, lend Madja a hand in trying to understand what’s mutated within the beast to cause such a drastic shift but that’s not your job at the moment. Your job is to look after Azriel. Even if all you can do is sit by his side and watch as he dies.
Tension stitches your jaws together, but you force yourself to turn away, shutting the door once more to return only for a scream to claw and rip from your throat.
Blunt teeth are digging into the flesh of his forearm, biting and gnawing as blood paints his lower jaw, spilling down onto his chest, trickling along his arm. You run forward, trembling fingers searching for that point that will spasm the muscle enough for his jaw to unlock.
“Azriel!” You scream, “Azriel stop! You need to stop it!”
Thick blood oils your fingers, his teeth releasing the bitten flesh only to clamp down a fraction of a second later, locking themselves in place as muscle flexes in his jaw, straining beneath the pressure he’s clamping down with. You fumble, hands shaking as he tries to rip himself apart. You search again, fingers digging into his jaw but he writhes on the bed, wings flaring wide enough to send everything on the side table smashing to the floor, throwing you to the ground in a mess of fractured glass and gushing, freshly bloodied water.
The leather-bound notebook is soaked, ink bleeding across the pages but that’s not what you currently care about. Instead you grip the book from the floor, flying to your feet as you surge forward, nails screaming out in pain as you try to forcibly pry his teeth apart, pushing the spine of the book forward.
“Azriel…!” You hiss, straining against his sudden display of strength. “Bite! Bite down on this…!”
For a few dreadful seconds it looks like he’s going to bleed himself to death, but then his teeth release just long enough for you to shove the hard leather of the thick notebook into his mouth, vicious canines stabbing through the outer layer in one swift bite. Clamping down firmly.
There’s no time for relief, no time for fixing the jagged mess on the floor, nor for celebration, as you take in the fresh blood staining his lower face. Azriel’s wounded arm tries to lift from the bed but more blood gushes out and you have to pin it down until the message reaches his pain-twisted mind and he uses the other to change the positioning of the book in his mouth, angling and biting, slowly chewing the leather to pieces, digging his canines into the notebook repeatedly as if he’s teething.
Footsteps pound along the corridor just as you finish forcing Azriel’s flesh back together, door flying wide as Madja bustles through, a glass vial of pure black liquid grasped in her weathered hand, Rhysand just a step behind. Neither ask what’s happened, why there’s so much blood staining sheets and flooring and sallow skin.
Dark brown eyes flash once over the Shadowsinger before Madja’s figuring her order—one both you and Rhys know before it even leaves her mouth—“Hold him down.” Rhysand takes the side the Azriel’s leg wound is on while you stick where you’ve remained, but even with you leveraging all your weight over his bloody, shredded arm it’s near impossible to keep him down.
The book comes away in tatters when Madja manages to pry it from his mouth, jaws snapping, black ruby teeth glittering wildly as he searches for something to bite, all the while the storm roars on outside, thunder rumbling through miserable grey skies, so deep it’s in the floorboards.
“Rhys,” you hiss out, “can you do anything?” If he can slip inside and provide even a temporary moment so Madja can get the remedy down the Shadowsinger’s throat. The High Lord’s jaw tightens with the effort it’s taking to keep his brother down, teeth gritting as he shakes his head, “there’s nothing to go into. It’s just wind and shadow in his mind.”
“We have to do something,” you force out, looking between them. “He’s not going to drink it like this-”
“And we can’t waste this vial,” Madja finishes grimly.
Rhys’ head lowers, hair falling over his brow like dozens of spider legs, tension gripping his shoulders, then he’s bellowing Cassian’s name, the roar so loud you’re surprised the room doesn’t collapse in on itself, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. A few moments later heavy boots are lopsidedly clumping up the stairs, the General swaying as he hauls himself through the door. “Take her place. Keep him down,” Rhysand orders through gritted teeth. It seems Cassian’s barely keeping himself conscious, but still he manages, no time to pause.
As soon as Cassian’s hands have taken over you retreat, darting around Azriel’s thrashing wing to be at Madja’s side. His blackened eyes are wild, back arching from the bed as pain lances through his body, teeth still flashing with furious hunger.
“Azriel,” you yell, crusted palms laying either side his mouth, cupping his jaw as you attempt to still the wild thrashing of his body without losing any fingers. “Azriel, look at me. Look at me.” Blown out pupils stare up at you, yellowed eyes sore and so, so wrong. “That’s it,” you manage, forcing your voice to calm, “You know us. You remember us.”
His upper lips curls in a snarl and blood seeps from the broken skin, so dried out and desiccated that it splits at the slightest stretch.
