cookie

19 - she/her

[inevitable-confusion]

NAVIGATION (v.1).

WARNING: i interact with nsfw content! please DNI or block if that makes you uncomfortable.

tag list! mostly for me lol

[tonycries]

Superman

Synopsis. Hot superheroes.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, superhero!JJK men, Venom, slight tentacIes, sIight bréeding, aphrodísiacs, rough s, spítting, chokíng, p sIapping, p talking, manhandIing, HEADLOCKS, matíng presses, enemies-to-Iovers (Geto), handcuffs, pIot, REACTIONS, paparazzi, x-ray vision, super strength, heightened senses, true form!Sukuna, four arms, POWERS, ínappropriate use of powers, making superheroes BREAK, creampíes, cúmpIay, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Mwahahaha…

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Venom.

“So…let me get this straight-” Temples throbbing—you’re unsure whether that was from just how many times your boyfriend’s had to explain his particular…conundrum to you, or from the conundrum itself.

And Toji sits in front of you with his hands clutched on top of the table- almost in a pleading motion. He looks around warily at the other people in this bustling café - why on Earth he decided to choose such a public place for such a confession was inconceivable to you.

It was a wonder in and of itself when you don’t burst into hysterics, “You were in your lab working on some experiments you should definitely not have been working on-” Shooting him a look that receives you a sheepish grin. “-and ended up getting infected by some…parasite?”

“Symbiote.”

“Right. Symbiote.” You correct tightly, “And this symbiote can talk, think, and even make itself known through you?”

“Ah- pretty much.” Toji shrugs.

“And this symbiote wants to see me why-”

“You’re ovulating.”

The café seems to come to a standstill around you. 

Servers, customers, even the new intern that’d been blatantly dozing off at the counter jerks his head up and throws a glance at your table—or more accurately to figure out the utterly inhuman voice that’d erupted from your table. 

It was deep. It was gravelly.

It sounded like - in its alien desperation to assimilate to this society - it’d meshed together as many human voices as it could possibly make, and in the end had come up with something that sounded like everything but.

And, of course, that voice had come from your boyfriend of three years.

Toji Fushiguro.

Though he was either ignorant or uncaring - knowing Toji, it was likely both - to the stares that were being thrown his way. He was far too busy fussing around this…symbiote and its separate thoughts and voices, batting around his head as though shooing away a particularly annoying fly. But you’d seen it—fuck, for the briefest second, you’d seen it…the way that this black, murky substance not quite of Earth-like matter had flickered over Toji’s handsome face for a second.

Slime-like skin.

Haunting white eyes.

A long, loooooooong tongue.

You shudder just imagining it.

“Sorry ‘bout that, doll.” Toji grits out- “His name’s Venom and he’s a real pain in the ass.”

You’re barely thinking twice before you utter, “And…how can we fix this?” 

Voice nothing more than a whisper. Though perhaps owing to those suddenly-honed senses of his, Toji can hear you perfectly. “According to my hypothesis, there should be one way in which once the symbiote is completely satiated of its more…base needs, then it parts peacefully with the host. But this is still unfounded- besides, I’d never fuckin’ ask you to-”

“I’ll do it.”

Toji pauses.

“Eh?”

And you’re meeting his shocked expression with one of pure steel, “I’ll do it.”

.

.

.

In almost no time, you’re back in Toji’s laboratory and bent over his desk—what had meant to be a trail run- what had meant to be a simple discussion with the symbiote to test Toji’s hypothesis had ended up with the most looooong, lecherous thrusts being pumped into the back of your cunt.

Your thighs clench together, moans echoing out and hitting the four corners of the walls.

Just the simplest plaps! of Toji’s ravenous hips comin’ down onto yours was enough to send your heels skittering- forced to stand up a little straighter. He’s cleanly lifting you off a few inches just with the probin’ thrusts of his cock—and as Toji bottoms out once more, he’s rushing you straight into your nth high of the night.

Peak after peak.

Thrust after thrust.

The seventh round that you were feeling his thick, throbbing cock piston you through—though according to Toji, they were called trials. 

Trials during which those waves of bliss shred through your core n’ straight up to your muddled head- one that’s immediately getting bombarded by that same gravely tone from before.

“Mmm, you smell sweeter when you cum.”

You startle, “Wh-what was that?”

“Fucked so stupid you can’t hear? Humans are so interesting…” As you’re tentatively turning your head over your shoulder, you’re seeing that Toji’s figure was suddenly taller…towering…covered in that black, goo-like substance from earlier—his face splits from cheek to cheek with a sharp-toothed smile, and suddenly he’s letting escape the most bone-chilling laugh. “I wonder how much sweeter you shall smell when I plant you with my seed-”

“Okay, that’s enough-” Toji’s struggling to gain dominance of the symbiote- though you still weren’t sure how exactly the system worked. You’d determined that it was a dual rule, of sorts, in which one could ‘fight’ the other for control of the body. 

And right now, your boyfriend was the clear winner.

Groaning as he’s winning back control—and with the regaining of his body, he’s bombarded with the sudden sensations of your hot cunt enclosing around his shaft. Sucking. Slurping. Just so thick and throbbing to be even deeper inside you- you’re unsure whether this was just your overstimulated brain talking, but you could’ve sworn that Toji felt even bigger than usual-

“You’re welcome for that, heh.”

You jump, “Wh-what was that?”

“You’re fuckin’ welcome.” The symbiote in Toji’s body utters, and you’re shivering at the sensation of Venom’s looooong lavish tongue dripping down the side of your throat. Licking. “Venom can change shape however we like, we can make ourselves bigger…”

And you can’t fucking give a response to that—you can’t. Because just then that mazin’ tip of Toji’s cock is expanding far beyond what you’re used to.

He’s shovelling in even more inches than you knew he possibly had- he’s thrashing against your cervix and digging in as though he’d probe even deeper if he could- he’s swelling up so much inside your tight walls that it honestly feels as though you’re about to be split down the middle—

“Mmmm, became even sweeter. Heh, you liked that.” Those honed teeth of his graze over your neck, easy enough for him to tear through. “How about curved?”

Immediately bendin’ in such a delicious curve- one that strikes the end of his shaft directly against your g-spot. He doesn’t even have to try. 

Your thighs quake as you feel his flared mushroom tip swabbing n’ stirring and messing up your insides with such an extreme shape. Plunging. Prodding around. The degrees of his curvature bent juuuuuust the right amount that it’d hit most of your tender spots-

“Or what about tentacles-”

“Wait-”

“That fuckin’ jerk.” Soon enough, Toji’s interrupting whatever lecherous plan the alien had for you, and instead using his original cock to pinpoint your insides.

Though Venom might have had the ability to change his shape- absolutely nothing could match Toji. Nothing could match the way he’d already memorized the locations of your sweetest bundles of nerves n’ how exactly you liked them stimulated—whether it was the quick, rapid strokes of just his very flared tip, or the achingly long strokes that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Your back arches, and your moans crescendo louder than ever as your boyfriend reaches down to twiddle with your sensitive nub. “Right?”

Attempting to look back at him through your sobs, “Wh-what was that, baby?”

“I said—” Toji seethes out between haaaard strokes of his rugged cock- absolutely vicious. He wasn’t taking his time with you today, he was poundin’ your poor cervix raw with his tunneling tip. “Wasn’t he a fuckin’ jerk? Thinking that he’d be able to fuck my girl…”

“Y-yeah…” You’re acutely aware of the fact that Venom was hearing every single word being said. Likely simmering beneath. Likely attempting to regain control and make you spill the truth-

“Uh-huh?” But Toji was on a roll now. As the words spat between his scarred mouth grow faster, so do the ministrations on your pulsing clit. “Wasn’t he just delusional? Thinking that you’d like that alien cock- heh.”

Pathetically nodding along—unsure whether that was for the question or for just how good it felt. “Yeah, mmmm- fuck.”

“Right? And wasn’t he wrong?”

“Yeah-”

“Wasn’t he useless?”

“Y-yeah…”

“Wasn’t this pussy missin’ me?”

“Fuck, yes.” 

And what you’re faced with next wasn’t a question, an insult to Venom, or anything else that you might have expected- it was a sudden spank!

Right on top of your clit.

Right before Toji’s already-elongated cock swivels a few inches deeper than you remember him being able to before. Thicker. Meaner. The top of his shaft was swelling into a fatter circumference, and you swear you can hear the squelches of orifices you’ve never known being opened up—

His sharp canines gnaw down on the shell of your ear, and shivers run down your spine at the guttural tone of his voice. “Then why are you so fuckin’ wet, my little liar?”

“O-oh.”

Shit, he’d known.

He’d been able to hear you, too.

And now you were paying the price: you were feeling Toji’s relentless cadence but with Venom’s ability to bend and prolong his shaft as much as he wanted to. His tendrils of symbiote substance glissade down his cock and stretch out your walls just a bit more—wrapped just around where Toji’s already-massive length was.

And if you thought that that wasn’t enough- you’re damn near losing your mind at the feeling of those fingers twiddlin’ at your clit starting to tingle. Starting to transform.

Before you know it, they feel strangely…tentacle-like. They reminded you of Venom’s own tendrils, though with a sultry suctioning sensation to it that made your body wrack with pleasure- “Oh my god—fuck, Toji, how are you even-”

“You forget that Venom is a part of me now.” He murmurs through a grin, hips only accelerating. Cock only lengthening- fingers only suckling. “And you’re not getting out of this any time soon, doll. At least, not until we have our hypothesis.”

“Shit…”

“Hypothesis schmipothesis. I get to breed her after.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Superman.

“My love…” Just the way that Nanami uttered your sweet, sweet pet name…it was anything but. As though he was a man that’d worshipped every name, statue, and deity in the world—and the only one to answer his wretched prayers was you.

He whispers your name.

Lightning strikes.

Nanami was silhouetted against the tall floor-to-ceiling window of your apartment; his red-clad feet hovering just a few inches off the ground, chest emblazoning the famous ‘S’ of which you could only see the ghost-like outline. Like a faint memory. That long cape of his drapes behind his broad shoulders, flowing in a breezeless wind. His head was bowed. His face utterly expressionless. 

Moonlight falls upon him like a knighthood, but something more untoward.

The night was dark and so had been the day of fighting crime—or so you’d assumed. Usually, when your boyfriend arrived home it was with kisses to your cheek and bouquets of flowers. 

You had no idea what happened today, but…he doesn’t respond to a single one of your calls. Not a single one of your pleas. 

The only thing you can do is take a step forward-

And he jerks as though he’d just been shot by several of the lightning flares outside. A thousand bolts of electricity and even more, more, and more. Even though he had his gaze turned downwards, Nanami doesn’t need to see to sense you-

He already knew.

“My love.” He repeats, as though a broken CD. There was a wisp of something so carnal in his tone, something dark and drenched in…a desire that you couldn’t put your finger on. It was something that made shivers cascade across your body, however. “My love, don’t-”

“Don’t what, Kento?” You’re insisting, even though you fight yourself not to take another step forward as per his wishes. “I need to know what happened, baby.”

“You need to know.” He repeats once more—was he even capable of anything else? You’re starting to grow even more concerned and reconsider your internal pledge when- “I was injured.”

Concern pours over you like a bucket of cold water, “Injured? Where-”

“Not physically.” Nanami spits out through clenched teeth, every syllable difficult for him to enunciate as though coated in glue n’ sticking to the roof of his tongue. In the pale moonlight you could see that his skin was covered in a sort of perspiration - something almost feverish and flushed. “It’s- fuck, I need you to know-”

“Kento, I’m scared for-”

“I need to fuck you.”

And as he finally rushes out the confession, large exhales seep out of him like every bit of his remaining sanity—a weight had been lifted off. But little did he seem to realize that that weight was a keystone for a dam. 

And now he felt like he was about to fucking burst-

“Lex Luthor- latest invention—fuck.” Interrupting his own explanation with a rugged groan - not one that was quite pained, but not…not either. “None taken, no casualties.” Something crossed between rage and ecstasy. How very like Nanami to utter of other before himself- “But I was injected with- fuck—”

You take a step forward, “Kento-”

“-aphrodisiac.”

“Oh.” Heart stopping. Without even thinking, you’re taking a quick scan of his figure to make sure that he wasn’t bluffing about no physical wounds, and when all seems clear on his upper half, your eyes can’t help but drop to the area between Nanami’s chiselled legs - and your sweet boyfriend’s Superman outfit had always been particularly flattering on his body, but this—he looked about nine inches straight through his tight latex and throbbing. Aching. 

You can speak no longer, and him barely enough- “Stay away.”

Another step. “Kento.”

“Darling, I’m going to ruin you.”

And another. “I don’t mind.”

There isn’t the burst and then the frenzy of lips on lips, skin on skin, as you might’ve expected at first. No, not at all. Your words linger in the bedroom for a few more seconds - tight and tempting, just when you think that the tension in the air is going to stretch so taut that it might never snap—Nanami moves. 

Just the slightest action: he stops hovering. Setting his feet down on the windowsill for the first time - and it hits you just then why he hadn’t been touching any bit of your apartment for so long.

Because the moment that Nanami came in contact with any - any - part of you, he was going to go fucking insane. That is, if he didn’t have your pretty pussy to take it out on—in almost no time, you’re finding yourself pressed flat against your king-sized mattress and having your boyfriend’s thickened tip swirlin’ your insides. 

He was just so hot and needy.

Perhaps even greater in girth than you remember him - there was a vein down the middle of his length that stood out n’ massaged every inch of your insides. Throb-throb-throbbing away inside of you as the crowned edge of his shaft bottomed out- fuck, he doesn’t even spend the long, sensual hours of foreplay as he usually would.

Nanami merely throws your legs over his half-uniformed shoulder, merely clasps onto one side of your hips, merely tunnels his angry cock in and out—

In and out. In and out. You’re feeling him glide his handsome nosebridge down the column of your throat- stopping just where you were most sensitive, he’s twitchin’ in-between your puffy folds as he takes in your pheromones. Groaning, you swear you feel him grow even bigger inside of you—“My love—”

It’s that absolutely broken tone of his that makes you jerk your head in response. Blinking up tearily at the blond man, “K-Kento?”

His shaggy, golden bangs were curtained over his eyes n’ covering most of his gaze now - and you’re unsure whether you should be thankful or concerned that you couldn’t measure the sheer primal desire in them anymore. It was obscured from you—and all you’re getting revealed of him are the constant grunts whenever his ruddied cockhead hits the back of your pussy, his shivering hips, his mantra of your name. “I need to know…my love, I need to- fuck, are you okay?” 

“I am—” Strangely enough, it made your cunt grow even wetter to know that he’s caring so much about you even when he was in the depths of the effects of the aphrodisiac-

His mind was wiped clean of anything but his base needs- and yet, there was always a part of him that knew you were what’s most important. And the superhero reaches one roughened hand down to sweetly cup your face, dragging the tip of his thumb down to wipe away any beads of sweat- “Are you s-sure? I need you to be sure-”

“I am sure, Kento.” Insisting. And though you feel just a little awful for interrupting his well-meaning pleas—you also needed to feel his thick, textured cock hitting eeeeevery single inch of you. And though you’re at his complete and utter mercy, you can’t help but squirm your hips around to swivel more of his solid inches inside. “Please- fuck, I need more of you. Don’t hold back-”

“Fuh-fuuuuuuck—” A zig-zagging vein pops out on his forehead, freckled with sweat. “Don’t say that-”

“But I am saying that.” Wrangling your legs off of his sculptured shoulders- or at least, you’re attempting to. But Nanami only needs to drift a single hand up to keep you pliably in place—he’s locking both ankles behind his neck with one hand, long fingers holding them gently yet sternly. It’s all he needs to halt your restless hips as he hits a sensitive spot and ploughs iiiiiiin.

Thrust after thrust.

Again and again.

Every single one of them locates that cute target of your nerves- instantly, it was almost like magic. That deliciously curved end of his shaft manages to maze his way inside, spreadin’ apart your gluey walls and heading straight for that area—all he has to do is follow the channel of your cunt until he’s led straight to that spot he bashes nicely. 

Sloppily.

“Darling, you’re close.”

“I-I am?” Eyes shooting wide open- fuck, he’s right. It takes only one more thrust of his vein-covered cock for you to register the thrills of adrenaline shooting up your spine. You’re arching straight into his chiselled chest, “Oh, shit…I am.”

“My love didn’t know?” Nanami nearly titters. “S’okay…your Kento’s going to fuh-fuck you through it. Your Kento’s going to make you feel so good—ngh.”

And as he utters this, his cadence only grows sloppier.

“May I…” Just so cautious of the way you’re being jostled to n’ fro - of the way you’re nearly hitting the headboard, and the roundness of his balls smack! against your cunt. Nanami has enough clarity to feel almost…sheepish about the way that you’re clearly dumbed down on his cock. His greedy, greedy cock. “May I make you cum- oh, may I go…just a little harder?”

“Kento—” You’re pouting, “I want you to go harder-”

“I-”

“I want you to go the hardest.” And as he’s still half-uniformed, you’re able to reach up and twist your fist in the smooth fabric. Tugging him down, you snarl- “If you want me to cum, Kento, then you better not hold back.”

And Nanami doesn’t answer. He doesn’t utter a single syllable.

He’s merely slowing his hips down and reeling his hips back, back, backwards—he lets the rounded tip of his cock circle your hole for a few seconds. Just the slightest few seconds, before that pulsing length of his shoves deep inside- not even stopping at your g-spot, he’s heading straight for your womb. 

That soft, sopping womb of yours- “My love…” Just the last thing you’re hearing before you’re cumming, “My love, it’s going to take now.”

Blabbering, “Wh-what—”

“It’s going to take.”

And a thick, ropey warmth floods you deeeep from your core- spreadin’ into every nook, cranny, and crevice until you’re feeling a little lightheaded. “Did you really mean…” As your voice murmurs out in pure disbelief, those clingy wads of his cum get pinpointed into even the tiniest sweet spots inside of you—places that you weren’t even sure you had. He’s pressing his thickened tip against the sides of your walls and watching as your sweet, sweet juices get sprayed out. “You- you really didn’t mean…”

Nanami utters nothing but a few raspy groans, eyes locked on the forefront of your core as he shovels inside. Inside and inside. “I did.”

There was an intensity in his eyes that you swear you’re feeling against your skin- and you did. It burned. “Did it seriously—”

“It did.” And his round, reddened tip ends up sticking straight against your womb - fucking you through your own high, fucking you through his drivelling wads of seed. A final swat. “It did, my loves.”

And you’re noting the change of your pet name.

Because you already knew what he meant- it had taken. Nanami Kento was using his superhuman sight to peer through you, watching as his cum trickles into the deepest depths of your womb—and his mouth quirks up into a handsome grin as he notes that it’ll be…

A daughter. 

.

.

.

“Congratulations”

You gape at the screen.

And a quick glance at Nanami reveals that he was doing the very same- though perhaps in not such an outward manner. As soon as possible, you’re staring right back at the screen that showed a little bean of something your doctor was pointing towards and explaining—something that flows in one ear and out the other.

You were still registering that there was a little bean of something.

You don’t know when - it might be second, it might be minutes, it might be days later - but Nanami speaks. Something silent and barely-there, a breathless whisper as though he was afraid that it’d shatter the mirage shown on screen, “A-and…the…?”

He can’t complete his sentence. Though Dr. Shoko Ieri is a professional, and she picks up on what your husband means quite quickly.

He clasps your hand - newly-minuted gold wedding ring cold against your skin - and waits as she peers at the screen once more. Because he knows this—he knows this. He’s seen this with his superhuman vision. 

He’d told you a few months ago just then…

And yet, Nanami’s heart flips. 

She smiles warmly at the two of you, “It’s a girl.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Batman.

“It’s you.” Geto chuckles, “Why did I know that it would be you?”

The sound of his low, throaty laugh is enough to send shivers down your spine—-and…perhaps even lower. Though that’s not something you wanted to unpack right about now.

You had to remember where you were: the mansion of Geto Suguru, billionaire, playboy, mysterious down to the core. The mansion had been as expectedly gaudy and gilded as most rich people loved their homes, but what had drawn you to it the most had been the safe room, of course.

And so here you were standing with a couple gold bricks in your bag and a few more to be packed up- that shouldn’t take long, you assume. And with a careless sigh, you’re ignoring the man himself and getting back to loading them back in—“So? Happy to see me?”

“Oh, less than.” Geto replies. 

“Don’t lie~” Purring, the skin-tight latex of your suit twinkles underneath the rich yellow lighting as you’re turning back to him. You shoot a flirtatious wink his way, “I know this is going to be the source of your wet dreams for years after.”

“Nightmares, more like.” He hobbles a step closer. It puts you on edge.

“Then how about we keep some distance from our nightmares, hm?” You’re gathering up your large loot—much heavier than an average person would be able to carry, though you’re holding it daintily between your fingers with ease. “I come to rob you, you catch me robbing you, you let me go—it’s a win-win for everybody. I really wouldn’t want to use force…”

“And I wouldn’t want to use force either.” Geto smiles so pleasantly, “I don’t really care about the gold- but there’s a pearl necklace in there that used to belong to my mother. How about you leave that and be on your merry way, hm?” 

You pout, “But I liked the pearl necklace.”

And his gaze grows just a little sharper, “I’m afraid that can’t happen, kitty.”

“Oh, I loooove it when you call me that~” Fluttering your lashes at him.

He takes a step closer, “I know your games, Catwoman.”

“And yet you fall for them every time, Batman.”

Did you forget to mention that Geto Suguru - billionaire, playboy, mysterious and also perhaps the most attractive man you’ve ever set your eyes on - was also Batman? Despite that, you still had the most infamous crime-fighting vigilante wrapped around your finger as though he was nothing but a low-grade thief.

And he was trapped in your web now (what was the cat version of that, anyway?)

Leagues below you. He’s biting down on his plush, pretty lip to hold back a whimper as you’re reeling your hips aaaaaall the way back to squeeze his blushin’ tip—holding it there for a few seconds before you give the superhero a good bounce. 

Making him throw his head back with a groan- Geto lets out a slew of swears once you’re starting up the sloppiest cadence. Back and forth. “D-don’t get ahead of yourself, kitty…”

“What was that—?” Pretending to gasp, you’re teasingly leaning your body forwards in a mocking attempt to hear him better. “What was that, Bat? I didn’t hear you- was that a stutter I heard?”

“Fuck off-” Spitting between clenched teeth. Geto’s clasping onto either side of your naked hips, using that strength of his you loooooved being manhandled by to roll your hips in figure-eight motions - just drag-drag-dragging the outline of his cock along your sweet insides. You could feel every ridge n’ crevice of his veins decorating your walls, massaging them into something even softer he loved to fuck up into. 

The two of you were sitting - barely - on the luxurious armchair he had in his safe room. Creaking and ricketing with age every time that Geto arched his hips backwards and gave you a thorough probe—inside. And though you couldn’t say that you planned to end up here, you didn’t quite deny that you had plans to end up in his master bedroom - why else would you have gotten caught?

The both of you knew that if you’d actually wanted to steal something, then you would’ve been out of this damn mansion hours ago. 

Gritting his pearly white canines, Geto crushes your hips further down into his and ruts up into you—“Sh-shit….” 

“What was that about stuttering, gorgeous?”