“You remember us,” you repeat, thumbs stroking back and forth, swiping the edges of his mouth tenderly, “Don’t you? Remember Cass and Rhys? They’re your brothers.” Oil-black brows narrow, but the two other males are having better luck holding him down than before, so you push forward.
Your hold tightens and you lean closer, almost sharing breath. “Do you remember your name?” You ask softly, soothingly stroking his cheeks, ignoring the blood soaking your hands. “It’s Azriel,” you whisper, “You’re Azriel.”
His eyes shutter, struggling again but you hold firm. “You just need to hold on a little longer, Azriel. We have a remedy, but you need to drink it first.” Sharp, black eyes scan your features, cutting back and forth across your expression, his face still twisted in partial fury, shadow and wind roaring outside but his struggling has lessened enough for the antidote to be administered.
Yet as soon as you pull away his wings flare outward, the bed creaking as the powerful limbs thrash, a vicious snarl ripping from his throat and both Cassian and Rhysand are nearly knocked back from the force of his retaliation.
“Azriel…” You plead, nails digging into his cheeks, dragging his attention back. “Azriel, please,” you beg, “hold still.” Icy breath repeatedly hits your chin, his panting becoming shallower and shallower by the second, yet he shows no signs of giving in. Pure panic drips down your spine, hands shaking as you hold onto him for dear life.
“We have to try,” Madja whispers, not directed at you. In your periphery, Rhysand nods in agreement, but it won’t work. He’ll send the vial flying, just like the glass and the bowl, shattering on the floor, destroying the precious cure with it.
A hot tear splashes down onto Azriel’s bloody cheek, a second droplet falling soon after, soundless compared to the raging storm outside. Thunder and lightening zeroing to silence as you look at him.
Thumbs swipe back and forth across his skin. He can’t die.
You swallow, sparing a moment to look at Madja. “Give it to me,” you whisper.
Madja hesitates.
“Let me give it to him,” you plead, able to feel Azriel’s sluggish pulse beneath your hands.
Silence hangs in the air, then Rhysand nods. “Try.”
Beneath all of you, Azriel begins to stir again, the soothed state you’d gotten him into already so quickly slipping away. Slipping through your fingers.
Madja offers you the vial, and in one movement you’ve poured the contents into your own mouth.
The liquid is thick and congealed across your tongue, vile and putrid but then you’re pressing your mouth to Azriel’s, his bloody lips freezing beneath your own, peeling and ripped in places but they part for you, your thumbs still stroking as you tilt yourself over him.
Your mouth opens for his, and the remedy flows into him, spilling down his throat.
This time both Illyrians are ready and braced as Azriel writhes and thrashes on the bed, lip curling in revulsion as the foul tasting liquid is swallowed down his throat, wings flaring and flapping, knocking back and forth so violently the bed groans like it might finally give way. Fury twists through Azriel’s features and you recoil as his fangs sting at your lips, hot, fresh blood bubbling into his mouth before you can even realise he’s bitten you.
You pull away, forcing your hands over his chest, Madja now beside Rhys as you all try to keep him down. Heaven knows what he’s mad enough to do with the pain carving his mind apart.
By the time he settles, you’re all breathless. But it’s done. He took the remedy.
Slowly, you stand, each of you bracing as if he might start back up at any second and you need to be ready to jump back into place. But he remains still. Dead still, but you can pick out the small pulse in his throat. You cling onto that pulse, desperately.
At last you all pull away, and Rhysand drags a hand down his face, you and Madja glancing to one another with a mix of emotion. To your left, Cassian sways, then his legs give out, body thudding as his knees his the floor, the rest of him giving out now the task is complete. You’ve each done everything you can; pushed to the limit, and possibly beyond.
“Mother’s grace,” Madja whispers in thanks, and you do the same, sending a prayer to the sky, hoping it will be enough. She nods to herself once, twice, three times. Easing in a few steadying breaths before straightening, swallowing. “Cassian,” she names, addressing the body on the floor and you don’t fault her for her breathlessness, “we need to find him a bed.”
You nod, panting. “Rhys and I can manage,” you breathe, exhausted. “Can you take cleanup in here?” You ask, moving with Rhysand to grip Cassian beneath his arms, only now spotting the blood on his leathers, though it’s too much of a mess in here to judge who it belongs to.
Madja nods solemnly, and between you and the High Lord, you manage to lift the fearsome General from the ground, hefting him out into the hallway, taking the room immediately next door and laying Cassian on the bed there.
You slump against the wall, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand when you realise the foul taste is still there, having been obscured by the metallic flavour of your own blood.