“Fuck off—”

“I’m fucking you, actually.” He spits between clenched teeth, gyrating your hips around so that the cute nub of your clit rubs up against his fuzzy base. It’s such a carnal feeling to have those curls of jet-black massaging where you were most sensitive, getting more n’ more drenched by the second. By the motions of your dripping wet pussy. He’s snarling, “That’s fuckin’ right- wipe that smug look off of your face. I already know what you’re thinking.”

“Oh?” And you’re just barely managing to scrounge up whatever’s left of your sanity together to respond. “And what is that, Monsieur Bat?”

“C’est l’homme chauve-souris.” Geto rolls his amethyst eyes, “And it’s that you think you have me- fuck, underneath your kitty toes.”

“Kinky~”

However, he’s learned not to entertain you with yet another outburst—instead, Geto’s pulling all his energy into inching his hips backwards and planting another thorough thrust deep into the depths of your cunt. So hard that you think he might just have left a mark.

So accomplished in his grin that you think he might’ve been aiming for it

You wouldn’t have been surprised to know that billionaire playboy Geto Suguru liked to let everyone know that he was fucking you- especially you. The hottest cat burglar in all of Gotham. 

The same one he’s been infatuated with since the first time he saw you.

But he was fucking you like he hated you.

The sweetest thing he’s doing yet is cascading a hand down your front- left fingertip teasingly pressing your pussylips apart. It doesn’t take him long - not long at all - to find your pretty clit and draw a few circular motions on top of it—watching as you buck and whine straight into his hands. 

And the meanest thing he’s done yet is reach his other hand behind you.

Because suddenly you’re feeling something cold and metallic click! into place.

You gasp.

You should’ve known that crime-fighting vigilantes often worked from the shadows; from a darkness of which even your feline eyes cannot piece through. You didn’t have eyes in the back of your head, did you? Although perhaps Batman had a gadget for that, too…

And although you already know that you’re fucked- it’s not until the jingle of handcuffs emanates from behind you that you’re really letting the situation sink in. It’s not that you’re afraid of Geto or anything he could do to you, but…it’s just that you’re afraid of what you might do given this forced proximity.

Something stupid like- like admit your feelings to the ever-elusive hero or something. Disgusting. 

On top of that, you’re unable to motion your hips as you were doing so previously. Stuck pathetically grinding back into thrusts that he was already planting onto your cunt, the fatness of his girth sending you to the edge- 

You’re whimpering are you can’t do anything you’d usually do like clasp onto his pretty throat or shove your fingers down his mouth. “Sugu…aw, c’mon—”

“Now I’m Sugu?” Geto snickers, “What happened to Bat? Or loser? Or fuck off? Or I never-want-to-see-you-again?”

Fluttering your lashes innocently, “You know I jest.” To no avail, you’re attempting to slip out of those handcuffs as you’d have done with any other normal ones - but you knew better than to underestimate Batman. As you expected, no matter how much you’re squeezing and molding your hands against that metal, it keeps on adjusting to your shape and restraining you. Keeping you hostage. Only one look at him and you already know that Geto’d spent a fortune creating these…perhaps just for you. “C’mon, baby, let me out of these~”

“No can do, kitty.” He chuckles. And the audacity of this man- he’s straying his right hand down your spine and groping your ass—“Next time we’re keeping the suit on because I wanna pull your tail.”

You scoff.

And he raises one dark brow. Thumb pressing down even harder on your clit, “What was that?”

“N-nothing…” You whimper, entire body wracking with shivers. It’s a few more sloppy thrusts before you can thrust yourself to speak without your voice cracking again—you didn’t want to give more ammunition for his entertainment. “Oh, Geto Suguru, when I get out of these handcuffs I’m going to fucking-”

“Kill me?” He smirks, “We can see you try.”

“You think I can’t?”

Geto shakes his head. “No, I expect it. Just make sure you kiss me first.”

And you can’t deny - neither to yourself or him - that that’s leaving you even wetter than you’d anticipated. The sheen of your arousal dripping through his dark happy trail, leading down to that perfectly chiselled six-pack of his. 

He merely cracks a grin and plants his right hand on one side of your waist—drilling into you even harder than before.

“You know I love you, Bat.” You’re grumbling out almost reluctantly past the clogged mess of whines and moans and tears in your throat. 

“Mmm, love you, too, kitty.”

.

.

.

“Mister Geto, I have collected those crime reports that you requested me to-” Miguel’s deep tone halts immediately at the sight before him. He’s standing by the edge of Geto Suguru’s sprawling master bedroom - the subject of countless features in architectural magazines, and the dreams of high-society alike - eyes widening at the dual figures of you and his employer, bundled up and clearly unclothed beneath the covers. 

Clinging onto one another.

The crime-fighting vigilante and his criminal lover.

Though it wasn’t necessarily a secret around these parts that no matter how many women and men Geto Suguru meets, there will always be a certain cat-eared crime-lover he goes back to…Geto himself wouldn’t appreciate it if such word spread now, would he? This wasn’t the first time he’d crawled right back to you and this won’t be the last- hold on. 

Were his sunglasses deceiving him or was his cold, uptight employer actually smiling in his sleep? Heavens above, this might just be the last time.

This might just. 

Miguel settles for the thought that he’d tease the billionaire about it over dinner—very, very late dinner by the looks of it. 

He leaves the report on the nearest desk - of which there were many, because this is Geto Suguru that we’re speaking about - and heads towards the door. 

Taking one last peak.

Yeah, this might just be the last time. He trusts his intuition, that he’ll be walking into this scene more often than not in the coming years.

Yeah, this might just be for good. 

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Nightwing.

“Who knew that the Nightwing…” You’re purring—smiling like the cat that’s got the cream - or more like the hero that’s just caught her rival. “-sex symbol of Gotham, hottest man of the year, wanted by men and women and everyone in-between…”

And Choso merely bucks weakly beneath you - his hips stutterin’ with every single fucking milimeter that he’s shovelling inside of you.

Choso was red and furiously hot between your legs—thick. Throbbing even harder as he feels his ruddied, red tip scrape the bottom of your pussy; his fat cock twitches there a few times as he registers the soft, spongy platform he was feeling—this was…Those beautiful, brown eyes of his widen as it sinks in. Gasping. Shaking.

And it takes merely two - two - seconds of being stuffed inside you for the famed hero to throw his head back and cum.

And you’re finally finishing your sentence, “-a virgin.”

How had this all happened? How did you end up here?

You could blame it all on the spiked punch, you could blame it all on the lavish ceremony - the highs and lows of the red carpet, ah, they always did tend to make you feel a little more reckless than usual—what’s that saying about all publicity is good publicity? Or perhaps it was the fault of the Hero Awards altogether.

Gathered here with the most elite of the elite, the best heroes from around the world; where they patted one another on their backs and paraded in designer. Reporters starved for the attention of the saviours as much as any competent villain.

Though you couldn’t say too much about them - you yourself were here, too.

But you told yourself that you were here solely for one award—and one award only. All those about best costume, best comeback during a fight, best fancam, best fistfight didn’t matter (though that wasn’t to say that you weren’t grateful, it’d been sweeping wins for all of which you’d teared up). 

You were here for Best Hero of the Year.

The best.

The strongest.

The most battle-savvy.

The most competent.

The best of the best.

Once that nomination letter had arrived, you’d held it to your chest - in pure disbelief - for a long hour afterwards. It was an honor to be nominated—the greatest honor. 

To win this award a panel of seasoned heroes would tally up all of your fights for this year, then grade them based on a variety of aspects such as difficulty, saves, assists, honor; the total would contribute towards a count that determined the winner. And though you’d been cautious about not winning - there were many other wonderful, more experienced heroes nominated - you just didn’t expect for the announcer to open up the golden cue card and read…

Fucking Nightwing.

Which is why you’d cornered him at the after-party - for a congratulations between you two that’d turned into passive aggressiveness, and passive-aggressiveness that’d turned into a proper argument you’re sure the reporters caught wind of, and an argument that ended up with you and Choso tangled up in your hotel room.

Pressing him down with your hips- you’re trembling at the feeling of his warm sap gushing out of you. It’s creating an ivory sheen down the inner sides of your thighs, smearin’ down Choso’s chiselled hips in a way that was just so lewd—and you’re more than happy to make an even bigger mess. 

To throw your head back and grind your hips down onto his.

Choso hiccups, his upper half attempting to surge upwards- only for you to press one pretty finger down on his shoulder. And just the softest push has him tumbling back into the plush pillows, “Shit- y-you can’t just…do that to me.”

“Do what, baby?” You smirk down at him. 

And right as he opens those cute, trembling lips of his to answer—you’re tightenin’ your thighs around his waist and jerking your hips even harder against his. His prominent v-lines massage where you were situated, and Choso groans as his blushin’ cocktip manages to push and pinpoint even the tiniest orifices inside you.

He’s still drooling out beads of cum, pooling at the base of his cock. So much of it- shit, was he still cumming?

Or was he cumming…again?

Unsure of what you were feeling, you’re veering your gaze down and attempting to get a better look. And sure as day- not only was it your translucent slick n’ his precum that was flooding you from the inside, but Choso’s ivory cum sprays out and and mixes into something so lewd-

“Fuck- fuck…” Your mouth waters at the feeling of being stuffed to the brim - so much of it that you’re wondering just how overworked his hefty balls must be. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, “You’re cumming again, Cho—”

“Th-this is exactly what I mean.” Choso sobs out, eyes glittering with tears, “You can’t just do that to me- you can’t make me feel so…stupid when you fuck me.”

Amused, “Stupid, huh? I don’t know if I have to try-”

“See, m’so gone that I’d agree—” That soft whine of his makes you so much wetter. Peering up at you with his half-lidded gaze - boring his dilated pupils into yours, hanging his jaw maddeningly. He presses a simple jerk of his ruddied cockhead into the deepest depths of your cunt - dead fucking serious. “I’d agree that m’stupid. I’d agree that m’pathetic.”

“Awwww…” Arching your back, he’s attempting this cute attempt at ruttin’ into you that you’re indulging in. You let him thrash his needy cockhead again and again and again-

“I-I’m nothing but a fuckin’ ngh, virgin that doesn’t deserve to fuck a pussy like this.” His lips wobble out- and you might have said something about him being too hard on himself…you might.

But the dirtier that Choso was speaking - the harder he was on himself - the harder he was getting.

Longer. Girthier—and his thorough thrusts were spearheading even faster by his tip. Taking out the tension in everything he was saying by ramming straight into your cervix - hard and fast. It twitches right at the very back of your spongy womb…and you’re swearing that a grin grows across Choso’s face as he registers that displeased expression on your face- who did he think he was to try and gain control over you?

“Now now—” You’re pressing both palms on top of his sweaty chest, and you can’t deny that they felt so toned and muscular underneath your touch. “Trying to be a big boy, Nightwing?”

“Only for you.” He croons.

“Cute.” You wrinkle your nose, “But that’d be a lot more smooth if you weren’t cumming- again.”

“Fuh-fuck.”

When was this? The third time? The fourth? Either way, all Choso knows is that he can’t stop those furious zaps of pleasure from coursing through his entire body—every inch and vessel and atom. It’s collecting at the mushroomy tip of his cock, red and swollen, then dribbling out as cum. 

Not even.

Choso barely manages a few pearly white droplets before he’s shooting fucking blanks-

Head throwing back. Gasps echoing out of him. Chest heaving and heaving as you’re riding his overstimulated cock craaaaaazy-

“What was that about Year’s Best Hero?” You’re tittering out, staring into Choso’s utterly pretty face as he’s cumming through tears. Spark upon spark. Strong enough to make his toes curl, and you’re ruthless in the way you’re wrapping your warm pussy around him and milking him dry-

His pinkish lips wobble, “Wh-what was that…”

“How’re you gonna fight crime if you can’t even- ngh, handle a pussy?” 

“W-well, I didn’t expect to be facing such a…formidable foe.” Blabbing out - utter nonsense at this point. He was pussydrunk—if only those at the Hero Award could see him like this. “You could take on a second job as a villain…j-just with that pussy…and also just f’me…”

“I take that as a…compliment?” 

“You’re welcome—ngh.” Choso whimpers out- before there’s a sudden twitch at the crown of his swollen shaft. And those brown brows of his furrow, “B-but don’t be nice to me, however, it’s gonna make me cum- again. Mmm.”

“Oh, Choso…”

.

.

.

The glitz. The glamour. The fans begging you to sign their tits. 

At the very next Hero Awards, there’s a buzz like never before. 

For several reasons, of course: first of all, the matching outfits between you and the famously handsome Nightwing (though you’d argue that yours is the one that looked better, secondly because some drama-lovers anticipated a rerun of the infamous fight between you and aforementioned handsome hero, and last but not least—because of the new category of awards you’d been nominated for.

Most Inspirational Hero Couple.

And it was no surprise that Choso had won this one, but at least this time—you’d won it, too.

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Hulk.

It happened not when he was angry, or excited, or panicked.

The results of a top-secret experiment funded by The University of Tokyo, intended to create human super-soldiers: it had been a failure. And Dr. Ryomen Sukuna had known better than to get his hopes up for such a volatile test subject—he was an expert in the field, 7 PhDs in a variety of sciences from biochemistry to radiophysics, he knew that it could take months, years, even decades before they observed even a mere anomaly similar to what they’d been hoping for.

But fuck- Sukuna had really thought he’d done it. He’d made humans immune to gamma radiation.

At least, he’d thought he did.

Ryomen Sukuna blinked his eyes open after the sudden explosion of radiation, and at most he’d expected to see his laboratory wrecked, his data completely wiped. At most.

He didn’t expect to be seeing it from eight feet high.

He didn’t expect to be seeing it with four eyes.

He didn’t expect to wield four massive arms in an attempt to find any shattered piece of glass from which he may see himself from-

Two mouths let out simultaneous gasps. 

One of them slashed across his muscular stomach.

He was a monster.

It didn’t take a single one of his PhDs for Sukuna to know to flee the scene- not just the building, but Tokyo itself. Sirens loomed in the distance, and the acrid smell of radiation left him in waves- bystanders running to the rubble without realizing the danger. He knew you’d be alerted soon—you.

How could he ever face you like this?

Lo and behold he’d ended up at a squat village in Aogashima island; 358km away from Tokyo with only 160 residents. It was here, tucked behind sprawling mountainsides, that Sukuna had come to discover the little intricacies of his…condition. Through trial and error, through testing upon himself and attempting to control that four-armed version of him. Attempting. 

And so the question: what made him transform? 

He discovered that this monstrous state - which he dubbed to be a Curse state - was triggered by sudden increases of his heartbeat. Rarely anger, or excitement, or panic. What else might possibly raise the disgraced scientist’s heartrate well over 200 bpm?

Arousal.

Which is exactly what he’d been learning to control through his breathing techniques, his meditation, and his celibacy- not that he’d want anyone but you. But fuck…the dreams he’d have of you.

Nightmares, when he wakes up as the monstrous King of Curses. 

Heaven, when the exact source of his nightmares - and wettest dreams - comes knocking at his shunted door one sunny summer day. A furrow between your brows. A furious word or two slipping out at the first sight of him. 

Fuck.

.

.

.

One year, two months, and a few days since…the incident and you’d finally located where your ex-boyfriend (and former colleague) had disappeared. 

And you’d expected him to have sunken into his work in one way or another. 

You’d expected him to have holed himself away in some rural town—as he’d confessed to wanting to do on some nights, just with you. You’d even have expected him to have been working on some strange new project after the failure of his last one- he was the type to take it to heart. A little dramatic, but you expected this.

You just didn’t expect…his transformation.

Right before your very eyes.

Four arms. Four eyes. Two cocks that’d stayed twitchin’ in his baggy pants for a mere few minutes of your conversation- before you had your face pushed into pillows that smelled like him, legs struggling to keep you up, begging for more as Sukuna digs those two ruddied cockheads between your pussylips and sliiiiides in-

Just a few inches.

Just a few.

Before the resistance of your tight entrance gets too much- and Sukuna’s leaning back a bit to allow his cursed second mouth to spit down on your pussy. Hard.

The impact makes you shiver, sticky substance gluing your pussylips together. You swear you hear his second mouth snicker as he swabs that cloying texture with his cockheads, and uses his hands to manhandle you into pliable position - one hand cupping your abdomen and pulling you up- the other digging into the left side of your hips- the other reachin’ down to thumb apart your swollen folds and help him fuck his lengths inside. Thick and throbbing.

In short, slow semi-thrusts. He was just trying to fit inside. “Kuna—” Breathing out open-mouthed against the pillows. Needy.

“Needy brat.”

“Kuna.”

“Sh-shit.” And he wasn’t doing a single bit better than you. Sukuna was letting his head drop into the clammy crook of your neck, gnarled canines grazing on top of your skin- you feel the scowl across his face stretch even more as he pull-pull-puuuuuulls those hot erections backwards.

And then probes aaaaaaall the way back in - languidly. 

“Fuck-” You’re gasping out—seeing pure white behind your eyelids. You almost couldn’t believe it. Sukuna was already sizable- but in this form?

He had his round, reddened tips just barely lodging between your swollen folds. Just so big. Pulsing. Pushing apart your slick walls with his circumferences, throbbing away inside you. Rubbing back and forth a few times to savor the squeeze of your hole - like heaven - before he’s stuffin’ every single nook, cranny, and crevice like never before. 

And the carnal burn between your legs was only made sweeter by the way that Sukuna himself trembled on top of you. He’s letting out a coarse grunt-

Gasping. 

“Fuck—fuck, is this okay?”

And a part of you melts at the utter tenderness in his tone - mixing with a hint of fear. Of disbelief. Ryomen Sukuna was never the type to be vulnerable, not even when the two of you had been dating—but as you look over your shoulder right now, you see that those devilish red eyes of his were observing every minute expression as though searching for a hint of rejection. Of disgust.

A hint that he’d been right about his changed form.

He was inhuman in his physique now, and…and he understands if you’d been scared away at any point-

But you’re only arching your spine and veering your hips back into him- cutting off whatever whirlwind of thoughts was bound to consume him. You’re picking up the pace that he’d been unsurely slowly down, bouncin’ down onto those slick-glossed shafts. They filled you up deliciously. “You don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily again, are you?”

“I-”

“I’m more than okay, Kuna.” 

“And yet-”

“And yet, why won’t you fuck me even harder—” Huffing, you’re managing to get up onto your elbows and gain a bit more leverage. “Spent so long looking for you, y’know…”

“Tch.” The scientist grumbles, but you could feel the way those rotund tips of his twitch just a lil’ inside of you. “Should’ve known-” He’s matching your pace with his own, slamming the lines of his toned abs against the globes of your ass cheeks. “-that you’d be an utter slut for monster cock.”

“Cocks.” You correct.

Just then, the wetness of his second tongue trickles down your pussylips. Gathering up every wad of honeyed slick you were leaking out- he was glissading his tastebuds along every inch of you he could reach: your inner thighs, your cute ass, nearly reaching around to fuck your pretty pussy. “Don’t forget the tongue, too, girlie.”

“I c-could never…” You’re keening out.

“Oh?”

And with a grin, Sukuna second-guesses no longer—before he’s leaning his chiselled front over yours. The hard ridges and lines of his muscles massaging your back, he hooks his fourth muscular arm around your neck and pulls you into a damn headlock-

“Fuh-fuck-” Sukuna hisses through his canines - honed and longer and ready to bite. He ruts into you like a damn animal—“Shit, how I missed this…”

“Shouldn’t have run away then-”

“From the fuckin’ freak?” 

Just the slightest press against your throbbing g-spot - it’s like a trigger for the sweet, sweet squeeze of your walls- so warm n’ hungry for his cocks. And Sukuna jerks into urgent attention, 

And now he wasn’t fucking you slow- he wasn’t taking his time.

Ryomen Sukuna had his muscular hips arched n’ reluctant to part from yours. Probin’ those girthy inches of his inside—

You’re attempting to claw at the headboard for dear life- but his keen eyes immediately catch the sliver of action, and Sukuna wastes no time before tightening his headlock ‘round you until his biceps bulge against your throat, hauling you back into his vicious ploughs. “What?” He breathes, scalding hot against the side of your cheek. “Where are we going, girlie?”

“We?” 

“We. I could never forget her.” He’s rasping out against your skin, sending vibrations across every axiom of you. “Always thought of her—”

“A-and what did you think about?” You’re whimpering.

He doesn’t answer for a few seconds. And you’re disappointed as you feel Sukuna take as much time as his heart desires, pulling out of your pussy with a cute pop! Before he swirls his ruddied tips to soften up your entrance once more, and gives you a thorough thrash- going even deeper than prior. He’s making the eyes roll to the back of your head- he’s finally bottoming out. “I thought about how she might take every inch of me…”

“Oh.”

The tip of his second tongue dips out as though to fuck your cunt simultaneously. 

.

.

.

When you’re accompanying Sukuna back to Tokyo, it’s hand-in-hand.

Large and warm against yours. There were more callouses on his fingers than you remember there being - not those of laboratory test tubes, and flasks, and flipping on centrifuges; but the hardship from the year you didn’t have him—and he didn’t have himself, either. 

But you’re tugging him into the airport, now.

Two tickets booked and a meeting at The University of Tokyo already planned - the two of you didn’t plan to let anyone know of his transformative abilities for now. Perhaps never. 

There were things that the two of you hadn’t sorted out yet: like how would Sukuna explain away his disappearance to the science board? How would you both stay in your cramped Tokyo apartment when he turned into his Curse mode? How would you manage to work on controlling it when…

But you knew the two of you would find a way - you always do.

As you’re standing at the terminal to your flight, the ones at the farthest end of the line, you’re turning around to a lilting voice calling out both your names. Your full names. Who knew such a thing…Faced with a grinning woman in a jet-black suit, tinted sunglasses, and the most accomplished grin across her face. She introduces herself as Tony- or as you may know her: Iron Woman.

And would you and your hulking boyfriend perhaps be interested in a little something called—

Sukuna’s breath hitches.

—The Avengers?

♡ INO TAKUMA - Flash.

“Mr. Flash- Mr. Flash! Just one more question, please…”

“Mr. Flash?” Ino gets a sheepish expression across his face at the esteemed title- one that makes the rest of his team roll their eyes. And he’s turning to the reporter that wastes no time shoving his mic in his face; camera already rolling, news headlines running.

All part of the job—it’s already been an hour since they’ve saved the city (yet again) and they’re still being interviewed, with no sign of it stopping anytime soon. 

And so Ino plasters his camera-ready smile on - the rest of the team might not be as savvy as he was with the media, but he was one of the most popular up-and-coming heroes for a reason. Hah. The people loved him, and he loved the people. He takes the mic from the reporter faster than he can blink, and the man startles out a laugh.

“Woah, did you get that?” He turns uncertainly to the cameraman, who nods though he himself wasn’t too sure. Turning back to the red-clad hero- “You sure are fast. Tell us, Mr. Flash, does this speed affect you in your normal life, too?”

Ino answers, “Well-”

“And what about in the more…intimate aspects?”

He’s somewhat taken aback, “What do you-”

“What about in bed?”

Ino’s jaw has never dropped faster—ironic, isn’t it?

And that reporter leans in with a smile that’s turned wicked - one that said he’s going to get paid a lot of money for this particular clip. “Tell us, Mr. Flash, do you last nothing but a flash in bed?” Those beady eyes then turn to you—not too far away and interviewing another one of his team - ever since the two of you started dating, you’d been careful to not let anything slip about it, going so far as to avoid interviewing him as you once did as a hero reporter.

Though you suppose that some whispers did let slip.

For the man was staring at you, though he asked the question from Ino. “Or perhaps there’s a certain…someone that might know the answer to this question?”

That clip of him open-mouthed and gaping takes over social media within a few minutes - it garnered some strange frenzy of amusement and morbid curiosity. Some defended him fervently against the intrusive reporter, some argued that if one was a hero then they should expect strange questions, others condemned such questions all together- where were the boundaries?

Everyone else argued back.

But most…oh, you could’ve already guessed that most couldn’t help but speculate the real answers for both questions: the bed situation and the ‘certain someone’.

Ino, of course, was bemoaning his haste.

Or at least he would-

But right now he had you splayed-out underneath him and letting him fuck you maddened—the slender length of his cock pistoning in and out of you at a frenzied pace.

“Fuh-fuck-” That pretty, pinkened mouth of his droops open with a wet gasp—and Ino shudders as the ruddied tip of his cock swerves around your insides. Stars burst behind his teary eyelids as he’s sprinklin’ out yet another few droplets of him, trickling it deeeep into the back of your womb as he’s fucking your wet channel through it.

He’s shuddering his hips forwards and locking his knots of seed against the softness of your womb- “Fuck, you’re making me c-cum again, pretty…” And it’s about the fifth time in the past hour that he’s repeating this, “B-but I’m really not a flash in bed, right…?”

Such doe-like eyes stare at you, those long lashes of his glittered in tears. And you can’t help but say, “Mhmmmm—you’re really not, Taku.”

“But then why do you sound like you’re making fun of me?” Those trembling fingertips of his take purchase upon either side of your hips, and Ino’s mahogany brows furrows as he concentrates. “This round- this round, m’gonna prove it to you.”

“Taku, baby, you’re pussydrunk-”

“Even better.”

It’s been hours.

Fucking hours.

And Ino hasn’t stopped ruttin’ himself into the warm wetness of your pussy- he can’t stop himself. 

It’s been too long - at this point he wouldn’t even be able to give you a number - since you’d successfully steered him away from that reporter and accompanied him to his penthouse. Since you’d reassured him that he totally wasn’t too fast in bed and that you definitely did think the sex lasted long enough. 

But still.

He didn’t last a flash in bed.

He really, really didn’t—which is why a young dawn was filtering through the curtains- but Ino Takuma still had his cock lodged thoroughly inside you and was showing no signs of stopping any time soon. He’s reaching down to wrap both your legs around his toned waist, folding you in half n’ kissing your sweaty forehead with his.

But his point was getting harder and harder to prove with every round that he’s fuckin’ you through - bottoming out deeply at the back of your womb, and letting out the prettiest shivers as he feels you clench. “Fuh…oh, fuck.” Uttering mere minutes after he’s started this round, “I-I think m’gonna…”

“What’s that, baby?” You’re reaching up to loop your arms around his neck, tugging the beautiful boy towards you. 

“Nothing.”

Batting your lashes up at him, “Awwww, c’mon- you know you can tell me anything, Taku.”

“I-it’s really nothing.” He insists.

“Hmmm, alright then…” But you knew- oh, you already knew. The more rounds that Ino was plunging you through, the more n’ more pussydrunk that he was growing—the shorter he lasted. Which wasn’t entirely anything bad- you honestly found it cute how it’d only take a few sweet slides down your tight pussy’s channel for Ino to utterly fall apart.

But he’s soon feeling that prickly sensation of his high, and he only starts tunneling between your sopping pussylips even harder. Brows knitting. Fingers digging into your flesh. “M’not gonna cum, sweetness-” He hiccups, “I-I’m not gonna cum, promise-”

“Mhm, I trust you.” You’re coaxing him, “I know you’re gonna last, baby.”

There’s a breathless note in his voice. He looks up at you in surprise, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I know you can handle it- hah.”

Fervently nodding, “Yeah- yeah, and m’gonna make you cum—”

“Mhm—” Lewdly smiling up at him. He’s just so entranced by that sinful expression upon your face that he doesn’t notice the way you’ve planted your feet firmly on the damp mattress- suddenly rolling your hips up into his own. “So why don’t I…help you, my hero?”

“H-help—oh.” Stunned. Cutting himself off with a groan. 

Ino’s eyes squeeze firmly shut, and he’s shaking viscerally at the sudden plap! of your skin hitting against his own. It’s a different kind of burn when it’s you who’s taking control - and even though he’s on top of you, it feels like he’s the one that should be squirmin’ and gasping.

It feels like he should be the one who’s cumming first-

“No—” Ino’s gritting out through clenched canines - there’s a low trundle of something in his tone that sounds like desperation. Before you know it, he’s increasing the speed of his hips—plap! plap! Plap!

That rounded, red tip of his finds the spot of your nerves just perfectly- and Ino doesn’t waste a single second before he’s starting to bludgeon it with his thrusts. So many times that it starts to feel a bit raw.

Pinning you down using the weight of his lower half, Ino digs his right hand instantly between your two trembly thighs. Brushin’ apart your pussylips with a singular swipe of his thumb- your head explodes in so many bursts of pleasure as he starts twiddlin’ with your pretty, plump clit. “No, no, no- don’t think that I don’t know what you’re hck! doing, sweetness.”

Fluttering your lashes innocently, “And what’s that, Taku?”

“D-don’t think that I don’t know you’re trying to make me—” Pausing to let his crowned shaft push into your womb with a resounding squelch! “-cum first.”

“So what if I am, hm?” You counter, “I just really, really love the way it feels when you’re filling me up-”

“I know what you’re doing there, too—” He’s snarling down at you- just so gone on your pussy by now that he likely doesn’t even realize he’s drooling. Those dilated pupils of his bore straight into your own as he angles his hips to constantly bash your poor g-spot, circlin’ every sensitive orifice. “I know what you’re doing- fuck, I know what you’re doing…”

And you can only squeal as the sheer pressure of his cadence increases-

“And I know what I’m doing, too.”

Because if you thought that was fast- then you weren’t ready for just how rapidly Ino’s fingers could make you fall apart. They were just so loooong and pretty, flexible enough to twist your nub in constant circular motions, flexible enough to make you sob.

It doesn’t matter how badly you’re attempting to buck away - Ino keeps his fingers firmly into the wettened crevice between your legs. Twisting his wrist into aaaall sorts of degrees just to see which one made you scream the most- 

“Please—” You’re bawling out after only a few minutes of this, legs shaking. “P-please, that’s unfair-”

“How so?” One amused brow raises. Perspired.

“B-because you’re gonna make me cum-” And to anyone else that would’ve sounded like a petulant complaint, it would’ve even sounded like a sore loser that couldn’t take on the challenge—but Ino knew. And you knew, too. “-using your powers—”

And the superhero can only grin, “So?”

Thrust after thrust.

Roll after sloppy roll of his glued fingertips - they were running your body taut. Without much effort, Ino’s able to make his blushin’ divot massage against your pussy at a rate where his hips almost looked like a blur—not even half of the Flash’s top speed. 

And the fact that he was going easy on you made you huff in complaint.

Without thinking much of it, you’re back to ruttin’ up into him - definitely unable to meet his cadence, but you knew you didn’t have to. 

You already had him wrapped around your little finger.

It takes only a few needy slams of your treacly pussy against his cock - all the way down to his thickened bottom - for Ino to throw his head back and groan. “You’re gonna…fuck, you’re gonna kill me, girl.‘

“Huh? But I didn’t do anything?” In a mock-innocent tone, “I certainly don’t have any powers to use.”

“Did you forget p-pussy power?”

You smirk.

And as he’s increasing his pace, you only have to whimper out his name for Ino to falter- for him to shake his head and continue. And as you’re attempting to gain the upper hand, he only has to buzz your throbbing nub with his electric speed for you to lose your mind. 

Eventually—you think you’re about to cum.

And before you can accept the thought of losing, you’re grabbin’ Ino by his pretty throat and dragging him down to kiss his lips. “C-cum inside me, Taku.”

It’s a tie.

You’re crashing into your high, and Ino’s crashing into his. 

Both the steaming hot pleasure of your orgasm flooding your core- and the few droplets that his overworked cock manages out. Creamy white sap. Thinner than usual—he was fighting not to merely cum blanks. Whimpering. Bucking. Fucking you like a damn animal…You’ve both experienced so many throughout the night that your current waves of bliss rip through you hard and fast.

Though Ino himself wastes no time bumpin’ his crowned cock into every tiny ridge of your wet channel. Scrape-scrape-scraping down the spots where you were most sensitive, and dragging it out for as long as he can.

You’re gasping as it leaves you numb from your toes, pulling his sweat chest against yours. “F-fuck, that feels so good…”

“Yes—fuck, yes.” And as the shudders of your high pass, you feel Ino’s cock grow just a little more limp inside of you- well…for a mere few seconds, that is. 

“T-tie-breaker?” He whines.

.

.

.

The next time the two of you are spotted out together, it’s for an interview. Of course.

In which you’d ‘cornered’ global superhero Flash after yet another one of his successful missions - before any of the other reporters could manage to get their claws on him - with the question they’ve all been asking—“Do you really last as quick as a flash in bed?”

You’re hearing the shocked gasps around you from the other reporters and bystanders. None had dared ask this question so directly since that clip had gone viral - and in the peripheries of your vision you could see that interviewer from before gnawing his teeth at the fact that you’d stolen his limelight. Surely thinking you’d have about as much luck as him, however…

But of course, Ino already knew you were about to ask this. 

His grin stretches underneath his mask as he turns to you, cameras rolling. “I should be asking you that, pretty. Dinner at 7?”

“There you have it, folks.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Spider-Man.

“S-so I guess what I’m trying to say is…” The masked intruder starts, his voice stuttering adorably through his lines. Though adorable as he may be, that doesn’t make you forget the fact that he was a man…tall…well-built…and clearly a crazed fanatic of the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man who’d broken into your dorm—“Uh…I come in peace?”

You’re raising the frying pan in your hands even higher, “I know how to hide a body-”

“O—okay, woah-” He’s immediately taking a few steps back, which you suppose you wouldn’t expect from a dangerous intruder. But then again, maybe he was just new to the job?

If so, he should probably have his pay docked - he was utterly failing at being intimidating. For he’s flattening himself against the window from which he’d entered just a few minutes ago, hands raised in surrender and the whites of his masked eyes widening. Damn, that costume was pretty good…

“I come in peace. I swear I come in peace- I’d just been running from a bad guy, and your dorm just happened to be…the first one I saw? Either way, I promise I’m no danger and I’ll just be on my way now so-” He immediately hastens, “Put…the frying pan…down.”

“Make me.” Raising it even higher, he flinches.

“Okay- oh my god, okay—” It really didn’t take much to make the man surrender at all, immediately giving up on any peace-keeping. He scrambles around the room and you’re worrying that he’s looking for something to challenge your frying pan with- but it seems that he’d just been brainstorming how best to go about with…whatever this is. Because in no time, you’re practically seeing a light bulb go off beside his head, and the man raises his palms as though to brace you.

And you can’t deny it, you found yourself a bit interested. “Um, yes?”

“Get ready- look—” He utters through the web-patterned mask covering his face. “Don’t faint but…”

“But?”

“I’m…Spider-Man.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

You’re assessing the man from head-to-toe—or at least what you could make out of him from the most elaborate cosplay of Spider-Man you’ve ever seen. It could honestly have been impressive if it wasn’t for the fact that he was in your fucking dorm.

But you digress.

“Okay, so do you want the frying pan- or I’ve also got a rolling pin-”

“What? No—no, listen.” The man insists, “I really am Spider-Man- it’s true! You’ve gotta believe me-” Though your deadpan expression gave away just about how much you believed the words that were falling from his masked mouth. And so he’s groaning in frustration, “Look- look, if I just showed you a few tricks would that work? Would that finally prove to you that I’m Spider-Man?”

Unimpressed, you cross your arms. “Go on, then.”

And then the first thing he does is shoot a clingy web from one hand, it launches at an incredible speed and sticks to your ceiling. That’s going to be hell to get out…

“Hm…” You narrow your eyes at him, “Impressive. But I’ve seen better at Party City.”

“That’s not fucking Party Cit- anyways.” He runs a hand down his weary face—or at least what you expect his face to look like beneath that mask. And as soon as you blink, you’re finding this…intruder(?) climbing up your walls. Literally.

All hands on there, glued to it with an invisible adhesive. 

You gape, “That’s not…”

“And how about this? This is even better—” Before you can refute that previous trick, too, this man jerks his head up (or was it considered down? You weren’t quite sure given the way he’d crawled all the way to your ceiling by this point) and basks in the silence for a split-second.

You wondered whether he was actually sensing something or just pulling your leg-

“My spider senses say that your vibrator’s plugged in but it isn’t charging.”

You almost want to throw the frying pan at him. However, you’re managing to tamper down the urge long enough to walk silently to your room and back—fuck it, he’d been completely right. You still sort of want to throw the frying pan at him.

But as though he’d sensed that, too, Spider-Man raises his hands up to cover his head.

So you’re setting it down on your table with a defeated sigh, “Alright, I believe you…Spider-Man. What’re you doing here?”

“Like I said-” He finally lets go of the ceiling and stands in front of you normally now, “-bad guy had been chasing me. That one was just a little…above my paygrade so I had to stall until Iron Woman could get here- which was about five minutes ago. The fight’s still going on, however, and I should probably lay low for now.”

Awkwardly shuffling, “So then…”

“So then if I could just stay here until then, um…”

“Um, sure.”

“Sure.” He twiddles his thumbs, “So- is there anything you’ve wanted to know in particular about Spider-Man?”

You smirk.

.

.

.

“Always wanted to know how—hah, big it is.” Biting down on your lower lip, you’re managing to hold back a pitchy whine as his solid tip enters your hole.

Puckered and plump.

Just the cutest pink- he was the perfect girth and size. 

Big enough to make your entrance quiver just feeling him kiss up against you, slender n’ smooth enough that he’s already starting to eagerly ease inside of you. And as you’re lowering yourself down on him, the superhero grabs onto either side of your ravenous hips like a lifeline—letting out a few ragged swears as he jerks his hips up and thrusts-

“Y-you should know…” He’s wincing at the feeling of your cunt - so hot and wet. Wasn’t this just heaven? 

Turning around to look at him- he’s rather glad you’d chosen a reverse cowgirl position. Because at least then you wouldn’t have seen the way he wiped away fucking tears—sobbing at just the feeling of being inside your wet pussy. “Mhm, spidey?”

“You should know that this is my first time.”

“Oh.”

And with that being said, he’s thumpin’ out the most thorough hit at the very bottom of your pussy. He doesn’t have the experience of just eeeeasing in his incredible length- he’s chasing the back of your cunt like a man starved. 

Like a man in unbearable pain every second he isn’t feeling the hotness of your cervix, the globes of your ass, the sensation of your walls squeezing around him like an embrace. So hot and wet. So sweet. So addictive-

“Addictive?” You’re giggling back at him, “Pussy talking already, huh?”

“I-I don’t even know what that is…” He’s babbling out, voice thicker than before.

And you can’t help but glide your palms down the smoothness of his exposed thighs, feeling every curve and divot of the corded muscle beneath. His body was just to die for - toned but not overly muscular. More like a sleeper build.

And you’re having soooo much fun moving your hips ‘round in all sorts of ways that made his muscles bulge—

“Fuck- fuck.” He’s stupid after just a few strokes. Bucking. Moaning. Hands tugging on the edge of the mask that found itself firmly upon his face, he’s attempting to loosen it and gasping for air-

“You should take that off, too.” You’re turning around and huffing at the sole scrap of fabric that kept you from seeing - what you assumed to be - Spider-Man’s pretty face. The only thing you could see of him were those stray curls of…white? Perhaps they were a super platinum blond? They wrapped around the nape of his neck and slightly leaned towards his jawline, drenched in sweat and flushed right down to his tone pecs.

The way that he’s squirmin’ and letting out the most unfairly erotic grunts every time you’re swallowing him up only left you so much more impatient. So much more impatient. “I s-swear I won’t tell anyone about who you are…fuck, and isn’t it getting super hot in there?”

“It is…” He murmurs, more to himself than anything. “But, what if—”

Peering back at him as he trails off, “What?”

“What if I don’t look how you expect?” 

“It’s the personality that matters.” Nodding in conviction, and then a sly smile stretches across your face at the way that makes his cockhead throb-throb-throb harder inside you. You’re wasting no time before increasing the speed of your hips until your hamstrings scream—“And the cock…heh.”

“S-so filthy.” The hero mutters, “But what if I’m…not your type?”

“Ugh—” Almost rolling your eyes- it was cute just how shy he was, really. But the first thing you’d wanted to do upon finding out that he was the real Spider-Man was to fuck him - so how much of a hint could you really give? “Baby, my type is loser heroes, and I think you fit the bill.”

“Thank y- hey.” 

Just a few more sloppy thrusts - just a few more - and the man beneath you finds himself completely n’ utterly gone from the force of your hips. The sweetness of your cunt. 

The way you’d tighten your legs around him any time he swabbed near your sweetest spots. And he was chasing that particular bundle of nerves with such fervour- he was gasping as he feels himself veering even soooo much closer to the throbbing of your deepest walls- he was reddening the skin ‘round his pelvis through sheer impact. 

And just as he thinks that he couldn’t get even more drunk on the texture of your pussy…

 You’re whimpering out a sweet lil’ echo of his hero name—

And the superhero beneath you lets his head loll behind into the pillows with a groooooan- mouth falling open at the feeling of your cunt surrounding him. Clenching. 

Clamping down, you’re holding him hostage better than any villain ever could.

His heavy balls were nearly full enough to burst- and he’s thinking that he’s gonna cum just as soon as he rams his blushin’ tip almost straight into the target of—

And then his spider senses tell him that your fingers are thinking of reaching for his mask.

But before you can even let the thought come into proper fruition in your mind, he’s taking nothing but a single split second to web your pretty wrists together and flip the two of you over. Just because he’s pussydrunk doesn’t mean he isn’t one of the world’s best superheroes, hm? 

Now fucking you with your face smushed into the pillows, your knees bracing on the mattress. His cock pounding out a single thrust between those sweet, sap-covered pussylips of yours- the hero hits your g-spot instantly.

And that’s all it takes for you to topple right into your high.

Pleasure rushing through your body in waves. Fingertips clenching at the sheer force of it. You’re seeing stars behind your eyes at the sensation- “Sh-shiiiiit—” Perhaps one of the best orgasms you’ve ever had in your life- and not only was it wound up by a virgin, but the virgin was none other than Spider-Man?!

Jaw dropping open—though it was in slight shock, he’s taking the opportunity to lean and spit.

Making you moan as the gluey wad skids down your tastebuds, “Ohhh, you’re a secret freak, huh?” And though you’d meant it as a half-joke, the hero is leaning his chiselled body dooooown to whisper into the side of your ear. 

“Maybe.”

Then there’s the rustling of fabric.

Of masks being removed, perhaps? It takes your mind a few more moments of him slammin’ his rugged cock inside you to realize…

And then the white-hot feeling of your orgasm coursing through your veins is suddenly overtaken by the realization that Spider-Man - maskless and exposed - was right behind you. Looming. Looking for your reaction, you suppose…you feel a jolt go through your body as you realize that he was waiting for you to turn—bearing all of this for you.

And you wondered what he would look like.

Pretty, sure.

Slightly nerdy—perhaps, he never struck you as the jock type.

Someone sweet. Someone kind. 

Maybe that was just your wishful thinking.

You turn around and there he is - Gojo Satoru. You fucking knew him—he went to your university. The white-haired ace of the Physics Department; always roaming around campus with his textbooks or camera, always with his head buried and rarely meeting anyone’s eyes, always in the library to the extent that he might as well have been part of the furniture. 

Always with his camera lens pointed at you, though he doesn’t think you saw him enough to notice.

But of course, you saw him.

Of course, you saw him.

He’s the boy you’ve had a crush on since freshman year.

Gojo doesn’t meet your eyes now, either. He’s without his thick-rimmed glasses and has to squint just a little bit, looking self-consciously down at himself and fuck- you have to resist the urge to beg for missionary then and there just so that you can stare into his deep, azure eyes as he fucks you.

Instead, you just say- “Did you know that nerds are also my type?”

He beams brighter than the sun.

.

.

.

The next time you’re beside Gojo Satoru, it’s hand-in-hand and entering your next lecture. 

You could feel the stares, the gasps, the whispers.

The nerd of the physics department, and one of the most popular girls on campus- or at least, that’s what Gojo claimed. Professor Yaga himself lets his bushy brows raise just the slightest inch once he spots the two of you—and it makes your nerdy boyfriend blush right now to his ivory roots.

“Sweetheart—” He’s whispering to you, “How about we swing around the city today? Promise I’d never let you drop.”

You smile, “I’d love to, Toru.”

Oh, you can imagine that the Daily Bugle is going to go into haywire. 

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Daredevil.

“Do you trust me, angel?”

You can’t keep the smile off of your face, “Who would I trust if not the best lawyer in Tokyo? Maybe even the world?”

“Why only maybe?” Higuruma smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges—just barely visible past the frames of his sunglasses. Your boyfriend was just so handsome when he was in his work clothes: one amongst the many crisp suits he often wore to court, hair slicked back n’ not a single strand out of place, his cane by his side. But he continues, “You know how I’m a…lawyer of sorts?”

“Oh really? I had no idea.” You jest.

“How about we try something tonight, my angel…” And as you’re peering down at him in curiosity, Higuruma starts to loosen his tie just the slightest bit—and you’re suddenly understanding what he means. “How about a simulation of this aspect, though in a far lighter tone?”

Your jaw drops, “R-roleplay?”

.

.

.

“Denied.”

“Hiromi, baby—”

“The court finds you guilty on all counts of seduction.” Higuruma’s deep baritone rasps down at you, punctured only by the slamming of his gavel on his desk. Bang! Bang! Bang! Those pressurized vibrations send shockwaves down your own body, and the lawyer’s grin stretches as he watches you affected by such a thing.

How cute…he couldn’t stop but let your orgasm edge for the nth time tonight.

Edging you.

It’s later into the night, you’re spread out across Higuruma’s neat work desk- your back against the frigid texture of the mahogany, your front arching into his own. He presses his suit-clad front against your naked tits—the harsh texture of his heroic suit - as per your request - rubbin’ against your nipples n’ sending you into an absolute frenzy. 

He was such a tease.

Grinning as though he knew exactly what he was doing- even though the tone of his voice speaks of nothing but faux innocent. The lawyer speaks, “You’re moving around so much- something wrong, sugar?”

“A-absolutely nothing.” You’re managing to echo out.

“Good.” Higuruma utters, pure devilish desire in his tone. And he doesn’t need to say his next words for you to already know where this was heading- after all, one of his hands reaches for where his gavel was upon the table - using his radar sense - and the other presses down on your hips.

Right above where his thickened length was pressed between your pussylips—Higuruma feels his hand down upon your stomach as he sinks himself inside. The throbbing, cylindrical intrusion of his cock glissading inside- “Because we’re having a retrail.”