Rhysand remains stood over Cassian, looking down at his brother with an expression you can’t read. It’s none of your business, either way.
Your nose wrinkles, pulling your sleeve over your hand and spitting into the fabric, wanting to rid yourself of the vile taste. “Fuck. What was in that?” You gag, looking forward to a glass of water to clean your mouth out and a wash.
The hairs at the nape of your neck prickle, and you lift your head to find dark violet watching you from across the room. You’d apologise for cursing, but that doesn’t seem to be the reason for his look.
Description: Two spymasters of different courts get sent on the same mission. What could go wrong?
Warnings: Smut, knife play, a bit of blood, enemies to lovers, dirty talk
Word Count: ~3k
Rating: 18+ MDNI
Kinktober 2024 Masterlist
People were filtering out of the banquet hall bit by bit, you almost wanted to sigh in relief, this had felt like the longest night. The corset was eating at your skin - it really shouldn't have been something you did by yourself, you tightened it far too much, - and the wine would have started getting to you if this night carried on much longer, something that you couldn't have let happen, especially with him here.
The Night Court's Spymaster had scarcely looked at you this whole time, pretty much ignoring your presence as your disguise called for, but even a quick glance was enough to make your skin burn. Maybe it wasn't such a good thing the banquet was ending, it meant you had to face him sooner. The thought makes you down the rest of your wine, drunken cheers erupting from the people around you.
Cozying up to rich and presumptuous nobles was unfortunately one of your strengths, you could talk almost anyone out of their secrets on nights like this, which is why Eris sent you here last minute, not wanting to lose ground on the Night Court.
You have been Eris' unofficial spy since before he had become High Lord, you considered him one of your closest friends really, and that's exactly why he had appointed you as his Spymaster when he took the throne. Over the years his and the Night Court's alliance had grown and shifted, never quite losing their initial animosity but working towards common goals. This meant you've had the displeasure of working with Azriel on multiple occasions.
Just as the last few attendants stand up, you mix in with the crowd, walking behind them for most of the way before turning a corner and disappearing from their sight, carefully making your way back to the banquet hall where the shadowsinger is waiting with his back turned to the door, powerful wings now on full display after being hidden behind a glamor.
As soon as you close the door, letting your exhausted body fall against it, he turns to you, hazel eyes dragging over your body untamed. You take this moment to study him as well. It will always take you by surprise how unbelievably beautiful this male was.
The two remaining candlesticks barely illuminated the room but Azriel always thrived in the dark. The dark blue suit he wore looked more expensive than anything you had ever seen him in, and Gods did it look downright sinful on him. He had to send his shadows away during dinner, but now they had returned, swirling around his form, making him look even more imposing. If you didn't know better you would have thought he was the High Lord of darkness himself.
Your eyes meet at last after studying each other's bodies and choices of attire, the tension in the room making you swallow as you struggle to fall back into your role as spymaster, your role as his reluctant ally from a court he had made quite obvious he despised with passion.
“I'm not sure how this alliance is supposed to prosper when you keep hiding things from us, shadowsinger,” you start, walking closer to the table in between you.
“I'm here on private Night Court business.” He tracks your movements, hazel eyes studying the way you hold onto the back of a chair as he continues, “It doesn't concern you.”
“Really? From what I gathered this affects the Autumn Court too.”
“It won't affect anyone if we stop them in time,” he dismissed you easily.
“They want to summon a God, Azriel,” you remind him, your glare sharpening.
“After I share all my findings with Rhysand I'm sure he will call a High Lord meeting and inform everyone accordingly.”
The more your mood soured, the more his shadows stretched out towards you, braving the lights on the table in favor of reaching your body. They were powerful weapons, powerful beings, but you've learned they can give away their singer's emotions and intentions if unchecked.
“You know what I think?”
“I'm sure you'll tell me anyway.”
“I think this need you have to always be the one to figure everything out on your own and making yourself useful comes from being that insecure little kid who couldn't even fly.” The vile words fall from your mouth far too easily, it's almost like you're always trying to prove the rumors about you right. “Scared they'll throw you away? Find someone better than you?”
You thought his shadows would crawl up your body at the verbal attack, maybe even try to hide his if you truly crossed a line, but much to your surprise they scatter around the room instead. Azriel's head tilts to the side, a smirk falling onto his handsome face as he starts walking around the table, slowly making his way to you. It takes far too much self control for you not to back away, years of training and experience rendered null in his presence.