And then the gavel comes down right on top of the wooden desk.

It creaks and nearly splinters—but all you can think of is the way that Higuruma was fuckin’ his rotund tip into you as though there was no tomorrow. He wasn’t wasting a single second.

Court time was precious, y’know?

So you best believe that Higuruma had your hips pinned down with his own powerful ones, the scritch-scratching of his tufted happy trail rendering you stupid. Fucking you in hard, purposeful thrusts - each one aimed precisely for where you were most sensitive.

His swabbin’ thrusts didn’t just hit deeeeep into the back of your pussy, but your boyfriend was ending up pressing against your sweetest orifices, your soft roof, the door to your womb—dragging his thumb down the knob of your clit.

With those honed senses of his, you’re lasting barely two pumps of his accurate cock before he’s locating your g-spot—fuck.

And giving it the most merciless strike ever.

He knew where it was from the slurping sounds of your cunt - the way they’d grow just a little damper as he headed for that one spot, he knew where it was from the counts of your breathing - how you’d let them grow a bit more ragged as he veered his cocktip even closer, he knew where it was from the smell of your cloying slick—growing even wetter n’ more drenched in honey as you’d find yourself spearheaded by him. 

Rough.

“State your name.”

And so the trail commences.

You’re doing so as he says- a monumental task given the way that Higuruma’s greedy hips don’t stop taking you for a single second. In fact, he’s kissin’ your g-spot at a constant pace and seeming to only ask you questions when he knows you’ll be affected by the sudden bursts of pleasure. 

“State your age.”

Your mouth opens. But instead of your age, comes out a jumbled mess of pleads and his name—because just then, Higuruma had reached his dominant hand down and pinched your pretty, puffy clit. So needy that you’re trickling out wads of slick from between your pussylips.

Your hole’s clenching so thoroughly around him that he almost has to falter, too. “Now, now…” Tutting - and you knew that that was never a good sign when it comes to lawyers, but especially Higuruma. “Is that a refusal to testify? I’m afraid this won’t help your case, my angel.”

“I-it’s not…” Hot tears run down your cheeks - and in response, he’s only squeezing your poor clit even harder. “Promise I’ll tell you.”

And it’s only after you’re finishing your response - syllable after syllable - that Higuruma finally lets go of your sensitive nub. That too with such a level of reluctance—if you hadn’t known any better, then you’d have said that that was a sullen pout slashed across his lips as Higuruma lets go of that sultry appendage.

His fingers instead slide uuuuuup and down your wettened crevice- the perfect feeling of where his throbbing cock kept on pumping in n’ out. Higuruma’s lips slightly part as he touches upon the sheer difference in girth, in the way that your cunt was struggling to keep all of him bulging inside of you and yet you were still yearning for more. “Hmmm, state your crimes now.”

“I-”

“Not you.” Higuruma interrupts, “I’m calling up another witness.”

And yet, there was no other witness - at least not that you could see. And surely you weren’t that dumbified yet that you couldn’t conjure up the vision of someone else here when—there was clearly no one else here.

None but you, your boyfriend, and…your pussy.

Higuruma Hiromi - the best lawyer in Tokyo - had his head leaned lovingly down and his brows furrowed as he listened to the precious sounds of your pussy. As if he was deeeeep in the middle of the conversation, understanding every single slurp, squelch, and the most sultry gulps as yet another inch of him is being swallowed.

All of it reaches his ears like music. And he hums as he feels the sound of it send shivers through his very being- “Ahhh, I see…” Straightening up, he leers down at you. “My witness states that your crime is seduction.”

“G-guilty…or wait- no.”

“Guilty?” Higuruma questions in faint amusement, “Do you admit to the charged and- hah, forfeit your right to an orgasm?”

“No—” Whining out needily, “No, please- I need to cu-”

“Objection, hearsay.” He cuts through you coolly - through his cock was rutting into you in a way that was anything but. “You do not need an orgasm, angel. But does the defendant believe that she deserves one?”

“Y-yes.” You shamefully admit.

“Does the defendant believe that she is guilty of the crimes of seduction?”

“Yes-”

“Does the defendant believe that she is worthy of a second chance, however?”

Arching your back into his. “Of course.”

“Hm…we might have to settle this with a jury.“ Those dark brows of his furrow, between them a perspired bead of sweat tracks down his forehead. And it doesn’t take long for your smart boyfriend to know just whom to ask—before you know it, he’s veering his head down and using his super-heightened senses to listen to every single sound of your pussy.

To listen to your arousal.

To smell it- just so sweet.

To let his brain come to a conclusion—“The jury has come to a unanimous decision.”

Your heart jumps to your throat.

“All counts- not guilty.” And then with a few more fervent rolls on top of your throbbing clit, Higuruma drags you all the way to the precipice of your high and—and this time - just this time - he actually lets you topple over the edge. 

Straight over it.

White-hot flashes. Warmth filling you up like a flood.

It starts from the tips of your toes and then shoots all the way up to your poor, sparking brain. The superhero grins as tears track down your cheeks at the final release that you’re been waiting so long for, and he grins as you’re shaking through wave after wave of your high. “Good-” You’re gurgling out cutely, “S-so good-”

Head dropping back against the pillows.

The rounded edge of his cock shovels in as he’s bursting your high through you wildly—

“What can I say?” He hums, “I’m a really good lawyer.”

A/N. Confession time: Higu and Kuna’s ones were the hardest to do because I’ve never watched Hulk or Daredevil WHOOPS-

Plagiarism not authorized.

[isaut]

ten million jenny. ao3.

during a simple heist job two years ago, chrollo offered you a cigarette outside the library. it isn’t his fault he fell in love with you, is it?

some unholy war

pink matter

ordinary people

like a tattoo

[lorelune]

first bite

yoichi isagi x reader || M || vampire isagi + blood drinking || wc: 5.6 || ao3

You have become an auctor at the well-regarded blood house, Bastardpunkt . Isagi is your first client.

a/n: god i love vampires. i love vampires so much. vampire ya was my literal actual gateway to becoming a writer at all and therefore i will be hopelessly endeared to the genre always. please enjoy some vampire isagi!! this is a snippet from a larger blood house-verse (kaiser centric but shhh). huge thank you to @suguwu for beta reading!!! enjoy loves!!!

tags: blood drinking, author-brewed vampire lore, vampire isagi, human reader

"Have you done this before?"

You shake your head. "N-No, it's my first time.

Isagi is pouring some tonic into a polished silver... well, you can only call it a chalice. It gleams in the lowlight of the room, all warm and full despite the dark red and black tones of the room. Bastard’s Point— Bastardpunkt— is full of these gothic aesthetics. It lines the halls and grand rooms like flesh inside a body.

Isagi doesn't fit it well, at least not now. He’s wearing well-tailored black trousers, a white dress shirt, and a cool-toned blue sweater vest. He looks more like a schoolboy, really, a man about to go to a university lecture and not a vampire who is more than likely several times your age. His appearance, oddly, puts you at ease.

You’ve seen the other vampires of the coven that runs Bastard’s Point. Zweiter Herr Kaiser wears garish outfits, high-waisted pants with ruffled shirts with cravats, glittering stones on shining silver bands wrapped around his fingers. Herr Ness prefers to be draped in long fabrics, favoring maroon and violet velvet. Herr Noa, the sire of the coven, you believe, looks more like a business man, always in fine suits and ruby cufflinks that catch the light like they're glowing.

Isagi is so normal looking by comparison. You can see why the attendant at the fine stone reception desk placed you with him, rather than someone more intimidating and voracious-looking. He’s rather tame by comparison 

"Ah, I see." Isagi hums. "I saw that in your chart, but some folks fib in order to add some perceived appeal to them. I'm glad you were truthful, it's better to be honest here."

You nod. You're a little too nervous to speak.

Becoming a blood auctor— sanguinarius, if one is to be archaic— at Bastard’s Point is quite a process. It required you to be vetted by two coven-based vampires. You needed blood testing to check for disease and hemoglobin levels. A background check was completed and you think a private investigator may have been hired to tail you for a few days. 

Not that they would've found much if your hunch is correct. Your day-to-day is quite dull. You have your part-time work at the bakery from early morning until early afternoon, and after, you usually return to your studio apartment to rest and make a paltry meal in the evening. 

All of the hoops to jump through to get here should be worth it. The contract that you signed had a bonus attached, to be awarded after your first feeding takes place. Not to mention that each individual feed has a handsome fee that will go, more or less, into your pocket, beside the percentage Bastard’s Point takes off. Bachira had told you that vampires often tip as well. And this is merely what is included in your current, starter contract. If you establish a regular client who wants exclusivity, modifications can be made. More money secured. 

You’re getting ahead of yourself. It's only your first time, after all.

And despite the promised funds, you're still apprehensive. Nervous at the prospect of being drank from, even though auctorship is a rather common side hustle these days, given how much regulation and reform that there has been in the last few decades. It's a safe profession, especially at an established, above-board blood house like Bastard’s Point. Such knowledge should quell your anxiety.

But, it doesn't really. Not when you're settled on a firm velvet couch with a throw pillow in your lap.

Isagi looks kind as he approaches from a long counter and assorted shelves in the corner. There are plenty of snacks and refreshment stocked, even in their standard rooms like this one. You know the tonic in his hands is meant less as a tasty treat and more for nourishment. You read up on them prior to arriving. They’re quite miraculous little tinctures. Bastard's Point is known for their stock, in variety and quantity, as well. 

Isagi sets the chalice on a side table and looks you over. You meet his gaze, or attempt to, even as his slides over your form.

You dress as you had been instructed to. Loose pants that can be pushed up past your knee if required with a soft, oversized shirt that can be shoved this way and that, depending on the bite preference of the vampire that you're serving. You feel very dressed down like this, vulnerable and soft-bellied, even though Isagi isn't looking all that hungrily at you. 

There is a calculating sheen to his eyes. It's not cruel, but it's intense to be under. He seems to catch your spiking anxiety, probably due to his acute hearing and the way your pulse is undoubtedly thumping a little harder than it was a few minutes ago.

He sits beside you, though a few feet away. "There's no need to be nervous. They placed you with me because I go easy on the newbies."

"Do you have that reputation?"

Isagi nods. "I don't have a consistent auctor, so I'm frequently available to take fresh blood— ah, I’m sorry, that probably sounded insensitive."

"No, no, it's fine. That's what I am, right?" You laugh, a little too high and tittering. 

Isagi looks at you with undisguised sympathy. "It's okay to be uncomfortable. You can back out at any time, okay? I won't take any offense and you certainly wouldn't be the first."

It provides you some comfort. Isagi doesn't seem like the type to force you into anything, not to mention your contract has quite heavy penalties if a vampire were to take from you without your consent. A proper blood house protects its stock and all.

"That's good to know." You fiddle with the tassel trim from the throw pillow over your thighs.

Isagi reaches out and squeezes your knee. 

"Do you have any preference for where I bite?"

You’ve thought about this. It would be better to not have any lingering marks visible for your day job, but that leaves your ankles and thighs as the most optimal spots. However... that seems quite intimate for a vampire that you only met in the last thirty minutes. Your wrist is another coverable-option, but you read online that that can lead to soreness that affects one’s motor function temporarily, even with proper treatment and replenishing tonic. Your neck, by proxy, may be the best option. You purchased a mock neck in preparation for today, just in case, though you left it at home, air drying on your petite balcony following its first washing. 

"I think," you swallow. "My neck— may be preferable. Do you have any favorite spots?"

Isagi smiles again, a little sharper, but not mean. "Ah, for first timers, I usually go for a wrist or forearm. But post-defloratio, I prefer—" He looks a little shyer. It's cute— he's quite cute, isn’t he? "Upper thigh, mainly."

"S-So my neck doesn't work?" You had some plan in your mind for how this would all go. You planned for your neck to be bitten, and the seeming lack of that option sends you into a minor panic, a weird threat of uncontrollability cascading down the back of your neck.

Isagi shakes his head, waving his hands in front of him. "No, no! Your neck is totally okay. It can just be a lot, for the auctor. Are you prepared for that?"

"Yes, I am." you say, though a good part of you wishes that a bite on the wrist was less risky. "I n-need my hands for work."

He looks at you thoughtfully. "Your file said you work at a bakery, right?”

"Mhm,” you nod. “I can't lose dexterity for the day job, you know?"

"Kneading a lot of dough?"

"Yes— and I decorate our pastries, and it requires a steady hand."

"I see," Isagi squeezes your knee again. "Well, we’ll be sure to keep your hands intact then. Your neck is perfect. Would you like to be thralled?"

Yes, is your immediate response, but you don't voice it yet.

You’ve read plenty about thralls. Both in online forums offering first hand accounts of the experience, and the most romanticized notion of them, plucked from the vampira amor genre of books that folks are so enamored with these days. It's less absolute than vampiric compulsion (a rare skill, though you've heard rumors that at least one of Bastard's Point's vampires has the ability.) But, it renders you highly suggestible, sedated in a supernatural way that makes the process of bloodtaking more pleasant. Some vampires don't like a thralled victim, they like the cortisol in their prey's— auctor's— blood.

You don't know Isagi's preference.

"... What would you prefer, zweiter Herr Isagi?"

You stumble over his coven title. It’s not required, not at all, for as ancient an establishment as Bastard’s Point is, a mortal human using only a vampire’s given name is more than acceptable. If anything, it’s a bit odd that you’d use it in the privacy of an auctory suite. Your use of his full title is more a form of avoidance. A diversion, maybe. A poor attempt, all things considered.

Isagi examines you. The pit of his gaze feels endless. It’s critical, unveiled in its intensity. He’s drinking in every breath you take and every slight twitch of each individual muscle of yours. You’re like a poor insect, pinned by thin needles for his analysis. He’s taking you apart in a way that feels rending. He probably has been this entire time, Isagi just has been wearing a kinder cloak up until now. He’s a disarming type of man, a dangerous type of vampire when he shows this side of himself, too.

You understand why he is Bastard Point’s second— zweiter Herr. 

Your nervousness, in contrast, is apparent. Your attempt at a verbal diversion is easily cast aside by Isagi, ever even-keeled, it seems. You 

"Thralling is my go-to, especially considering this is your first time being fed from. It really tamps down any pain from the bite. And, if we’re lucky, it will feel pleasurable to be fed from, rather than painful."

You feel a little silly for trying to divert Isagi from your own fractiousness, but he doesn’t seem put off by your attempt in doing so. He seems forgiving. It does 

"Would it hurt, without a thrall?"

You know the answer already, but you want to know how Isagi will respond.

"It would, yes." Isagi says. "Quite badly, too. I've drank from a few auctors who preferred the barebones, no thrall at all, and it’s quite painful.”

Of course it would be. One is getting a bite from an iron-jawed vampire to your jugular.

"That makes sense." You tug the pillow to your chest and hold it tight against your sternum and ribs. 

You’ve been dragging out the preamble, avoiding the inevitable.

Isagi must notice. You won't look at him anymore, fixated on the light-catching fabric of the pillow. You know you're hunched over a bit, shielding your core. It's only instinct, really, one that you don't know how to quell. You’ve willingly put yourself in private quarters with an apex predator, intent on your drinking your blood from the vein. It’s only natural that your hindbrain is screaming at you, and your response to said screaming is to retreat into yourself, away from the source of your fear.

You could walk out. You could leave without consequence. Your contract has such a clause, built in for your comfort and safety. And yet, you don't move to exit. 

(You need the money. Your cat had an emergency vet visit a few weeks ago, and rent is due in a few days. The bakery has been cutting your hours, little by little. Your purse is more empty than you’d like it to be. Despite this, even as you have spent the last few months being vetted to be a sanguinarius here, you're still a little terrified.)

"Hey, can you look at me?" Isagi implores you. You take a big breath, being so very brave, and turn to him. He's a little closer, but not cloyingly so. He smiles, brightly and kindly, that calculating side of him washed away. "There you are."

"Sorry," you apologize. "I’m just nervous."

"That's alright, we'll take things slow. We can stop and be done at any point, okay?"

You nod, only a little assured. "... And you won't take too much?"

"No, no. promise. I've got good self-control, no need to worry about that. Though, you may be dizzy and a little nauseous regardless, but that's what I pre-poured that tonic for."

Ah, it's nice that he's so prepared. You appreciate his thoughtfulness. It puts you a little more at ease.

"Okay." you say, sounding smaller than you mean. "Thank you."

"Of course." his thumb rubs circles on your knee. "Would you prefer to have me drink from you here, or in bed?"

Ah, bed. The room feels like a parlor, but there is a queen sized mattress in a sub-room, just feet away. It's more hidden from the room’s entrance than the couch. You're exposed here. But, the bed itself is on a four poster frame with gossamer drapery. The sheets look fine and soft. It feels like a more... intimate setting. 

"Can you choose?" you reply.

Isagi looks... contented at that, almost like he's breathing a sigh of relief. You feel similarly. You don't know if it's presumptuous to want him to take the reins on this experience at this point, but whatever silly little plan you constructed prior feels more and more frail each second. 

"Of course. I'll take the lead." He says. "Let’s stay here and get comfortable. 

You nod— that's more than fine. A couch feels less like you're about to fuck than the plush-looking bed.

Isagi shifts. "Trust me from here, okay?"

You nod again, a little dumbly as he moves closer. In a flash of motion, all vampiric speed, he is kneeling on the ground before you. He taps your knees and you spread them without thinking. He shuffles closer and you can feel heat rising in your cheeks.

"Herr Isagi—"

"Trust me, remember?" He braces his hands on the inside of your knees, sliding them to your thighs, kneading the tense muscle.

You swallow audibly. Isagi's gaze shifts from the give of your thighs to your throat in an instant. He swallows too. He must be— he must be thirsty.

His touch moves on from thighs. His hands ghost to your wrists, squeezing, before tracking up your arms. He rises from his kneel to a more upright position on his knees. Like this, he's a little taller than you. It’s a good vantage. You look to your lap, unable to meet his eyes, whether they are pitying or hungry.

His fingers tips brush over your collarbones. You shiver.

He drags the backs of his fingernails around your jaw, lingering there. Back and forth, with a rhythm that's gentle, almost musical. He does it long enough that your pulse stops racing quite so quickly. You dare to look at Isagi directly.

He’s— pretty. He really is. His jaw is sharp but his cheeks are soft, especially for a vampire. His hair looks soft too, like it would be nice to put your hands in and musse up. His teeth are white, his canines sharp and a little too long, in that unnatural way that vampires are. Your throat bobs.

"Not so bad, right?"

You nod and Isagi looks pleased. He looks kind now. You understand why he is placed with new auctors like yourself. You’re unsure that most vampires would take so much time with their meal, ensuring their comfort in this particular way, so intentionally. 

His palms cup your cheeks. He's cold to the touch. Not like metal left in snow, he's better fed than that, but still too chilled to be human.

"Just relax for me," Isagi says softly, hushed, barely loud enough to hear.

His eyes are all soft-polished lapis, deep in hue like how an old sea is on a calm day. You feel— absorbed by them. The color is in your throat, smooth and cool, but warming too, somehow. Like a heavy blanket. You feel your eyelids droop.

You feel like you're being pulled and pulled and pulled—

Belatedly, you realize that this is his thrall. Panic climbs in your throat.

It’s unnatural for a human to accept a thrall. For how many tens of thousands of years has falling prey to such a sensation meant certain death? There are some twitchy impulses that can't be quelled with gentle words, and this is apparently one of them.

You push where there is pull. You tense where you’re urged to loosen. You blink, rapidly, tears forming in your eyes.

Isagi shushes you, thumbing over your cheeks. "Don't fight it, love. It’ll only make this harder."

You can't nod, you're too ensnared for that. You whimper instead, mouth falling open like you're going to speak, but how could you? The world is glassy, far too smooth to hold onto. The thing pulling you back and back and away from your panic is so warm and inviting. Like a blanket of calm against your own maelstrom. It’s so lovely that it’s disquieting. 

You choke and jolt away, but Isagi's grip doesn't waver. He tightens his hold on your face, following your motion.

"Don't resist it, dear. I promise, it'll be alright. Just let go."

No. You shouldn't. The bulb of a brain at the top of your spine ignites like a spark on brush. You warble out some helpless sound, eyes stinging. You can't make out Isagi's expression, your vision is ringed at the edges, hazy in the center.

You do feel Isagi brush a thumb under your eye. "Be good and relax, I know you can."

Be good, be good, be good. 

His words hit like a sedative directly into your veins. A noise gets caught in the back of your throat, and the pull feels easier to acquiesce too. The rigidity in you collapses like wobbly stones stacked atop one and other.

Isagi swoops you up. You dully feel yourself settled against the back of the couch. The weight of the pillow in your lap is suddenly gone. 

"There we go." Isagi sounds so soothing. He's so warm-sounding, so easy to sink into. He smells nice, too. He did earlier, but you hardly made note of it. Now, his cologne is like a pleasantly-scented cloud that you're misted with.

His hands don't leave your face, you don't think so any way, but there's a shift of... something. Your vision is darker and for a moment, you think you've closed your eyes without meaning to. Thinking is hard, so difficult. It takes you a moment, and a weight settling over your thighs, to realize it's Isagi who has moved, eclipsing the light of the room.

His thighs are sturdy around your own, another heat source. Pleasant warmth begins to feel a little hotter, like the burn of liquor on the back of your tongue, sinking into you.

"You're doing so well, not fighting me at all." Isagi's voice is sweet and sticky like honey stirred into tea. It soothes any burn. You want to cling to it, get stuck in it and never move. "Just take what I give you from here, and you'll do well."

You can't nod, wordlessly or otherwise, anymore. Your hands twitch at your sides. You wish you could grab him, but you don't trust your body to respond to your thoughts in your intended way.

Isagi's hair brushes your neck— it is soft. His lips ghost along the line of your throat. You jump with the pressure, even thralled. A little noise escapes you, watery in your ears.

"So sensitive." His voice is so close. You're going to drown in it. "You are fresh. And you smell so wonderful."

You feel him inhale against your skin. It feels indulgent of him, but you’re not in any place to refuse his greed, nor would you want to. Isagi presses his lips firmly against your throat. The pressure is dull, but there. So soft, too. His lips are soft. He really is so soft, especially for a vampire.

He  keeps his lips on you, dotting them from spot to spot. You could almost call it kissing. Maybe it is— if you weren't thralled, maybe you could tell definitively. Instead, it's all a wash of sensation. Heated and lovely and warm warm warm.

"You'll feel a little pressure, then you should feel good, maybe really good, if you're lucky." Isagi whispers. "Keep being good for me."

It's less of a request, more of a command. Your mind is too slow to catch all of the intention behind it though, especially as Isagi's jaws loosens and you feel two points against your throat.

Ah—

He bites.

His fangs sink into you. Beneath the thrall, it's a wash of sensation. Heat, a tinge of a sharpness that's balmed by a gentle suck almost immediately. It's hard— hard to catch all his motions. You think he removes his fangs from the wound and pulls away a little, just enough to fit his mouth over the punctures and suck.

That you feel, vibrantly beneath the thrall.

It's good. It's good, it's good, it's good— you're lost in how pleasurable it feels to have him sucking at the wound on your neck. There's a weight on your hips, holding you down, but still you arch into him, you feel yourself do it. Isagi gives a longer, deeper suck, a wet noise echoing into your ear. It doesn't disguise the groan from him that follows. Isagi shudders, you think. Or maybe, you're just vibrating where you sit.

He drinks to his heart's content. You're lost in the sensation of him, taking his fill of you with each slippery noise that slips from the seam of his mouth and the fragile skin of your neck. It’s— it's hot. It's so hot and not just in the way your skin is lighting on fire where he touches. It’s molten in a way that sends liquid desire pooling between your thighs.

You’re not sure how, but you managed to raise your hands. One grabs his sweater vest at his back, the other lands shakily into his hair. You don't intend to tug, but you do, holding him there. He outright moans into your skin.

You can't tell if it's him who rocks forward into your center, or you who grinds up into his.

Isagi pauses.

He isn't sucking anymore, just holding his mouth over the wound, inhaling and exhaling with enough force to feel like a strong gale. He's scenting you through his mouth, maybe? You heard most vampires can do that, like how cats do.

"Fuck." Isagi curses, pulling himself back.

You whine at the loss, at the way the heat retreats aside from the weight around your thighs and the hand of his that's still on your cheek.

"I have to," Isagi pants a little, "play it safe, baby. Can't take too much."

He hasn't taken too much, you want to tell him. He can have as much as he wants. He can drown on you, on all the blood from your veins that he wants. He can take and take and you'll give and give and give. You’d let him crush you down, even, for him to consume in your entirety.

He rubs over your cheek, settling back over your thighs.

The haze subsides, but the heat remains.

Your head is tilted to the side, you realize. It’s a better angle for him, but you hadn't even noticed that you'd been arranged in such a way. You blink, slow and unsteadily. Your chest is rising and falling in a way that almost hurts in its intensity. The side of your neck is wet. Isagi brings up something to hold against the wound there. It's soft, high quality linen. When you attempt to get a better look at him, not even moving your head, just your line of sight, your vision swims without any pleasant warmth.

You whimper behind your teeth and clamp your eyes shut. Dizziness rocks you, like you've drank too much yourself.

"Light-headed." Isagi says, rather than asks. He stretches and grabs the chalice with tonic. "I’m putting a few drops of my blood in it to help the bite clot, okay?"

Fear shoots through you, all animal again. "Noo—"

"Shh, it's okay." Isagi holds the cup, so cold, against your lips. You’re so cold, aren’t you? In your flesh. "I would need to take a lot more blood from you and feed you significantly more of mine to trigger any change."

You choose to trust him, if only because he is Bastard Point’s second, and making a fledging of fresh blood would reflect poorly on him in a multitude of ways. He tilts the glass, just enough for you to get a reasonable mouthful of the tonic. It's metallic on your tongue, like you're licking a coin or a rod of grey metal. You grimace.

"It tastes bad, I know, but it'll help you to feel better. Bear it just a little longer." Isagi urges you.

You take only two more mouthfuls before you, painfully, wrench your head away from it. You still feel dizzy. However, there is something grounding about the cloth on your neck and Isagi's weight over you. Still on your thighs, in your lap— still holding you down and preventing you from collapsing away.

Isagi seems content with your consumption and busies himself with patching up the side of your neck. He carefully tilts your head forward once he does. The gauze and medical tape adhered to your skin feel far less nice than his careful touch.

You open your eyes, finally.

Isagi looks— ravished on top of you, really. He's still panting still. Your blood is smeared around his mouth, like he got a little messy during the feed and barely had time to wipe it away before tending to you. His own chest is heaving a little. You— you think you see a vague outline of something in his trousers. You don't linger there for long, but still blush rises in your cheeks.

"It's— normal." He attempts to excuse. You know this, you read about it online. Vampire feeding usually results in arousal for the vampire, a product of blood entering the vampire's body and going to the parts— all parts— where it regularly belongs and has been deprived of.

"S'okay." you slur. God, you're tired, actually. Fatigue settles like lead in your bone marrow. You blink up at Isagi slowly. "Did I taste good?"

You know the answer, but maybe, since Isagi's fed on you and some pretenses can be dropped after such an affair, you feel a little bolder.

Isagi must notice, his eyes narrow and he grins. "You tasted lovely."

"Did... Did you take too much?"

"No, you'll be alright." He assures you. He climbs off your lap. You mourn the loss of him as your hands fall heavily to your side. You try and brace yourself to push up off the couch and follow him as he flits off, but you almost immediately crumple back down—

Isagi has an arm wrapped around your waist before you can even blink. That unnatural speed of his jars you, all you can do is blink at him. He furrows his brow, looking more concerned than upset.

"You need to move slowly, you're going to feel ill for a while. Let me fetch you a blanket, alright?"

Half of you wants to ask if Isagi would help you hobble to the bed across the room, but the couch is much closer, and not that uncomfortable. You don't think he spilled any blood on it either, though you assume that's a common casualty given the nature of your suite.

You relent and lay down on your side on the couch, your beloved throw pillow finally serving its intended purpose. You close your eyes once more. Your vision still feels a little rocky, and it's easier to manage in darkness. You understand why Bastard's Point keeps its lighting so minimal even when there are plenty of humans in its halls. It's far easier to cope with the lingering effects of vampire saliva and blood loss in the dim lighting.

A heavy blanket is settled over you. It's soft and knit, you can tell. It smells nice, like a good, herbal detergent. You know that some blood houses focus on cleanliness above all, and make a point to keep their halls smelling like the alcohol and other cleaning agents they use. You appreciate that Bastard's Point does not. It feels more homey. Even  if that homey feeling comes from a building in the shape of a gothic fortress.

A hand slides into your hair, rubbing over your hairline gently. You crack your eyes open to Isagi kneeling, once more, beside the couch. He looks more settled, clean around the mouth and boyish all over. There's a flush in his cheeks and his eyes don't seem to vacuous anymore. He needed a good meal, clearly.

"How long do we have the room?" You ask.

"As long as we'd like. We don't rush off humans after a feed, especially not fresh ones, like you. We don't want you stumbling out onto the street half-drained."

"I suppose it would be a bad look for the coven." You sigh.

"Well, that, and," Isagi chooses his words carefully. "We’re selective with our stock, here. We'd rather have happy humans who are frequent auctors within our walls, rather than a larger catalogue who are less well kept that are here less regularly."

"Hence all the vetting?"

"That’s part of it, yes." Isagi nods. He scratches the back of your neck. You feel a bit like a pet kitty, but you don't tell him to stop. You wonder if a thrall has any lingering effects. You feel— too shy to ask, now. You’ll comb some forums when you get home.

"That makes sense." you let your eyes drift shut again. Blood loss still has you feeling off kilter. You want to rest and not move. "Will you leave?"

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"No, no. I like to make sure whoever I feed from is on their own two feet with bright eyes before I depart. I'll walk you to the main doors too."

"Thank you."

"It's the least I can do." You dare say that Isagi sounds a little indignant. "How did it feel for you?"

"... Being fed on?"

He hums an affirmative. 

You shift deeper into the blanket and a roll of nausea hits you again, but it subsides quickly. "It wasn't so scary, once the, uh, thrall hit. I'm sorry I fought you to get there."

"It's alright." There's a notable pause. He sounds softened. "It's only natural."

"I suppose." you don't disagree. You wonder if relenting to a thrall's gravity gets easier. "Otherwise, it was... good. It felt good. Does it always feel that good?"

"Depends." Isagi covers what could only be a delighted laugh. "On the vampire and their flavor of thrall. And the auctor themselves."

“It varies that much?”

“Indeed.”

"Have you been given such rave reviews before?"

"Like I said, they give newbies to me for a reason."

It reminds you that Isagi is... a 'starter' of sorts. Next time you come in, two weeks from now per your contract, you will more than likely be assigned to a different vampire, unless Isagi requests you specifically. Based on what you were told by the initial attendant and Isagi himself, it doesn't seem like something he really does.

"Sad," you say, words round in your mouth and misshapen. "I’d like to see you again."

(You want to feel that good again.)

(There is a specific clause in your contract that clears consensual intercourse around a feeding if desires are made known--)

"Who says you won't?"

"Mister newbie, the vampire in front of me, I think." You force your eyes open and flash him a smile. "I’ll be alright, I'm sure."

Your eyelids are so heavy. They close again and Isagi doesn't reply. But, his hand doesn't leave your hair, not until it tracks lower. Over your shoulders, to your back, where he rubs and scratches. It feels good, even if the sensation prickles a little bit as your body remembers itself and its blood, piece by piece.

A quiet envelops the room. The only sounds are the ambient ones from the building itself. The distant sound of voices and the thrum of footsteps on the polished stone floors that lay the castle. There's maybe a drip from the sink across the room. Isagi doesn't stop petting you. You don’t want him to. 

Isagi interrupts the quiet with a conviction that makes your heart drop and leap, all at once.

"Nothing bars me from taking what I want." Isagi says. His tone forces you to look at him. He's closer than before, pupils large and eclipsing. "And you tasted very good, you know that?"

You swallow, your throat dry and your mouth tasting like the replenishing tonic.

"So you say."

Isagi leans forward, nosing into your cheek. You let him, lacking any thrall.

“I mean it." Isagi’s lips drag a path that's hot like fresh embers. “And I'm at liberty to take another taste if I should request you, aren’t I?”

"I suppose you are."

And whether you mean too, or it's some animal in you that's been warped by a single feeding, you bare your throat to him. You hear his breath catch. And though he doesn't dare to bite you in your condition, you know that he watches your jumping pulse with nothing but interest, desire—

And the undying hunger that only an undying being can have.

[sviteer]

Oh..

[seiwas]

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to browse by tags: #shotorus.writes (for full fics, one-shots, series) #shotorus.workbook (for blurbs and writing exercises) #shotorus.bubble (for text posts and headcanons)

[n-uggies]

wwm shenanigans

[seharuuchan]

Everything is fine at home, Uncle Jiang!!!!

[gunmetallic]

call it what it is. (or, the five times sae and you are "just friends". and the one time it stops being possible to deny what this really is.)

itoshi sae x f!reader fluff. friends to lovers, first kiss, how love happens, reader goes by she/her pronouns and has some personality (sorry, i couldn't get around it bc of The Plot but i kept it as minimal as possible) word count: 2.3k author's note: you both have a whole dinner date, go to events together, take care of each other, and then get surprised when people think you're dating??? okay so the sound of fireworks are less obvious than whatever yall have going on

Bitterness churns at the back of your throat. Is it from the roasted beans of the coffee you've been slamming into your system for the last few days, or from the lack of sleep?

Not that it matters. You've worked OT, both your team and your clients are unhappy, and according to your Excel worksheet, you're on your 85th job application. So really, it doesn't get worse than —

The doorbell rings.

Who the actual —

You breathe out the biggest sigh at the pretty face standing before you. It's definitely the lack of sleep, isn't it? Either you really should've checked the peephole and put on something a little more flattering, or he's a hallucination.

Let's hope it's the latter. You move to close the door, and his hand reaches out lightning-quick, holding it still. In a spark of annoying rebellion, you press all of your body weight against the door, and it doesn't budge an inch.

Right. Athletes and their stupid, stupid strength.

"You didn't answer my calls."

They say sighing is a necessary part of your lungs, that one of the struggles of artificial lungs was getting them to sigh. You wonder if it meant this many times in a day. "Sae, I'm busy. Wait, I didn't answer your calls? You don't answer my texts 90% of the time."

Then he's in your entryway, because of course you can't argue where your neighbors can hear, that's rude. But then he's in your kitchen, washing his hands, opening your fridge.

"There's nothing in here. When's the last time you took a shower?"

"You come here just to insult me?"

A towel hits your face with an oof before it falls into your arms.

"Sae," you try again, as the towel slides down your cheek, "You can't just barge in here and —"

20 minutes later, there's two steaming bowls of katsu curry rice on your now-clean desk. Sae opens up the little ziplock of togarashi, leans it against your bento box with more care than you'd expect.

"Itakadimasu."

~

It's the strangest thing, walking into your place only for someone to already be in there. How the noise cuts through, something unbelonging but welcomed.

"You know, giving you the key wasn't so you could just walk in here whenever you want. It was for emergencies only."

The only answer you get is the smell of onions being caramelized, crackled sparks of savory in the air.

"I answered your call," you continue, undressing behind a half-open door. "So this can't be an emergency. And you have a much nicer place than this."

Sae barely glances at you as your head peeks into the kitchen. "You could stay there."

"What, with you? Like we're roommates? Nah, you'd see what a mess I am."

"I'm already seeing it."

A spatula waves in little circles around the pan.

“What are you doing here, Sae?”

Like he's already braced for the question, the refrigerator light beacons out into the descending night. Your favorite wine passes from his hand to yours.

"Got gifted it," he responds before you can even ask. You could've caught him looking at you, but the gold label glints with stars in your eyes.

"How'd you get gifted icewine? You've never talked about it in an interview."

He doesn't tell you he asked his manager for recommendations, that he knows they let it slip to someone looking for a brand deal with him. Instead, he watches as you struggle to pop the cork open, the xylophone clink of ice into twin wine glasses.

"So you do like sweet things," you comment as the nectared drink meets your tongue with a smile. There's a reverence to it: how he watches you chop the vegetables before sliding them into the pan, how the last remnants of today's sunlight filter through the window and past your hair.

Sweet things. He supposes he does like something like that.

~

"This event, is it a big deal?"

He vaguely hears a ruffle of clothing behind the half-shut bathroom door, lightstream swept across the floor. He offered you what he knows his teammates get their wives for these events — stylist, makeup artists — but he watched you stand in his bathroom layering on eyeshadow for yourself anyways.

I don't trust anyone else to touch me. A simple statement made stark.

"Sorry, Sae. Could you help zip me up please?"

Maybe it's that implication, that hidden trust you place in him, that makes his exhale a little shaky as one of his hands wraps around your waist to hold the dress down, the other carefully pulling up metal piece up.

You've often thought athletes would naturally be aggressive. You've seen Sae make a fast pass across the entire field without breaking a sweat. But when his hands are on you, they're always light. You think of the falling of snow, its soft and silent touch that comes unexpected, the easy descent it makes before it melts into the ground.

Love is a little like that, maybe.

~

It's a common feeling, to feel as if you're completely alone in this world. Easy to get into your own head, to see only yourself within four walls again and again and forget that there is a whole world outside. It's logical, well-researched, known. It's because of that that you can factor out the feelings when it hits you.

The four walls has never felt as striking as now, coughing into the hollow quiet. The morbid thought strikes that if you died here, no one would know. They'd find your body days later, after the smell starts to waft out.

But you chose this. To move and to fight and to create a life worth living. You, with your ambitions and heavy heart and endless survival faith that makes you somehow believe you can still make it. Sometimes you have to force a door close before wrenching another one open with nothing but your bare hands. Sometimes you have to swallow all your pride and roll up your sleeves and pray to no higher gods you worship that the decision you made is worth it.

You think you hear something click as your mind fogs back and forth into sleep. You hope whoever's burgling you will at least leave you alone and only take what they need. You hear your name, and then a shuffle, and god this is really the worst time to have a stalker.

The back of a hand over your forehead is cool to the touch, the night's breeze still pressed between the molecules.

"You're sick."

Thank you, intruder, for pointing out the obvious is what you want to say. But instead, your head lulls heavily to the side. "I just need to rest for a bit."

"You need a hospital."

"I'm fine. I'm just- being dramatic. But I'm fine."

Your world tips on its axis, warmth blooming into your side. He lifts you into his arms soundlessly. You almost envy how effortless it is for him; the weight you carry is so heavy when you're carrying it yourself.

It's only halfway towards his car that you find yourself processing, finally speaking, "Thank you, Sae."

There's a sharp intake of breath from him, the hard line of his body protecting you from the night's chilled-sweet air. His heartbeat against your ear is as steady as the shore, the way it waits for the kiss of the tide.

"Just call me next time."

~

Sae's not sure how he feels about this.

It's his first time being late when he's meant to be taking you to this event. He moves fast through the crowd, searches with keen eyes. Chandeliers flicker and crystal-light dances —

Only to find you propped up against the wall, Rin leaning down close.

Sae might be less confused if Rin didn't look — for what might be the first time at an event ever — like he actually wanted to be there. He's listening to you with all his attention, has no problem being in your space.

Sae only approaches once you've been whisked away by Bachira.

"Why were you talking to her?"

Rin whips around, and instead of looking guilty, he's in wide-eyed shock, and then narrow-eyed annoyance. "Ha? She's your girlfriend, isn't she?"

Sae blinks. Did he say that? He would've remembered, wouldn't he?

"You good-for-nothing older brother," Rin's voice is a grunt, nothing like the sweetness he gave you. "You didn't even introduce me. I had to fucking find out through Isagi."

"How does Isagi know?"

"Oliver."

"How does Oliver know?"

Rin gives him an begrudged, deadpan look. "He's your teammate?"

That explains nothing. Actually, Sae is even more confused. He has about a dozen more questions.

"She's nice." Rin mumbles low, playing with the stem of his wine glass, watches as it almost tips before swooping it back up.

"You like her?"

"I think she's nice." Rin grits, and Sae really doesn't know how Rin gets away with faux passes on the field when his reactions are this obvious, because he watches how his eyes grow with realization as another thought passes through his brain. "You don't like her?"

"I like her." Sae accepts quickly.

"Ha??? Then what are you asking me for?!"

~

If Sae's being honest, he knows he has more than enough. He wonders what this thing is that he's had since he was born, never satiated even as he reaches the top. He thinks about how Bachira describes his 'monster', a childlike wonder, whether this is his own version of something like that.

But even the blackhole-depths of his greed doesn't anticipate wanting you. Like remembering the sea upon the drink of an oyster. A second breath, heart soaked with knowing.

What am I doing, sleeping in his bed? The night grows darker with every step, so the invite was innocuous enough. You sink into the mattress and the blanket of night muffles the fear, the thought that love is never so easy. There will be complications and contracts —

You turn to him and all the braveheart strength seeps out of you. Maybe you can put it down here, just for a moment.

He looks at you love-first, in a thousand colors, something he can't find with anyone else. He brushes the hair from your face so delicately, you find yourself stuck between watching his relaxed expression and fluttering your eyes shut to absorb the feeling. The back of his fingers caress your cheek, a butterfly's wing.

"Are you happy? Satisfied?"

Sae is not abstract. It's a vague but concrete question. You understand him at first glance.

"Not yet," you exhale honestly. "I have more to do. I'm gonna get there."

I'm gonna be the person I want to be. And by that time, I'll also be —

I'll also be the kind of girl you'd consider worth dating.

"Just wanna be worth it," you smile weakly instead.

He looks at you with a tenderness that feels dangerous. You think of a bird's first flight, the swoop of the fall. The crackle of a flame before it eats the firewood.

"People are worth something the moment they're born," he recites with no inflections.

"I know that."

"You're the one who said that." It's not accusatory, it's a reminder: your own truth, a perception of love you've been made the exception of. It's too heavy with degradation for him to feel comfortable focusing on, so instead he asks something he knows.

"If you had everything you want now, would it be enough?"

You sit up, his eyes following you. Your body heat no longer pressed against his feels like a loss, something he's sure to correct.

"No. You know that's not how it works." You should know, better than anyone.

He does know. That greed is a bottomless abyss, ambition an infinite sky. There is no amount of good enough that could ever make it all feel worth it.

His hand circles around your wrist, pulls you in on top of him until you're chest to chest.

Love is not your right. Shattered somethings cradle your heart. Trees can grow around items. You wonder if your heart is the same — muscle grown strong around fractured glass, a whisper of a cutting edge with every beat.

If you're always going to want more, be better, go further —

Could you have a little something in the now?

He's so close to you now that it fills your mind completely. He's not naked but he feels so bare under you, your hands framing his cheeks, soft skin brushing against your fingertips. One of his hands skates up your back, the other slides up your jaw, cups the back of your neck.

You wonder when you started letting him touch you like that.

He treats you so gently, so unlike the overwhelming emotion that crashes into you. Both lightweight and heavy, you feel swept under, you just want to anchor onto something —

His lips touch yours and everything falls into place.

~

"How'd you know about her?"

Oliver could make it easy for him. He won't, because getting a reaction out of Sae is much more fun. Instead, he tries and fails to feign ignorance. "Who?"

"My girlfriend."

Oliver leans his head back against the wall, a playful smile over his face. "So she is your girlfriend. Loyal too."

Sae narrows his eyes.

"Relax. I just talked to her at one of those events you brought her to."

"You talked to her?"

Oliver gets the sense that Sae is trying to make it sound like a normal question, but all it sounds is exactly how annoyed he feels.

"She just said she's waiting for you."

notes: unbelonging is not a word, i used it anyways on purpose to strengthen the idea of something not belonging. nectared and lightstream are also not real words, but i like them. twin wine glasses is kind of a reference to twin flames, though i do think you and sae are actually soulmates. i wonder if people can be both. "the weight you carry is so heavy when you're carrying it yourself" is a double meaning, not just your body weight but everything else you carry too.

call it what it is: / a love created, hand-sculpted to fit. / a silent reprieve, / to be seen, / constellations bursting at the seams. / unfounded heart, / a tepid start,/ an easy, soft-sweet thing. / say what this really is. / place it on the justice scales of the abyss. / what you're meant to be / versus what you choose / you can decide you have a right to this.

[saetiate]

itoshi sae x f!reader smut. reader is needy and desperate and sae teases you all the more for it. reader referred to as girl and baby. size kink/size difference, cervix hitting, cumming together, p in v.

word count: 2k

Sae is always pretty, always attractive. Naturally, objectively. You have seen him over and over again and craving it each time must be something like being drugged. Sharp jawline that brushes against your cheek, the hard line of his body as you push him down onto the sofa, muscles that shift with every movement under your hands.

"Sae," his name leaves you with a breathless whine, he takes it all too smugly, delicate hands wrapped around you, steady as a lighthouse at sea. Your mouth is on his before he can answer, he lets you in with ease, plays with his tongue against yours, swipes the tip of his tongue against the back of your teeth and he's always doing this, isn't he? Making want so palpable, insatiable.

"Want you," it's as much of a phrase as you can get out, your hands at the hem of his shirt, pushing up to reveal his abdomen. The muscle there is relaxed now but it tenses under your touch. You know Sae well enough, he's far from unaffected by you. "Want you so bad. Please. Sae."

"Go ahead, then." His eyebrows shift up just slightly. Like amusement, like a challenge.

Or maybe you can't tell because all your head is fogged and filled with is him, him, him. With how warm his body is under your skin, lifting his shirt off and tossing it aside. But trying to return your hands to where they want to be — on him, making shapes over his muscles — has him catching them in his.

"You ask me for something, then you don't give me something in return?" There's a lilt to his voice, much too playful for how you grind onto him in impatience, with how heat pools in your gut and sparks up your spine, the firework crackle that makes its way to your chest. "Yours, off."

You oblige and he watches, forces you to move of your own will as he makes a show of checking you out, eyes that feel heavy and heated. It makes you hurry, pressing your lips to his again, if only to dull the intensity.

Not that it helps, not that anything helps. He's too gentle with you on purpose, letting you have him. "Give it to me, please." You pull on his belt, unbuckle it with trembling fingers. You miss twice, and you can feel the chuckle in his chest that's pressed against yours. "You always do this. You think I don't know? You do this on purpose."