Azriel wouldn't hurt you, that would compromise the alliance between your courts, and, as cruel as your words had been, they were also true, - he would be too scared of the repercussions of failing his brother far too much, - but that wasn't what made your heart race so. You were scared of what else he could do to you, of what you would let him do.
His hand reaches to cup your face, and you struggle to keep up the glare as you take in the hunger in his eyes. Azriel hums when you make no move to pull away, eyes dropping to your chest for a moment before meeting yours once again, letting you know he could hear the way your heart was trying to escape through your ribcage.
“You really don't know how to do anything else but bite when you get backed into a corner, do you?”
His voice sounded deeper as he whispered so close to you, his breath hitting your face as you looked up at him.
“What else am I supposed to do?”
Azriel lets out a cruel chuckle, leaning in until his lips brush against yours. “I thought you already knew you can drop the act when it's just me,” he murmurs, “guess I'll need to show you again.”
His lips fall over yours as soon as the words leave his mouth, your hand coming up to hold the back of his neck, pulling him in even closer. It had been far too long since you had last tasted him and you needed more, needed to drown yourself in him.
His own hands start trailing down your body, pulling up the skirt of your dress until it gathers at your waist, lifting you up onto the table and standing between your legs before you have the chance to react, always getting so lost in him.
“What are you doing?” You ask, pulling away as you try to remember yourself, remember your role and where you are. Anyone could walk in this room and find you like this. You don't know what would be worse: everyone figuring out you were spies working to uncover their whole operation, or someone seeing the spymasters of two opposing courts tangled up like this.
“As long as we are in this house we need to keep up our cover,” Azriel explains against your neck, unwilling to let you hold on to your sanity, “Can't you hear them upstairs? We're the odd ones out.”
You had been so caught up in him you hadn't even noticed the mingling scents and wanton moans traveling all the way from up the stairs. It almost sounded like the universe was working against you. Tightening your grip on his silky hair as he moves lower, kissing your skin all the way down to the neckline of your dress.
He stands up suddenly, eyeing your covered body one more time, before pulling out his trusted dagger, Truth Teller, and running its tip down your throat lightly, the cold blade barely touching the skin. Your eyes widen a bit, but the way his track the blade's movements makes you relax against it. It looks like you're in for an unforgettable night.
“This is a beautiful dress. It was incredibly hard to keep my eyes off you the whole night,” he says, eyes meeting yours for a split second, “but it's getting in the way now.”
“It's an expensive dress, Azriel.” Your voice was far too breathy for this to sound like a heartfelt complaint. He humors you all the same.
“I'll buy you a new one,” he promises just as the sharp blade starts cutting at the corset holding your dress tight against your skin, destroying the fabric far too easily. Gods, he could cut your skin so easily if he wanted to.
He throws the offending corset aside, making you finally breathe properly for the first time tonight. As you take a deep breath, his scent assaults your senses, making the wetness gathering in your underwear grow even more. You bring his lips back to yours but he only allows you a short kiss before he's pulling away again.
Just as you go to protest, he gets back to work with his knife, running the cold blade over your heated skin, sending shivers down your spine, gasps escaping you when he actually cuts through fabric after caressing your skin with the deadly weapon for so long.
By the time your dress was in shreds at his feet, and you were finally naked to his eyes, you were unbelievably turned on, so wet you think he could slip right in with no resistance.
“Lay down for me.”
It takes you a moment to fully think through what he wanted you to do, studying the shadowsinger intently for any sign of deceit. He lets you, simply staring back into your eyes, as open as you've ever seen him. The knife in his hand didn't feel threatening, not after he ran the blade all over your skin without so much as a scratch, and you fear you would never actually feel threatened by it as long as he was the one holding it.
You obey him, falling back against the table you had just been eating at, surrounded by a dangerous cult who was still lingering inside this very house, and could very well catch you both in this vulnerable state. He was right though, you couldn't help but at least show your teeth.
“Are you interrogating me now?”
Azriel hums, a dark, excited look falling over his eyes, one that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand, whether because of fear or anticipation you can't be too sure.
“We can do that,” he starts, running Truth Teller's hilt down your sternum, “It's not often I get the Spymaster of the Autumn Court under my knife after all.”
“And what do I get in return for answering your questions?”
The smile on his face grows, laying the knife down your torso, the blade fitting perfectly between your breasts, and spreading your legs apart further, helping you plant your feet on the table too, keeping you nice and open for his greedy eyes. “I think you know.”
“Did Eris send you here to spy on me or on them?” Azriel asks as he leans over you so he can meet your eyes properly.
The problem with this position is that you can't really keep your eyes on him, only seeing his shadowy figure through your peripheral vision unless he leans over you or you strain your neck. You felt completely at his mercy.