"Blaming me?" It's unfair, really, how your breath comes short where he sounds almost normal. His voice is quiet, words meant just for you, kept away from the world, an experience only you get to have. His belt comes free, finally, falling to the floor with a thunk that you forget to register.

"You like it when I'm like this. Wanting you, desperate." You unbutton his pants, slide your fingers under his boxers just slightly. Testing the waters with the strip of skin, warmer than anywhere else. You feel his cock jump in his pants, can barely stop yourself from pressing down onto his hardening length again and again, until heat slips honey-slow down your chest like alcohol.

He taps you on the waist, heated palms wrapped around your hips. "Get up, take these off."

You stand up in a rush, your pants dropping to the floor. It's easier to follow his orders than deal with the consequences, and right now, all you can think about is what he could give you, all he has to offer.

"You're so mean to me." You tell him as you climb into his lap again, drawn to his warmth, pulled into him like the sea to the moon.

"I know." He kisses you slow, syrupy, makes the ache between your thighs that much worse, a reward for speaking your mind. "You're so good to me." Another chaste kiss to your lips, and then to your earlobe, starlight sparks in sensitivity. "My good girl. You can take it, can't you?"

"You're playing with my head." Your face falls into his shoulder, cushioned, his hands making their way up your thighs to trace around the hem of your panties. Looking down in the space between you both, your hands pull down his zipper, pushing down his pants just enough that you can feel his clothed cock against your own clothed cunt.

"Mm, I think it's cute." It's the most of an admittance you get from him, and the last thought you're capable of thinking. Because then the pads of his fingers are running up and down your clothed slit, every ridge apparent to him with how wet the fabric is soaked through. "You sure you're wet enough to just take me?"

"Doesn't matter. I want it. Want you so bad." It's like he doesn't get it, how bad it aches, how hypersensitive you feel, your quickening heart rate. He's the only person who can fix this, who can make this go away and make this feel good. You pull his cock out of his boxers, wrap your hand around the length and pump him once, twice. He matches you, pulling your panties to the side, runs his finger through your velvety folds and gets them coated with your slick before rubbing the wetness over the head of his cock.

"It's about to matter." His thumb finds your clit with ease, running a circle around it that has your hips jerking in his hold. He pulls you down onto the underside of his erect member, has you grind up and down the soft skin, honey-slick dripping over. Your throat goes dry with want, thighs tense. You feel like you want to scream, cry, something, anything if that's what it takes for him to just —

"Easy," he hushes, the head of his cock catching at your entrance. Yes, yes. You gasp and whine into his shoulder, hold on tight like being lost at sea with a buoy. He helps push your figure down, until you've taken the first inch of him in.

"Oh fuck, it's so good. It's so, so good. Thank you. Thank you." Your nails make crescent moons in his skin, pleasure rocking through you. It's at around the third inch that you start to remember how big he is, that maybe this was a little too ambitious, but then his thumb is circling your clit again and it starts to matter less. You're still part empty, and being full and filled with him is the only thing on your mind. You moan and he knows. Intuitively, innately. Pulling you back up to hear you cry at the loss of him only to push back in and add another inch.

"Baby," he leans his head back onto the sofa, watches as your slick starts to make streaks down his cock. It's so much like you, to make yourself known onto him. "Ah, fuck. Okay. Just a little more, okay?"

"You're a fucking liar." Your voice is muffled into the crux of his neck, where you can feel the way laughter makes its way through his body.

"Yeah." He sheathes more of himself into you, until your walls and thighs clench hard with a squeal, gives you a wet kiss to your cheek. "I'll make you feel good."

"You teased me —," something between a hiccup and a sob leaves you as you pull yourself up him again, dropping down more of him with a satisfied sigh. "All fucking day. All day. You're so mean to me. Just give it to me."

The world flips on its axis, a dizzy spin until your back lands on the sofa, Sae's body between your legs. "Don't brat to me." He spreads your knees a little further, pushes them towards you a little closer. "You've been good to me. Don't ruin it. Or I'll make it worse."

Another little cry leaves you as he presses into you again. "Okay, okay. Just —"

"I'm getting there." There's a rhythm now, enough of him inside of you to start one, centimeters that push into you with each thrust. "You're so needy. Can feel you clenching around me."

"God, Sae," the way he speaks to you is half-condescending, your desperation just another way for him to humiliate you. So why does it have more of your slick dripping over him? Your eyelids grow heavy with the pleasure, entirely full of him now, until the head of his cock starts to brush up against your cervix, and it's not until he starts to press up against it entirely that you feel his balls against your skin.

"Better?"

"Yes. Yes, fuck, so full." Your mind blanks with each push of his cock inside of you, and god does it make him groan with the way how soft and wet you are envelops around him. His necklace swings with each thrust and you wrap your hand around the metal of it lightly, pulling him down into a kiss that is so honey-slow it makes your heart ache. Teal eyes like stained glass admire you and ever gasp you make only has him fucking into you a little harder, love bitten lips that chase yours over and over.

"You're so pretty." His body presses closer to yours, almost lying on top of you entirely, his thumb brushing over your cheek and the mix of his gentleness and the hard way he fucks you makes you sob into him. Loved wholly, entirely. "Mm. You're gonna come for me, yeah?"

The warmth of his body leaves you momentarily only to pull you back down onto him by your thighs, before he leans into you again and you swear he might be even deeper this time, have no idea how you manage to accommodate him. Your mind swims and your legs try to trap Sae between them as his fingers run circles over your clit again, circular movements that have your back arching, firework crackle that kindles in your gut, flashes of heat that make you clench impossibly tight around him.

"That's it," Sae loves to watch you like this, how each part of your body tenses, how you make how you feel known to him in every movement. His cock throbs inside of you as your orgasm wracks through, the high-pitched noise that leaves you only makes him feel closer, until he cums into your oversensitive cunt, spilling into you and fucking you through the waves of your pleasure.

Sae catches himself short of falling onto you, leans against the arm of the couch above you, heavy breaths and reprieve.

"Wow," you exhale, and that makes a giggle jump out of you, until he chuckles and lands his face in the crux of your neck. "Oh wow, we should really do that again."

You can feel his smile against your skin, sunbeam-warm. "You were a little mad at me."

"I was frustrated. And rightfully so, you had your hands on me all day."

"You're cute when you're mad. Frustrated." He corrects easily, and then you're reaching for his face, peppering kisses over his lips until he holds you down and kisses you fully, properly, affection sweet on your tongue, sugared with his love.

[lorelune]

rabbit hearted

|| michael kaiser x reader || E/18+ || a wolf and a rabbit || wc: 6.6k || ao3 ||

After a game, during a much-needed night at the bar, Bastard München muses on what animal each player embodies. The answer that the team decides on for you is rather unfortunate. And even more unfortunate is that Kaiser takes such a liking to your assignment.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: wow. wrote this in an afternoon in a complete, lust-filled haze. michael kaiser the things you do to me. this is truly just smut. insane smut with a relatively mean kaiser who is soft, somewhere in there. god help you and reader. enjoy loves 🩷

CWs: player reader, nonbinary reader with afab anatomy, reader referred to with they/them pronouns, clit/dick are used interchangeably for reader, dubcon (kinda), minor Oliver/reader, reader smokes and drinks, predator/prey (lightly), degradation (no derogatory terms used), squirting, PIV sex, kaiser is mean

It starts during a normal night of drinking.

You're out with the team— you usually abstain, but tonight feels different. After a hard-earned win, Bastard München is squirrely and more lively than normal. You can feel the electric energy in the air as the lot of you settle into your favored bar.

Kaiser is, as usual, at the epicenter with you against his side.

Kaiser doesn't drink often— the smell of ale and liquor bothers him usually. But when he does, he's a bit of a lightweight.

Tonight, Kaiser nurses his third stein with flushed cheeks. He'd taken a shot of smooth vodka with you earlier, too.

You don't fare much better than him, listing into his side after your first few drinks. He's warm, and the German winter that swirls outside is so, so cold. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, rubbing mindless circles over your jacket. 

It's Gagamaru, the usually quiet goalie, who presents the question that fundamentally alters your evening.

"If you were an animal," he slurs, "Which one would you be?"

The table chatters immediately; Kaiser is silent above you.

"Ness would be a dog," Isagi, another lightweight, who has spent the last ten minutes with his head lowered to the table, says. "That one’s easy."

"Don’t say it like that," Ness whines from your other side, squirming. Isagi isn't wrong and everyone at the table knows that. Someone claps Ness on his back.

"Kurona... a shark," you yawn. "like one of those nurse ones, that's nice and likes to be petted."

The table busts out in laughter, but no one disagrees. Kurona simply takes a sip of his drink, nodding amicably twice. 

It’s decided that Isagi is a panther, Hiori is a leopard seal, and Gesner is a dingo. Grim is a falcon.

"What would you be, Kaiser?" It's Yukimiya who asks. He’s a heavyweight, surprisingly, who has drunk more than the rest of the table but looks perfectly put together, still. Fucking rude.

Kaiser, who has remained notably silent the entire conversation, hums. Contemplative in a way that makes your stomach swoop. A quiet Kaiser is a dangerous Kaiser.

"A wolf, probably." he leans back in the booth. "Or a big cat."

"like a lion?" Isagi slurs. He needs water badly, you think. You wish you were within yourself enough to fetch some for him. “You’re way more of a wolf.”

"Sure, yeah." Kaiser smiles, all gleaming teeth. He does look like a predator like this, you think. Especially with how you’ve, somehow, become nestled against his shoulder, beneath him, keenly aware of his canines and their sharp points. It’s been almost a week since your last fuck, and therefore the marks he'd left during your last bedding have all but faded, but the knowledge of the damage they can inflict is still there.

You still remember the feeling of them. The way Kaiser sometimes draws blood and looks pleased about it.

"What about me?" you ask, shifting closer. Kaiser’s arm loops lower, going around your waist. His body is filled with curled tension.

Kaiser looks down at you, still smiling. It makes your stomach drop all over again. His fingers dig into your ribs and a small sound bubbles up your throat, against your will. It’s a frail, warbling sound. The bar is loud enough that only Kaiser and you can hear it, but it still makes your cheeks hot all the same.

When you attempt to duck and hide your face in the fabric of his shirt, Kaiser winds his hand into the hair at the base of your skull and tugs. It keeps your face up; he won't allow you to hide.

"I think," Kaiser licks his teeth, tilting his head. The long, azure tails of his hair fall off his shoulder. "You’re just a little rabbit."

What the fuck.

"... A bunny?" you ask, incredulous. You're not a fucking rabbit.

"Mhm," Kaiser pulls your hair again. "Don't you agree?"

"Absolutely not," you snap, embarrassed. Everyone at the table gets something of a predatory animal and you get shafted with a fucking bunny?! "Take it back."

"Nope." Kaiser pops the 'p' and pats your head with a little too much force. Your brain rattles around in your skull. "You're just a little bunny rabbit at the end of the day."

"No, I am not—!"

"I have to agree," Hiori says. The traitor, with his own sharp glint in his gaze, sighs dreamily. "Aren't ya' a lucky one, Kaiser."

"Don’t say it like that." you stutter over your words. "I'm not—!"

"Nah, you are," it's Gesner, this time, nodding and crossing his arms over his chest. "You run around like one too."

"Um," Ness says from beside you. "You a-are a bit like a rabbit, don't you think?"

"You’re cute like one too." Kaiser pinches your cheeks and shakes your head with his grip.

"No," you refuse again, drawing back from your wolfish tormentor. "Nuh-uh, nope, never. I'm leaving. Bye."

"See!" Gesner laughs. "Running off, just like a cornered rabbit!"

"I hate all of you." You snap, crawling over Ness and Kurona without a care in the world. You need to get out of this fucking booth—

Kaiser grabs your ankle and yanks.

It puts you off balance, and you fall into Ness’s lap. Like, fully. Face pressed between his legs.

You both squeak.

"Fuck off—!" You kick Kaiser in the gut, who doubles over, and you scramble from the booth.

You sway as you right yourself, stumbling through the crowded bar.

You're not a fucking bunny.

...

You end up outside, having bummed a cigarette from a beautiful woman who lit it for you. It balms your ego instantly, and the nicotine buzzing in your skull makes your humiliating animal assignment seem less important.

You consider going home. Your apartment is within walking distance, but it is cold. You could take a taxi and put yourself on ‘do not disturb’ so you don't have to deal with any of the inevitable teasing texts from your teammates.

And, it would allow you to ignore Kaiser.

You know him well. Well enough that the idea of you being a cute bunny rabbit is going to have you and your cunt infirmed for some amount of time if he is left to his own devices. Locking your door— no, barricading your door, because that fucker has a key to your apartment somehow, is your best option to save the health and safety of your dick.

You exhale a cloud of smoke that gets carried away by the biting wind. You shiver.

"Look at this," A voice comes from down the road. You grimace. You’d know that rolling, low drawl anywhere.

Uber’s Oliver Aiku— for fuck's sake— you cannot catch a break. You should've figured that he and the rest of his team would appear, given Bastard München beat them earlier in the day. They walk in a gaggle toward the bar with Oliver at the helm.

"Hey," You take another drag, remaining casual because you value your sanity. "All of Bastard is in there. I'd turn back if you want to keep the peace and avoid a bar fight."

"Aw," Oliver clicks his tongue as he nears; the team is already filtering inside. their funeral. "Don’t think we can handle it?"

"Not at all." You shake your head with a sigh.

Oliver hums and stays outside, sidling up next to you and taking his own pack of cigarettes out. He lights up beside you and exhales his first puff with a sigh.

"Where's your keeper?" Oliver asks.

"Inside.” You huff. "And— he's not my fucking keeper."

"Yet, you knew exactly who I meant."

"Because I have common sense— and I know how... we are perceived."

"And is that perception... not entirely correct?"

"We’re just fucking." You take another drag. This cigarette is burning way too long, dammit. You should've hailed a taxi. "That's all."

"You exclusive?"

"You're a dog." You spit, hoping there's enough venom behind your words to keep him at bay. "And... we haven't spoken about it."

"How interesting." Oliver slides a little closer.

You move a step away. "Keep your distance. He bites."

"Excuse me for trespassing." Oliver holds his cigarette between his lips and holds his hands up in what feels like a false surrender. "And for pursuing a fling."

"There are other prospects."

"Certainly." Oliver cocks his head to the bar behind him that has absolutely gotten louder since Ubers entered. "But you've banned me from your favored pub."

"Out of concern for your safety."

"So, you care about me then?"

"Twisting my words..." You laugh and throw your cigarette on the ground. You stamp it out with the bottom of your shoe. "Go in, I don't care. Find another body."

"Ouch." Oliver laughs, running a hand through his hair. His gaze is warm and piercing all at once.

You begin to walk away, in the direction of your apartment, when the door to the bar swings open rather dramatically.

Fuck— you took too long. You walk a little faster, you have to—

"There you are," It's Kaiser because, of course, it is. He grabs your shoulder and yanks you back. He wraps himself around you from behind, his blue-tipped bangs tickling your cheek. You refuse to look at him and see the glare that he's undoubtedly shooting at Oliver. Kaiser presses his lips to your cheek. "I thought I lost you."

"Piss off. I'm going home."

"Without me?"

"Yes." You try to pull away from him, but Kaiser is so much stronger than he looks (and he doesn’t look weak to begin with). He keeps you in place with an arm looped around your waist.

Oliver watches you both with blown pupils.

"'Just fucking', huh?" Oliver laughs then, low and forbidding.

Kaiser goes stiff behind you. You're fucked.

"Is that what they said?" Kaiser says next to your ear. You pull away harder, more frantically, but he doesn't yield.

"Yup, and it's the truth!" You say, far too chipper. "Now, let me go, so I can go home, drink some water, and go to bed."

"Nope." Kaiser cuts you off. "Not alone, little rabbit."

"I hate you."

"I'm sure," Kaiser smiles against your cheek, wolfish and unrelenting.

He drags you away, Oliver chuckling at the door of the bar. You despise them both.

...

Kaiser has you pressed against the door to your apartment (which he unlocked with that stupid key of his— you really should take that away from him—) the moment you enter. You're pressed, front flush to the wood with your cheek pressed to the side. Kaiser is leering at you like a wolf, like a big cat that needs you as a meal.

You gulp.

"You should know better," He practically croons. He's pressed against your back, already hard against your ass. "But, I suppose that I shouldn't expect all that much intellect out of a little bunny, should I?"

"Piss off." your voice barely squeezes out.

Kaiser's hands slip to your front, undoing the button of your pants and the zipper of your fly. You squirm.

"No," You tell him, "No, no, don't, wait—"

"I was very patient at the bar," Kaiser noses into your cheek. "I wanted to fuck you in the bathroom there, you know. I could've made sure the whole team knows whose you are."

"I think they already— do—!" Your voice arcs as he bites down on your neck, on an old, yellowing bruise he left the last time he had you like this.

"Do they?" Kaiser sucks at the skin, blooming a mark there, surely. "That Uber's defender seemed pretty keen on you."

"He's a whore."

"And you're mine." Kaiser tugs you by your hair, forcing your neck into a painful curve.

His gaze is cutting. All sharp edges and blue thorns. You've offended him, somehow, by doing nothing. Now you'll reap what you've sewn.

(Part of you, the part that, perhaps, is more rabbit-like than the rest of you, knew that this is where you'd end up. It wanted this. Wanted to feel squeezed and pressed and small like a little prey animal at the hands of a man who can't be described as anything less than a canid predator.)

Kaiser’s hand dips into the front of your panties, the stupid cotton kind you try to avoid wearing when you know you're going to be fucked.

"Oh look," Kaiser says, sing-song, "You're soaked."

"Fuck— you—!" You kick back at him.

"A little bunny is so predictable," Kaiser sighs, wistful, rolling the pearl of your clit. "You just need to be fucked, don't you?"

"No—"

"Don’t lie," Kaiser shoves your pants down to your thighs. "You’re not very good at it, anyway."

"I hate you—"

"Keep lying and I'll make this worse for you." Kaiser reminds.

It's always like this. The push and pull, the tugging, and the resistance. You both get off on it. You feel dizzy with arousal, with shame, with pent-up rage and indigence.

A sound bubbles up from your throat as he spins you. Still against the door, with your back to it now. Your panties are hardly covering your cunt down, the thatch of hair around it peeking out.

And your wolf drops to his knees with a hungry smile. He pulls off your pants and presses his lips to the wet spot on your panties.

"These are cute," he hums. They are, there's a little bow in the middle, periwinkle, with light lace around the thighs. "All for me?"

"N—No—"

"Lying, lying, lying, little rabbit."

He licks a stripe over your cunt, over the soaked cotton. Your hips jolt, and he presses them into the door.

It's rude how he does this. How he undoes you so easily, how he picks you apart like a wolf tearing the flesh from the ribs of its meal.

He pulls your panties down and feasts.

It's too much, immediately. Kaiser does nothing in halves and sucking your dick applies to that. He sucks your clit into his mouth, kneading your hips as you gasp and writhe.

He moans when you kick him and doubles down.

He laps at you, breaking you down so easily. A finger presses against your entrance and you whine, hips jolting down toward the pressure. Your legs feel weak, with arousal and the leftover exertion of the day’s game.

"Wait— wait—" Your voice breaks. "I’m going to fall—"

Kaiser hefts one of your legs onto his shoulder but does not slow. Doesn't break his tempo while his head bobs up and down. You fist a hand in his hair and pull. He moans against you and the vibration goes straight to your dick.

You cum incredibly quickly. Embarrassingly so, and your one unsupported leg shakes so hard that it does, indeed, collapse. Kaiser barely catches you, still licking at your cunt through the aftershocks of your orgasm. He lowers you to the floor as your chest heaves.

You struggle to catch your breath as Kaiser grins at you. Your slick coats around his mouth, down his chin.

"What? He tilts his head. "Nothing to say now?"

"You’re the w-worse."

"At least you're not lying, now." And he kisses you, fiercely.

It’s the kind of contact that is meant to break and snap bone. The wet-fingered hand that had been massaging your insides grabs your jaw with enough force to bruise. All you can do is take it. All you can do is swallow down his moans while he takes yours. All you can do is shake and wrap your arms around his shoulders.

A warbling sound breaks from your throat.

He pulls away with a gleam in his eye. The night has hardly started and you already feel— wrung out, small. Aching.

Kaiser, for all of his dramatics and teeth, kisses your forehead with a surprising amount of tenderness. You ignore the stinging behind your eyes.

...

Kaiser is kind enough to bring you to bed, thankfully.

During some of your trysts, he'll simply take you over the arm of your couch or the small dining table tucked away by your kitchen.

Today, however, he drops you on top of your bed. You bounce as he does. You sniffle, dragging yourself up to the headboard.

"Running, just like a rabbit." Kaiser pulls off his shirt. "You’re not making a good case for yourself, bunny."

"Don’t c-call me that."

"Shouldn’t I?" he moves so quickly, suddenly braced over you, with a hand in between your legs. "It turns you on so much when I do."

You hate that he's right. You hate that— being in his jaws makes you so weak. You turn your head to the side, away from him. Kaiser acquiesces, kissing down your throat that you've bared to him. He nips and sucks as he does. Raised bite marks following in his wake, surely. You can't stifle your sounds as he does. Your legs kick and your heels press into the bed, but it doesn't slow or stop him.

"You’re so wet," Kaiser rolls your clit with his thumb. "I bet you'd take my cock so well, without any prep even."

Alarm bells go off in your head, the hard line of Kaiser's cock, still covered by his boxer briefs, burns against your thigh.

"No, no, please—" Kaiser is not small. He has a frustratingly large and thick cock (pretty, too), and taking without being stretched first aches for days.

He hushes you with a kiss on your cheek. "I'll be nice today, hm? Even if you don’t deserve it."

"You're n-never nice."

"Another truth," he sighs, wistful. "You’re getting better."

You hate him so fucking much.

It’s unfair, how easily he slips a finger into you. Then, so quickly, another, pressing and curling in just the right spot. For 'just fucking', Kaiser knows your body far too well. He is so keen to the spots that undo you. You barely hold back tears as he massages the most tender spot inside you.

He kisses you as he does. It’s consuming, the way his tongue delves into your mouth. He licks your tongue, at the back of your teeth, and sucks your tongue into your mouth. When he withdraws, a line of spit connects you both. It breaks and slaps against your chin.

"You look so pretty when you're messy.” He pats your cheek with too much force, curling his fingers just right.

"If—" You can barely find your voice. "If you make me c-come again— you can't—"

"Oh, I can—"

"Don't—" you won't be able to take it, you're certain. No matter how empty and barren your insides feel, even with his fingers in you, you can't take anymore. You feel tears brimming at the corners of your eyes.

"Please, please, please—"

"What are you begging for?" Kaiser kisses your cheek again like a lover would. "More or less? I can't tell."

You think less, but you don't know.

He slips a third finger inside you. You cry out, wrapping a leg around him, over his back. It’s an answer enough. 

“All that talk,” he pushes your shirt up. “And still so needy.”

Before you can reply, Kaiser has his lips around one of the stiff peaks of your nipples. A sound shatters out of you as he sucks. Bites, even, gnawing on you like a piece of meat. It’s sensitive, it’s too fucking much, and yet you can kick him away anymore. You fist a hand in your own hair.

He spreads his fingers inside you, switching to the other side of your chest. 

Kaiser leaves marks as he does. Your chest, marked. Your throat, marred. Everyone in the locker room will see, and that’s his intention, probably. You’ll be embarrassed— you are embarrassed— but you can’t make yourself stop him.

(Oh, you want his mark on you. You want to be more than fucking, you want to be in his maw, his teeth in you— fuck, fuck, fuck—)

He pulls away, taking your shirt with him. 

Kaiser looms above you, grinning, teeth gleaming in the low light of your bedroom. You swallow, audibly, and he laughs in the same way a wolf does. Low and forbidding, a promise of a massacre tucked in his throat. 

He peels off his boxers and his cock springs free.

If you were more within yourself, less lost in pleasure-pain, you would make some quip about how he is wet too. Pre staining the front of the boxers, wetting the red head of his cock. He’s like that— messy. Eager in his own way, dripping before you’ve even really touched him at all.

You jolt up, unsteady, wrapping a hand around his cock and pumping. He hisses and grabs your wrist, but doesn’t stop your motion. Instead, his mouth falls open, pretty lips parting as you stroke him. He’s already fully hard, painfully so it looks like, but he doesn’t make you stop. If you were teasing, he probably would, but you’re not.

You’re just pleasure drunk, bent within your desire. 

“Fuck—” he grits out, guiding your holding a little tight on his cock. His pre drips, splattering against your navel. You jolt with the feel of it, whining. 

“How—” you swallow again. “How d-do you want me?”

You watch his brain stall.

Kaiser is an interesting creature. Part of him craves the chase, the capture, the stealing of something for himself. Your pleasure and forced submission are two of those things, you’ve found. Those desires of his are transparent. 

There’s another part that wants something stickier. That wants something... you wouldn’t say kinder, but more intimate maybe. Closeness, in all its parts. 

It depends on his mood, how he starts fucking you. But it usually ends the same.

Kaiser doesn’t answer you verbally, he instead grabs you by the hips and flips you, so you’re tummy down against the duvet. He roughly grabs your hips, raising them so your back is in a cruel arch.

“I want to mount you,” he says, voice rough and lilting. “Like any wolf would want a rabbit, yeah?”

You kick at him blindly, “I’m not—”

“But you are—” Kaiser reminds you, a hand bracing on the back of your neck, pressing you down into the sheets. “And you were doing so well, knowing that. And even still—”

His breath is scalding against your nape.

“I’m a wolf, remember?” Kaiser's teeth nip against the skin and muscle of your trap. “Whether you’re a little bunny or not, I’d want you like this.”

You don’t get to speak; your words are stolen by the press of his wet cock against your cunt.

A sound tears from you as he breaches. It’s a tight fit, even though you’re dripping and he had three fingers in you moments ago. The stretch is a burning thing, hot, so hot. It hurts, but the good kind of hurt you relish. Every centimeter Kaiser pushes into you feels like agony and relief in tandem with one another. 

By the time he’s fully seated, pelvis flush to your ass, your breath is catching. Too fast, too shallow, too withered.

“Deep breaths,” he whispers into your ear with a kiss over the sensitive shell of it. His weight is still beared on your neck. “Slow ones.”

“F-Fuck you—”

“I could move now, you know,” Kaiser adjusts his hips, the tip of his cock nudging your cervix, entirely too deep. “I’d make you pass out if I did that, wouldn’t I? I said I’m being nice, so breathe.”

You whine and close your eyes, counting your breaths, matching Kaiser’s, his own ragged by better-paced than your own. The brittle quality of your own settles a little, though a hiccuping sound emerges too.

“Are you crying?” Kaiser asks, half-incredulous and half-struck. “So early for tears.”

“Is’ the liquor—” You slur out.

“Liar,” Kaiser withdraws, so only the tip of his cock remains inside you. “Liar, liar, liar—”

With each word, he thrusts in and out of you. Deep and fast, bruising your insides without care for how you scramble for purchase below him. A twinge burrows itself in your neck with the pressure.

You wish you had words in you, but Kaiser fucks them out of you without pause. Without yield. All you can do is grab the duvet and take it.

His pace isn’t rapid, it’s measured. It’s meant to undo. Each wet slap against your cunt is tactical on his part. Each groan he lays into your ear serves the purpose of flaying you. You’re a meal for him; you’re being eaten.

He starts babbling as his pace speeds up.

“J-Just a fucking bunny,” he spits. “Just a stupid fucking bunny who doesn’t know what’s good for them, yeah? Should’ve watched your mouth.”

Any reply you could have leaks out of you in the drool that pools out of your mouth, wetting the fabric beneath your cheek.

“Good thing you have me,” Kaiser moans into your throat, sinking his teeth into you. “I know what you need, even if nothing in that pretty head of yours does. You k-know that, yeah? You know you’re mine?”

Ah, there it is.

Kaiser wants something that is his. Something he has to take.

He’s taken your body in so many ways, parts of your heart too, which is far scarier to acknowledge. For how much yearning is built up in that man’s body, he is horrible at expressing it in any sane fashion. 

Only like this, with you taking everything he gives, can he let those desires loose. Only then can Kaiser really yearn with the full breadth of his chest, with the full weight of his body against yours.

“Yours.” Is all you can get out.

(Oliver, that fucker, was right. ‘Just fucking’, your ass.)

Kaiser moans, high and sweet in a way that you’re certain only you have had the privilege of hearing. He pulls out for only a moment to flip you around. Your legs instinctually come up around his hips, ankles locking at his lower back. His cock lays over your navel, over the softness of your tummy. It’s— obscene to look at. How deep inside you he can reach. 

He clasps his hands with yours, intertwining his fingers with your own as he pushes inside you again. 

The angle is different— each thrust has the head of Kaiser’s cock nudging your sweet spot. It doesn’t help that your stomach is bare, slick with the remnants of your slick and Kaiser’s pre. You feel exposed, like a belly-up prey animal that can’t hide from the wet jaws of a much larger, much more dangerous animal.

It doesn’t help that Kaiser is leering from above you, smiling, sweat beading on his brow, and slicking the blonde and blue hair around his face down against his cheeks. He looks just as debauched as you, maybe.

You squeeze his hand in your own, and he moans. Dirty and filthy, fucking into you harder, deeper. He tilts his hips to raise your own, the angle making blood rush into your skull.

Tears, the overwhelmed kind, drip from your eyes.

It makes him slow, just barely, and flatten his body to yours. He licks them away like he so enjoys doing when he forces you down small enough to get you teary and lost. 

“Shhh,” he shushes into your cheeks, lapping like a hot-mouthed canine. “You’re taking me so well— why are you crying? Is the little rabbit scared?”

“No, no—”

“Sure, sure,” Kaiser laughs, cruel and loving all at once. “So scared of a big, bad wolf, right?”

“No—”

Are you scared? 

Maybe.

You’re scared of how Kaiser makes you feel in these moments. 

On the field, he’s all hard metal and marble. Something entirely broken and reforged, stone-hard and indomitable. Endless in his prowess, terrifying in his ferocity. On more than one occasion, you’ve been explicitly thankful to be on his team, rather than facing him. The way he breaks others down simply through his own play is terrifying to watch. You aid him, as any good midfielder would do, but it’s not you who is tearing apart your opponents.

That’s all Kaiser.

But that’s less fear— more awe, some respect, and some... eye-rolling. God, the man has a flair for the dramatic when he gets into it. 

The fear comes from these moments. It comes from when you were so easily wrapped around him at the bar.

The depth of Michael Kaiser’s feelings is endless. Black and lightless, like the deep sea, there’s no bottom to it. It’s the kind of lucid knowledge that Kaiser will consume you with his yearning, his voracity, his urge to take and eat his fill, and then some. It doesn’t take a genius to know that Kaiser has lived most of his life hungry, and now that he has access to ample food, he will never allow himself to go hungry again.

It’s unfortunate that you are his— morsel. Prey. Meal. So often.

It scares you, the look on his face now as his pace increases. As all of his attention truly zeroes in on you. The smile on his face, the knowingness of how he looks at you. The way he eats your pleasure and intends to gorge himself on his own.

(At how— he so clearly wants more. No one unaffected would need to hold your hands to come like he does. Kaiser doesn’t know how to want and yearn in any way that is normal. Only when you’re both stripped down, you, humiliated, and Kaiser fully riding the high of humiliating you, can you both be honest.)

“Please—” You say, desperate. 

Kaiser doesn’t tease or ask what you mean, now. He just fucks you harder.

It hurts— your insides. You’ll be bruised and you want to be bruised. You bend up into him as he does, as he chases his own want and desire through the outlet of your body. Your cunt squeezes around him and he curses under your breath.

His pace falters, just barely, and you know he’s close.

“Kiss—?” You ask, broken all over, and Kaiser does just that.

His sounds get lighter and airier as he gets closer to his own peak. You feel the way his muscles are bound tight. The bed frame hits the wall with each thrust. The wet slap of flesh-on-flesh lights staccato breaths in your chest.

You babble out pleas, for more, for more— 

He chases his high, eyes locked onto yours, hands squeezing your own on either side of your head. His rhythm breaks as he groans, pressing deeper, so fucking deep, and he fills you up.

The gush of warmth in you has you gasping, kicking at his back. It feels like so fucking much as he fucks his spent into you, not stopping his thrusts until he’s empty and softening. His chest glistens as he pulls away, cock slipping out of you with a rush of cum. It drips out of you. It must be obscene because Kaiser practically has hearts in his eyes as he pushes his release back inside of you with two shaking fingers.

His gaze shifts from your cunt to you. Then, he scowls.

The moment is gone, it seems. 

Something odd and hollow enters your chest. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling. It gets worse as Kaiser climbs off the bed, finding his boxer briefs and pulling them back on.

(He’s— he’s usually clingy after sex. He needs to be cuddled and held, but will never ask for it. Though, sometimes he does this, runs off when things get too raw and truly real.)

He exits the room wordlessly and you sigh.

You feel— sober enough. You want to cum and your insides are still vibrating and aching. Your hand slips between your wet thighs.

A little aborted sound slips out of you as you scissor two fingers around your cock. It’s swollen, your whole cunt is puffy and aching from the treatment Kaiser inflicted upon it. You feel like all of the blood in your body is centered around your core; it won’t be hard to finish.

You throw your head back against the bed, feeling too empty even with Kaiser’s spent inside of you.

“What are you doing?”

You hadn’t realized Kaiser had reentered the room.

He looks— handsome, unfortunately. Ruffled and sweaty from sex, and it’s a good look on him. There are a few bite marks on his neck, ones you didn’t even realize you left. His hair is frizzed up from the generated humidity.

“Getting off,” your voice breaks when you speak. “Leave, if that’s what you want.”

There’s a stillness in the room. Tension that appears so quickly and thickly, that you can almost see it. 

Kaiser glares at you like he intends to kill you. It’s the same look he gives Ness when the other whiffs a pass during practice. It’s the same one he gives Isagi when he outdoes Kaiser. It’s an identical look to the one he gives you when you leave the locker room without him.

Kaiser’s clamoring back on the bed before you have time to think. Your hand is ripped away from your cunt and replaced by his own.

“Did you really think— I’d leave you on your own like this?” 

“Yes—?”

“I must’ve fucked you stupid, then.” Kaiser spits, literally spits, onto your cunt. You flinch. “Or maybe, you just don’t think at all. That sounds plenty logical too.”

“You’re—” the worse, you want to say, but unfortunately, you really can’t speak as he lifts your thighs around him once more and slips his deft fingers into you again, rubbing your clit with his other hand.

“I just wanted to be nice, and get you some water, considering you were so bent on having a sip before we left the bar. But excuse me, I have such a needy rabbit on my hands, needing to get off and be fucked stupid before they can be satisfied.”

You squeal as his pace increases. You’re still— so sensitive. He folds your legs up and an odd pressure grows in your abdomen.

“Mihya—” A slip of the tongue, an understandable one, all things considered. “Wait—”

“I’ve been too nice to you, haven’t I?” Kaiser bends you in half. “You’ve forgotten the role you play, haven’t you?”

No, you haven’t, you really just thought that things got too sticky and gooey for Kaiser to continue to be in your bed, and you were trying to not fucking— leash a wolf, for your own safety. But, maybe Kaiser’s cock and the shot you did before you left the club really did make you a bit stupid.

The pressure in your abdomen increases, all pressure and heat.

“Mihya, wait, wait—!” You sob, scrambling to grab his wrist, but he doesn’t stop or slow. His pace grows more frantic, intense. 

When you come, it’s wet.

A gush of fluid drips down his wrist, soaking your thighs, and wetting the comforter in a puddle below you. Kaiser keeps going, fucking you through it, despite all of your kicking and pushing. 

He doesn’t stop until you come again, the same way. Wet and messy and wrung empty.

Only then, once you’re shaking, choking on your tears and harsh breaths, does he extract his fingers from inside you. They’re— they’re dripping. Soaked, just like the sheets, just like your cheeks. 

You have your forearm laid over your eyes as you struggle to catch your breath.

You’ve— you’ve never done that before.

“Well,” Kaiser says, a smile so clearly in his voice. “That’s new. How lucky am I?’

“I—” Your voice is chopped. “I d-didn’t know I could do that.”

“... You haven’t before?”

You shake your head, pulling your arms away to look at him.

Kaiser— oh fuck, oh fuck— you made a mistake. You shouldn’t have told him that. The smile he wears is worse than wolfish. It’s worse than predatory. It’s something deeper and more primal that has your hindbrain begging you to roll off the bed and hide in a closet until further notice.

But you don’t, you can’t.

Kaiser kisses you. 

He licks at your lips, your mouth, swallowing down each desperate, overstimulated sound that leaves you. His cock— his fucking dick— is half hard again against your thigh.

“No,” you tell him for the umpteenth time. “I can’t— I can’t—”

“You can and you will.” He declares with a sharp kiss to your now locked-shut lips. 

You know that there isn’t much you can do to refute him.

(And you’re not sure you want to.)

...

You do, eventually, get water. It’s the early morning by then, the sun beginning to peak over the horizon. Kaiser puts a bottle to your lips after you, literally, cannot raise yourself up.

He hasn’t ever fucked you like this— never so many times in a night, never so full and so relentlessly. It’s hard to think— hard to fully understand that he is done— appetite fully satiated. Maybe.

Regardless, Kaiser is done with his gorging, and what’s left is the half-corpse of your body.

“Slow,” he tells you. You’re cradled in his arms as the bottle is put to your lips. You drink too fast, choke, and he scolds you. He’s being uncharacteristically doting.

“S-Sorry,” you mumble. Your lips feel numb.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. You can’t see his face, not really, but you can see the hint of an expression that isn’t as viperous as you would think it to be. It looks... not kinder, but not cruel.

He’s just as worn down and puddle-ish as you are.

Kaiser drinks his own bottle, after wiping you down. You really should shower, you’re filthy, but Kaiser says you can take one in the morning. There’s no practice tomorrow, you can sleep and get clean later.

It’s not until he’s slipping beneath your (fresh, thank god) sheets that you realize Kaiser means that you’ll do so together.

He tucks himself under your chin, head against your chest, with your sticky legs tangled with his own. Like a dog, a wolf maybe, he mouths at a few of the marks he’s left. He only relents with a laugh when you whine enough. 

It’s odd, then. The stillness of the room. The only sounds are the whoosh of the aircon, the hum of an air purifier in the other room, and your matched, steady breathing. Kaiser rubs a hand up and down your spine.

“You’re still shaking, bunny,” he hums. 

“Am I?” You genuinely can’t tell.

“So hard.” Kaiser lifts up your hand by the wrist, showing off the tremor that he caused. The bastard. 

“O-Oh.”

Kaiser nudges your jaw with his nose. A smile is pressed into your skin. Toothy and wide, pleased with himself.

Maybe, hours ago, you would’ve fought him on it. There’s still a well of embarrassment in you, but there’s nothing to do with it when you’re this... fucked. All you can make yourself do is hum, contented enough, and press a few kisses to the crowd of his head. Your vision blurs with exhaustion, with sleep. It doesn’t take long for you to fall under.

(You crash before you notice the tension drain out of Kaiser. You don’t see how he presses closer to you, wraps you up in his arms tighter, tighter than he ever has before. You don’t feel him lavish your marked neck with kisses, luxuriate in his claim and all the closeness he’s broken you down into.)

(And, truthfully, even if you had witnessed this version of Kaiser? You wouldn't have minded. Maybe, even, as rabbit-hearted as you are, you would’ve returned his affections in kind.)

For now, as the gold of morning streams in through your blinds in pretty rays, you sleepily enjoy being caught prey in the arms of a wolf.

thank you for reading!! ❣️

[gunmetallic]

with you, my heart-known home.

itoshi sae x f!reader smut tags: afab reader, established relationship, oral f!receiving, praise, p in v, fluffy domestic sex. genuinely no warnings, just full of love from him to you. dirty talk except it’s sae so it’s His Version of it ahaha. he gets hard when you say i love you wc: 3k

He's staring at you.

A grueling six weeks, a flight, and a shower. It's nothing new, he's the one that told you not to wait up.

But seeing you asleep in his bed after all this time makes his cock twitch in his shorts. He groans to himself, wiping a hand down his face.

Only you would have this effect on him, heavy on his heart, imagining your pussy around his cock when you're right next to him.

Whatever. He should probably get some sleep.

He wraps the blanket around you both, takes the extra time to make sure you're properly tucked in, before wrapping his arm around your waist. Because he did miss you. It's clear in the way he squeezes you tight, presses a kiss to your cheek. You smile in your sleep as if knowingly, tucking his hand into your chest.

What does it say about him that he feels himself get harder at the sight?

He leans his head down into your shoulder. Fuck, you're so warm. You smell like you and the bed and he can't imagine anything sexier. Like home, in a way no other place has truly been.

You turn to him, still half-asleep. He really, really, didn't mean to wake you.

"I know, baby," you mumble, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Welcome home."

He doesn't really understand it when he's with you, doesn't try to either. Because now you're here, and he's pressing his body over yours, kissing you in your sleep-laden state. He's filled with something deeper than desire, heavier than love, more pulling than devotion. He presses kisses down your neck gently, his hands at your thighs, moving up to your waist, pushing your shirt up so he can feel the plush flesh there, everywhere.

"Sae, Sae, baby, aren't you tired?" you cup his face in your hands, soft skin under your fingertips, half-hooded eyes staring back at you. "You just got back."

He stops at that, his own breath coming heavier than he'd like to admit. "Are you tired? You don't have to do anything."

Your windchime laugh muffles against his chest, makes his heart flip-flop like a fish in the cavern. "If you want me, you can have me. In whichever way you want."

In whichever way you want. A dangerous offer, for a man like him. He’ll take you up on it, again and again and again. He'll have you, completely.

You kiss him like that, with a softness that he thinks must come naturally to you, with the way you wake up everyday just to blanket him in it. Sae adores it, feels a twinge of guilt with the way he wants to devour it. Lips move into tongue that move into teeth, nipping at your lower lip. His hands know your skin, they feel like they’re covering you everywhere, hot and aching as they delve under your clothes, up to your breasts, cupping them softly and running his thumb right over your nipple, swallowing down a gasp from you.

He only separates from you to look at your reaction, love-bitten lips with a sheen of saliva like gloss, eyes focused on him alone, how your chest rises and falls under his hands.

He takes your top off carefully, like a reveal, gaze stuck to you, tongue wetting his lips before he brings his mouth right to your sternum. He can feel the flutter of your heartbeat underneath, proof of you underneath him, proof of the effect he has on you after all these years.

"Pretty," he mumbles into your skin, both hands cupping either sides of your breasts. He tilts his head to the side, bringing one nipple into his mouth, his hand sliding under your back as you arch into it, fingers over the dip of your spine.

He takes his time, despite the way his cock throbs in his pants. "You're pretty."

You flush at the attention. "Sae."

He lifts himself up to pull your pants down and off, his eyes following every move, your exposed body beneath him in the dark of the room. It almost makes him wish the lights were on, so that he could really admire you, watch as he makes you squirm under his touch.

He'll do that anyways. "Stay still."

His arms wrap around your thighs, his hands lacing through yours over your hips — a gentle affection, like a ribbon wrapped around a present. And then his mouth is on you, kissing your clit first, then teasing you by bringing his tongue along one side of your slit, from the bottom all the way up until he's just shy of your clit, then repeating on the other side.

"Sae," you try again, breath hitching.

"Do you touch yourself when I'm not home?" He takes in the way your clit exposes itself past the petals of your folds, puffy and waiting, beckoning him like a ship to a lighthouse.

"Answer me." You can feel his mouth moving over your core as he speaks.

"I- sometimes?" You answer breathlessly. That grants you closer to what you want, the flat of tongue lapping over from the bottom to the top of your slit.

"What do you think about?" He's both relentless and holding back, too slow to grant you reprieve but too persistent with his tongue to let you properly think. A perfect balance that only he knows, that only he can sustain with you, that keeps you holding onto him like a lifeline.

"You. You, always you."

(He has to make you feel like this. It's the only way he can feel like there's been due diligence in your dynamic — you, finally knowing some part of how he feels. Like you own him.)

He hums in response instead, vibrations against your core, tasting each drip of wetness you give him, drinking you in.

"Like this," you continue. "I think of you like this."

Long laps of his tongue turn into kitten licks, starting at the bottom and working his way up. Every second he takes to get to the top feels drawn out, taffy being pulled until his tongue finally swirls over your clit, like burnt sugar snapping.

"Is it like how you imagined?"

"Better." That has a ghost of a smile forming over his lips, a little reward given to you for it with kitten-licks against your clit. "You're- Sae-," you don't know how you're supposed to hold a conversation like this. You try to thrust your hips to quicken the pace only to no avail, his grip tight on you, and even that has heat slinking through you.

"How." His tongue digs through your folds despite the question.

"Wha-" Another gasp leaves your throat before you can finish.

"How is it better." He wrings a whine out from you, pressure building inside you like a dam, his hot breath over your cunt as he speaks. "Tell me."

"It's- you do it slower. You're not in a rush. You take your time." The words race out of you in a single breath, all you're able to give with how quickly your mind starts to feel cloud-stuffed, devolving into whimpers and gasps, muscles in your legs wound tight.

He responds to you in the worst way, by slowing down. Bringing you to the edge only to keep you there, forcing every nerve inside you to feel like it's gone haywire.

"That's- Sae, please. Not- not what I meant." Your breath comes short, your whines filling the air, shaking in his grasp.

"Oh, no?" You swear you can feel him smirk below you, you look down to find that glint in his darkened eyes.

He gives in, then. He always does with you, inevitably, like how the tide moves with the moon. Presses your body down with ease before you can buck your hips, tongue lathing over your clit in circles and kitten laps until your hands squeeze his and your back arches. He moans into your cunt, and even that soft sound from him has you reeling closer, your clear effect on him makes you feverish.

"That's it," he rasps, a beckoning that you can't help but respond to. His mouth covers over your core, his hot breath and tongue an onslaught as you teeter towards the edge, your slick seeping into his mouth.

Just as you warn him you’re about to come, he slides his fingers into you, has you clenching around his long fingers and he tilts them up in a way that has you tensing even further and crashing down so fast, pretty noises filling the room as heat rushes through your body, your thighs clenching tight, your slick coating his hand.