As if hearing your thoughts, - something you were sure only his High Lord and Lady could do, - his shadows gather under you, bringing in a rolled up table cloth so you could hold your head up, and meet his eyes. Being confronted by his hazel eyes again makes you clench around nothing, momentarily forgetting everything else.
“Both,” you answer honestly. It's not like you both didn't already know the truth. “You keep hiding things from us so what other choice do we have?”
“Your High Lord isn't entitled to know about everything that happens in Prythian,” he scoffs, his disdain for Eris so obvious it almost makes you flinch when he touches you again, his thumb running down your stomach, from the tip of his knife to where you needed him most.
“Neither is yours.”
Now it was his turn to glare up at you, leaning over your body and looking down with sharp eyes. You almost think this would turn into another argument before he keeps running his thumb down your folds, collecting your wetness and spreading it around, not quite giving you what you needed.
“Tell me,” he starts, picking up the dagger once again, “have you told your High Lord you keep letting a bastard like me fuck you?”
It's only when blood starts dripping down his wrist that you notice he had grabbed the dagger by the blade. Just as you go to get up and stop him, not wanting to see him hurt, he runs the hilt of his favored dagger over your folds just like he had done with his fingers, getting it coated in your wetness, and making you stop in your tracks as a gasp escapes you.
“Would you tell him how easily you fall apart on my cock?” His intentions were becoming clear in your mind, and for some sick reason it was only making you wetter instead of scared. “Need an answer, little spy.”
“No,” you confess, eyes staring back into his, silently begging him to do something.
“Embarrassed?”
“Not of you.”
The problem wasn't him. You were embarrassed of how easily you forget yourself when he so much as looks your way, even though he's more enemy than ally and makes his hate for your court and High Lord well known every time you meet. You're embarrassed at how you still let him touch you like this and be a constant presence in your thoughts knowing he would kill the person that saved and gave you the opportunity to be someone of importance in a heartbeat.
A shadow passes by his eyes, you're not sure what it meant, but luckily he doesn't linger in unwanted thoughts either, spreading your folds apart with his thumb as he starts feeding your cunt the hilt of his dagger. You tighten involuntarily around the unfamiliar material, even though you were so wet you were dripping down onto the table under you.
Azriel lets out a sigh at the sinful sight, circling his thumb around your clit. “Relax for me,” he murmurs, “I promise I'll make you feel good.”
And as usual your body listens to him immediately, allowing him to slowly insert the hilt of the dagger completely inside you. The scent of his blood mixed in with your arousal was making your head spin, and you can't help but call out his name, ready to beg if that was what it took. It seems his patience was wearing thin too as he starts pumping Truth Teller inside you, slowly fucking you with his dagger.
“Fuck, you look perfect.”
You should definitely feel a bit ashamed at the noises erupting from your lips, but if you did it was only adding to the pleasure, a high building inside you far too rapidly. You stand no chance as he leans down and sucks your clit into his mouth, circling his tongue around and speeding up his thrusts, your hands falling to his hair, tightening around his curls painfully, keeping him right there.
Your orgasm almost takes you by surprise as you let out an untamed moan of his name, the Spymaster's name echoing around the room like it couldn't get you both killed. Your legs dangle over the table again, trembling slightly as your body works you through the intense pleasure.
Azriel's mouth only abandons you when you start pushing at his head, too sensitive as you come down. His dagger follows, the sound of it being placed on the table next to you making you open your eyes and look at it, heat spreading to your face and ears as you do, still soaked with your cum on its hilt and his blood on the blade.
You look his way to find him studying it as well, his bloodied hand holding onto your hip, staining your skin as well. He was so focused that the shadowsinger didn't even notice you sitting up until you grab the back of his neck and pull him into a passionate kiss, feeling even needier now than when you first started even though you just came so hard you had seen every star in the sky.
Azriel returns the kiss with the same intensity, both of you getting lost in each other's taste and touch. Time seemed to stop around you. His hand travels up your body, painting his blood over your skin, making your scents mix completely into one, until you were anyone that walked into this room wouldn't be able to tell them both apart.
You feel him tense up against you suddenly, lips freezing against yours, prompting you to pull away, scared something had happened. Your eyes fall on the door immediately, thinking one of the cult members had wandered in, hand reaching for his dagger, but when you find the door still closed and no one even close to this room your eyes fall on his questioningly.
What you find in his wide hazel eyes scares you more than anything else could, ice running through your veins, snuffing out your fire as you see an inescapable fate come alive, shackling you together. His dagger drops onto the table once more, slipping through your fingers.