He doesn't stop, even then, with your slick dripping down his chin. His tongue is relentless and unwavering over your clit, something you start to register slowly as feeling returns to you and your legs kick out uncontrollably. You're gasping into the air, every swirl of the muscle over the sensitive area is a pleasure that leaves you struggling to breathe, so sensitive that it's bordering on painful. His eyes smile with how cute he finds it, the way you thrash in his hold. There isn't a world where he doesn't let you bite into his heart and eat it raw. Your palm presses against his forehead, pushing him away with the overstimulation. He grabs at your hand, giving a wet kiss to the back of it.

"Good," he says it with a sigh of relief, like certifying something is to his satisfaction, pleased with your reaction to him, a hidden metric only for him to decipher. His tongue wets his lips just slightly to taste the rest of your essence, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "Good girl."

That has you bringing a hand up to your face, hiding the expression he knows so well, only for him to catch your hands in his and press a wet kiss to your cheek, so cute under him that he can't resist this little act of affection.

He lets his pants drop, wrapping a hand around his cock, leaking with pre as the head presses against your core. His hands slide up and down the inside of your thighs, your supple skin giving way under his touch, pressing down and spreading them open wider.

So he can see, you realize. Watch the way you open up for him. You whine at him in embarrassment.

"Behave," he hushes with a pointed look that has you obeying without thought, staying as still and relaxed as you can as he pushes in. There's a pretty sigh he makes as your warmth envelops him, his eyes fluttering shut, looming over you and dropping his forehead to yours.

You're all pliant under him, ripe fruit his for the taking, leaking juices over his member. You claw at his shoulders, his name babbling over your lips over and over. Even with the way he prepped you, the stretch is still there. Nothing compares.

He slides in and out of you in short strokes, the fullness of it reaching deeper and deeper as each inch pushes into you, has you trying to remind yourself to take deep breaths. Until his hips meet yours, earning from you a desperate mewl.

"You're doing good," he presses a kiss to your hairline, chest to chest with him so you can both feel the way the other heaves. The validation makes your cunt flutter around him, opened up for him with a familiarity. Your slick coats his cock with a sheen as he pulls out and pushes back into you in slow thrusts.

"I think of you too." He tells you this as his cock presses impossibly deeper with each press of his hips.

"What?" You pant.

"When I'm away."

That does something to you, makes you leave crescent moon indents from your nails into his skin. "You should — ah — call, next time."

"Yeah? Why's that, hm?" His thumb runs in circles over your waist, a gentle gesture that makes your heart drip with your cunt as he's thrusting into you.

"Wanna- wanna hear you." You tell him this as he rocks into you over and over again, gentle and caring, full of his cock and his love all tied up in one.

Sae huffs. "You wouldn't like it."

"I- I like it. It's you."

"I'd make you wait." He emphasizes it by bringing his hand down between your legs where you're connected, tapping the pearl of your clit. "Make you touch yourself until you're begging to come."

He'd need to hear you beg. To know he has even half the effect on you that you have on him. To make sure you're as heavy with craving as he is.

"Sae," it's more a chant than a complaint, makes him want to tease you just a little more. But then your arms are wrapping tight around his neck, your ankles high on his waist and looping behind him.

"Missed you," you whisper right against his ear, your voice more pitched with each word. "Missed you so much. I love you."

He feels the swell of your words both in his mind and his cock. He can't process what this does to him. Makes his head so heady with lust, like being drunk from the sight and sound of you. He takes your hand in his, laces his fingers through. Kisses you chaste, a warning.

And then he fucks you hard. Until the bed shifts against the wall. Until your whispers and moans become sobs and silent screams. The tip of his cock brushes against your cervix on every other hit, numbing your mind completely. That's how he wants you. So dumbed out on his cock that you can't speak, can't think. So mindless below him that you only know him, feel him, need him.

He'd smile at the lack of retort on your tongue if he could. Instead, he finds himself panting through gritted teeth at how you tighten around him. He strains to focus past the feeling and on your voice, on the way you say his name over and over again, how your tone pitches higher, a sure sign of the wave that will overcome you both.

"Good, fuck, that's it," he can't deny your effect on him, not like this, not with your walls fluttering around him. But more than that, is feeling you. You in your entirety, your body against his, your warmth that he missed so dearly, your love that you encompass him in — the irreplaceable feeling that pulls him so much closer to the edge, so much faster than he can help.

"Good girl," he says it in lieu of something more, with a shaky breath and the stuttering of his hips. His fingers, coated with your slick, runs circles over your clit, pleasure hot in your veins. He swears again when he looks down and sees that foamed ring at the base of his member, how the honey-drip of your essence wraps around his cock in a gleam. It surges something possessive in him.

"Come for me," it's something between a command and a plea. Let me hear it, let me watch you fall apart under me. What is attention, if not some sort of prayer? All of his focus, of heart and of mind, is on you. Something like revelation settles deep in his mind, something so heart-known, as what he feels for you bubbles to the surface. "I love you. Come for me."

It's your undoing, a desperate whine, your entire body tensing, taut like a bowstring. He doesn't stop, never falters, not with how beautiful you look as your breath comes short and every fibre of your body only knows him. He whispers your name, as gentle as the rain, and you jerk up into his hold, gushing wetness around his hard cock, the fullness of it inside you so acute as your walls clamp down.

He's not much farther off after that. He has to watch you, first. Has to feel satisfied with the strength of the orgasm you give him before he's fucking into you again, fast thrusts that come with a swear, that follow with your name so pretty on his lips again, that has him spilling inside of you, his body shuddering with the intensity of it.

He stops himself short of collapsing completely on top of you, his hand resting against the headboard, the rise and fall of his chest against yours with every deep breath. His other hand cups right under your chin, pulling you in for a deep kiss, your cheeks slightly squished in his hand as he takes your breath and breathes you in all at once.

Your shaky legs drop onto the bed, gliding your legs against his and pulling him in close. He parts from you only to lay his forehead against yours, craves your closeness with a soreness in his chest that makes him hold you that much tighter in his arms.

The morning light starts to glide past the curtains, casts a halo around you, an angelic bloom, a sharp light-strike across the high of your cheek.

He loves you so much with no real way to describe it, no vocabulary that he has spent building up for this moment the same way he built his skills up for his career. He won't ruin this moment with you with some half-hearted effort at trying to process his feelings into a language. It is better, in his mind, to leave this untouched by words, to show you instead.

When he kisses you deeply again, it feels like a question. Can I tell you how much I love you, even without having to say it?

And when you kiss him back, pull him in closer, it's like an answer, knowing and bright as the light. I speak your language. I hear it from you everyday.

author's note: hello, thank you for reading <3 more sae from yours truly. i wrote this with a lot of love and heart <3 i hope it comes across

the line "what is attention, if not some sort of prayer?" in this fic is comes from the poem gravity and grace by simone weil, the quote being "absolutely unmixed attention is a prayer"

[gunmetallic]

FORSAKEN BY ALL THE GODS.

info: prince!kaiser x f!reader, enemies to lovers, fantasy au, arranged marriage, eventual smut. afab reader w she/her pronouns. reader has an established backstory and is not weak, reader’s appearance is nondescript. reader calls him “mihya” as they get closer. oliver and karasu are bffs in this lol. maybe some angst if you squint. happy ending!! plot is balanced with comedic moments. 

synopsis: You will be killed by the one you love most. That line from his prophecy has haunted Kaiser his whole life. Against it all, you stand before him. Will you be the one to rewrite fate itself?

word count: 14k (please don’t let this scare you, i promise my writing is efficient) 

a/n: this might be my magnum opus, i promise i poured my best dialogue and writing into this and it shows. if you consider reading like so seriously i will love you forever. also the smut is huge just like his cock <3 or my heart. ao3 link

Kaiser has been forsaken thrice fold. First, by his parents. His mother is said to be a beautiful woman that captured the hearts of all. His father could not bear her ultimate betrayal: leaving, causing him to wither away to nothing.

Kaiser guesses that this aspect of her runs in his blood after all.

The second and third time he is forsaken happen at once.

On the night that Kaiser is, by royal decree, anointed successor to the throne, he does as tradition dictates. He approaches the golden temple at the top of a mountain and mirrors the prophet within, sitting cross-legged in front of them.

The prophet gazes into the distance. And then, like a man possessed, they speak.

Lone Emperor who covets the throne, You will be killed by the one you love most.

Kaiser swears he feels even his heart stop at that. Cold rushes through him, the chill of it colder than anything he had felt at the front lines of war.

Forsaken by all the Gods —

The prophet stops, staring into the distance with a frown.

The silence is deafening. Noa, despite tradition, interrupts the ceremony and approaches the prophet, clicking his fingers in front of their face.

“The prophecy?”

The prophet’s eyes widen with fear. “I- I cannot.”

“What, are you afraid?” Kaiser scoffs. “The prophecy is bad as it is, it can’t get much worse than that.”

“No, I mean I cannot. The — the Fates! They’ve stopped speaking to me!”

“Excuse me?” Kaiser’s scowl is evident, and Noa swears that in any other situation, Kaiser would’ve moved for his sword and set his blade ablaze.

It speaks volumes that all he does is stare right at the prophet, fear barely contained in his eyes.

The prophet grips at Noa’s hand, forcing his gaze. “My lord, please believe me. This — in the history... it has never happened before. I swear it.”

Noa whistles, and the guards outside come rushing in. “Seize them,” he commands, and they stare at each other for a moment.

To seize and capture that  which is considered holy? Is that not blasphemy?

Noa cares little, almost removing his sword from his sheath to do it himself. “What are you all waiting for?”

“My lord! I swear to you!” The prophet grapples towards Noa in spite of their hands being held behind their back, the guards barely catching them from falling to their knees. “The fact that I would admit this at all shows my loyalty to you!” The prophet gasps, breath coming fast.” I could have pretended, could have given a false prophecy. I did not. That’s the choice I made. That is all the proof you need.”

It’s convincing enough that Noa hesitates, taking a deep breath in. But he sees in the corner of his eye Kaiser’s state, sitting in the kind of stillness that you see before a battle, bent over at the bottom of the altar. 

At that sight, Noa makes a single motion with his hand for the prophet to be taken away.

The room clears.

“Kaiser, I —” 

Whatever comforting remark Noa might have made dies in his throat, because Kaiser laughs, a bitter and broken sound, that he would in the future rarely have his walls down to ever reveal again. He hides his eyes behind his hand and he laughs.

“Of course, my prophecy would come to something like this.” He drags his hand down across his face. “Forsaken by all the Gods.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Noa says it with conviction, and it’s enough for Kaiser to face him.

“Master?”

“You will still be the successor to the throne. As is your destiny.”

“My destiny?” Kaiser jabs a thumb to the now-empty seating. “We just heard my destiny.”

“What the gods have declared has nothing to do with me. I declare you the next to rule. That is all.”

Noa presses a hand to the crown of Kaiser’s head. “No one will know what transpired here. A tragic prophecy is a given. It is meant to be a trial of sorts, after all. Mine, too, was unpleasant. Though not nearly as dire.”

“What was yours?”

Noa breathes in deeply. “A twisted rivalry with a twisted man. One that was to be all-consuming to me.”

Kaiser scoffs. “A rivalry. Just train and win.”

Noa lets the comment pass, staring out of the temple and past the mountains. “The rivalry came and went. At the time, I felt it was the worst. I could not eat, sleep, or breathe without the thought of what he would do next on my mind. But I was lucky, that it passed.”

He motions for Kaiser to take his arm, bringing him back up to standing. “Yours will pass too, I’m sure of it.”

Kaiser waves his hand, gesturing at Noa to let go of him. It’s easy to say, easy to have faith when it is not your life that balances on the precipice.

Forsaken thrice: once, by his parents. Another, by the Gods. And third, by his own future lover. Kaiser curses the Gods and the Weaver for such a fate, for something possibly worse than death is looming over him.

You will be killed by the one you love most. That line has haunted his very being to this day.

~

The people do not know what causes their successor to turn so cold, as biting and harsh as winter itself. His quicksilver smile rattles bones, his sword is cutting like blood in snow.

The prophecy is on a need-to-know basis, and Kaiser has never been crueler. He trains, harder than ever. Enough that when an unmovable sword is found at the rocks of the ocean, he trains until he is able to pull it from the bank, wield it with one hand. Rumor has said it might take three men to carry, or that the night sky that shimmers across it is strong enough to kill even a god. His sole retrieval of it is proof to the people of his strength and stature, but compassion and love are rarely a topic of conversation with his name.  

He focuses on his work. He does not take lovers. He barely sees others as friends. And he most certainly does not take a bride.

~

You appear before the throne and you do not bow. The scowl on Kaiser’s face at this says enough.

“You dare-”

“You have the sword.” You ignore Kaiser entirely, setting your sights completely on Noa.

The silence that follows is as large and wide as the ocean, but your gaze is sharp and keen, never faltering once until Noa speaks.

“Water sorceress,” Noa addresses you coldly, “or that’s what you told our people.”

“Yes.”

“You are not the only sorceress of water. Yet your power is second to none.” Noa stands, stepping down the stairs with heavy, thumping footfalls until he’s standing right in front of you. “They call you the water’s mistress, in the neighboring lands.”

“They do.”

He begins to circle you, like a hunter might before striking a deer. Standing next to you, his deep voice clear right next to your ear, he eyes you curiously. “They’re all wrong, aren’t they?”

You don’t answer. Noa takes that as answer enough.

“A power like that. Do you think me stupid?” He observes you, checks you visually for weapons, watches your hands to ensure you don’t call magic forth.

“Demigod.” He about spits the word from behind you, and yet all you do is tilt your head to catch him in your eye’s view.

“You are as well-informed as they say.”

“I am as logical as they come.”

“We are the same in that regard, then. So let’s get straight to the point.” 

Noa returns back to the throne, seemingly satisfied with his observing, gesturing at you to continue. 

“You have something belonging to me. A sword, heavier than most. Ancient, yet sharp. It is said to look like it contains a night sky.”

“The blade you’re speaking of was found by us, it is ours to keep.”

In the short silence that follows, Kaiser swears there must be irritation on your end, but you don’t show it. Instead, you take a deep breath in.

“The blade was thrown out of the heavens and spat out into this realm during a war between Gods.”

“Is that so? And how can you prove it’s yours?”

“I can wield it, unlike your people, who do not have the means to wield a sword as such.” You state simply.

Like rose grown blue, the impossible becomes possible. You can feel the divinity and the power that comes off the sword in waves the minute it’s unsheathed, your eyes widening. The ring of it is as familiar to you as your own skin, how could you not have felt its presence sooner? But Kaiser is fast, much faster than you expected, faster than he should be with a sword of that weight, that magnitude. Before you can turn your head, cold silver kisses your neck.

“This blade, sorceress?” He comes around from behind you, stalks around you just like his Master had, sword pointed like it may just draw blood from you at any moment. When you finally see his face, his sneer is wicked.

He takes pride in your wide-eyed gaze, your sharpened attention, but the lack of fear on your part grates at him. God-killing, they had called the blade. Yet you don’t shy away at all.

“Say we return the sword to its rightful owner,” Noa calls back your attention, “what would you offer us in return?”

“Offer in return? This sword does not belong to you. It is returned, as it should be.”

“This sword, with its divinity, could harm even a god.” Kaiser presses the blade closer to your neck, gleaming metal against your skin. “It protects this nation. What if the gods forsake us? If we return it to you, what would protect us against them then?”

“For what reason would they do such a thing?”

Kaiser barks a laugh. “Of course, there would be no criticisms from one of them. Water sorceress, demigod. Tell us, who are you, truly? What do your people call you, up there? No matter.” He lowers the sword, but leaves it unsheathed, its heavy weight balanced in his palm. A threat that at any moment, he may change his mind. “Those titles mean nothing to me. I have been forsaken, demigod. So know, I trust not even the gods.”

You sigh. Foreseeing a troublesome future has its cons, you suppose. Your queen would smile if you told her such.

“You ask for something with power in equal to or more than the blade. You asked me for my titles. I shall give you both.” The sleeves of your dress shimmer as you move them, and it’s in this moment that Kaiser notices they are not sleeves but water itself, cradled around your wrists like armor. “The Gods had bestowed on me the title Sword Maiden, and I offer myself and my services to you until the end of your line.”

That shocks the room like a bucket of cold water.

You turn to Kaiser, who stands beside the throne. You step forward once, and water rushes underneath that step, descending in waves over the floor as if it goes through it, a magic they have never witnessed prior. “You say the Gods have forsaken you? Let my presence be proof to you that they still watch over you.”

Kaiser scowls, “What sort of cheap trick is this?”

“My domain is truth. I cannot lie.”

“Oh, please.”

Your eyes narrow at him. “Would it help for you to press your sword against my neck once more?”

A goddess who cannot lie. Noa’s faith lies in logic, but he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. His gaze flits between Kaiser and you before he seems to settle a decision in his mind.

“Until the end of Kaiser’s line.” Noa negotiates.

Kaiser’s gaze snaps to Noa. “You’re taking her up on this?”

You almost frown. “Fine.”

Noa quirks an eyebrow at you. “That simple?”

“Human lives move quickly.”

Kaiser eyes you curiously. “What happens when you lie?”

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Is that… almost a flustered look you have on?

He readjusts his grip on the blade. “Speak, sorceress.”

“Wh-What do you want me to say?!” You grip at your dress nervously, and that has him even more curious.

“I’m waiting here,” he sing-songs playfully.

“Before the lie can leave my voice, my neck swells up like a balloon, and chokes me.”

He smiles wickedly. “Demonstrate.”

Gods, if it wasn’t immoral, you could wring his neck right now.

You think, for even a moment, a simple lie. And in seconds, you’re almost suffocating on nothing, and Kaiser laughs. Laughs. A full laugh, bending at his knees.

“Oh gods, you’re like a pufferfish!”

You let go of the lie, taking heaving breaths. “Just because I have water capabilities does not mean I am a fish.”

In the midst of the conversation, Isagi leans against Noa’s side, a soft conversation full of worry.

“You’ll have to explain her presence to the council,” Isagi tells him, blue eyes wide with hesitation.

“Right, and your suggestion?”

“I have thought about it, considerably. If you say you hired her, with a force as powerful as her, the other nations may think you are to wage war. So… Given the heir’s… reputation,” Isagi’s gaze flits nervously between you and Kaiser. “If he is willing, she may be a good fit.”

Noa sighs. This, this exact theory, has been a conversation with the other members of his team for months. That a wife by his side would make him seem less chilling, make the transition to a new heir easier on the public, prevent outroar. It is one thing to feel that Kaiser keeps a nation safe, and another to love him as a ruler.

It’s an easy decision, but a hard conversation.

“Kaiser.”

He whips around, ceasing his antics quickly. “Master.”

Noa looks like he is about to say something to him, but hesitates, turning to you instead. Isagi nervously steps away from the dais, returning to his position.

“Goddess,” this time, there is no malice behind Noa’s words. “I accept your offer. However, your presence in this nation and in this castle must be explained appropriately. Should I bear you the title of my successor’s betrothed, would that be a title you’re willing to bear?”

Kaiser’s back straightens. “Excuse me?” he utters low.

“You do not have to bear children,” he specifies. “And you do not have to truly be wed.”

A goddess, to be betrothed to a mortal, as princely as he is, is a serious affair. Kaiser slides his gaze to Isagi, with the audacity to even suggest such. And yet, you seem to ponder it like a simple question.

“I see. As long as the sword is in my presence and protection, how you communicate with your nation is none of my concern.”

“So be it, then,” Noa agrees quickly. “I’ll have our people show you to a room.”

You nod, and are whisked away. The throne room, as if knowingly, empties quickly, guards rushing out to leave Kaiser alone with Noa.

“You made this decision for me,” Kaiser spins to face Noa, spits his words through gritted teeth. “I have been clear. I will take no brides.”

“You believe the prophecy made a choice for you.”       

“The prophecy bears no mercy. Or do you wish for my death so eagerly? If so, take your sword out and do it your damn self.”

Noa lets him speak, heave his words out until there’s silence once more.

“She cannot lie,” Noa says softly. “She cannot lie to you, Kaiser. And she is a goddess, a divine being.”

“Demigod,” Kaiser corrects.

“She is divine, and she cannot lie. She is correct, to this end – that as long as she is here, the prophecy cannot come to be. For she has not forsaken us.” Forsaken you, goes unspoken. “She could be good for you, if you allowed her to be.”

Kaiser lets out a canned laugh. “Ha. How can the divine ever understand us?”

Noa stands. “You’ll have plenty of time to find out.”

Kaiser taps his hand against his sword hilt. “You really will not move on this?”

Noa shakes his head. “She is too valuable to lose, and you have a reputation for cruelty. The solution is nothing short of perfect.”

The logical comes above his feelings. Kaiser knows this, even if he hates to come face to face with it.

Noa walks out of the throne room, leaving Kaiser to his bitterness.

“Shitty master,” he mumbles under his breath to no one.

~

It’s jarring to all the guards, the way you don’t even stand let alone bow when Noa knocks to enter your room. But Noa cares little for things like that, if you’re truly offering what you’ve said.

“Perhaps I was too hasty, in presenting the solution before giving you the facts.” He hesitates before you in the reflection of your vanity. You don’t respond, barely even look at him as you unclasp your jewelry, laying it on the table.

“He will not love you.” Noa tells you after a breath, his surefire eyes finally meeting yours.

You give him a curious gaze. “That is likely for the best. I would outlive him, after all.”

“It is, truly, on a need-to-know basis. To tell you this-”

“The prophecy, I presume you’re referring to,” you interrupt, turning to face him.

The shock rolls quickly off him. Divinity does have its mysteries, he supposes. “You already know.”

“I asked the water, why he is so quick to believe he is forsaken. They told me that he lives under the burden of a prophetic trial. That is all I know.” You stand, moving to unzip your dress only for Noa to hastily pull a partition screen across the room and turn around.

“The water, it speaks to you?”

“It does. Though it’s worth noting that it does not make me all-seeing.” Your voice carries over the partition with the ruffle of clothing. “The queen of the Gods, who sees all fates – she is the only one who is truly all-seeing.”

You come out in a nightgown, folding the partition back. He chucks you a robe that you catch easily.

“You should learn the ways of this world if you want to pass as a simple water sorceress, especially before the banquet.”

You frown. “The prince is my betrothed, is he not? Will he not handle it all?”

The idea you present sparks in Noa’s mind. “Brilliant. I’ll have Kaiser and some of the other members of our team show you the ropes. Good night, sorceress.”

You nod to him, and the door clicks shut.

~

“She’s a what?”

Oliver slams his metal cup of beer down, rolling the dice once more.

“A demigod, Oliver. Gods, are you that drunk already? Keep up.” Karasu grabs at the dice as Oliver moves his pieces.

“Can you all shut the fuck up? What happened to need-to-know basis?” Chigiri slinks himself over to their table.

“We’re need-to-know.” Karasu jabs a thumb at himself and Oliver.

“They are, actually, need-to-know.” Isagi puts a gentle hand on Chigiri’s shoulder, settling down next to him. “Because she’s never been human in her life.”

“And now we’re supposed to, what, teach her to be human? Is that a thing we can do?” Chigiri twirls a strand of hair between his fingers, tapping the end against Isagi’s cheek.

Oliver snorts. “What, like a class? Some of us have never sat in one of those, you prissy little shits.”

“She can’t dance, for one.”

“Get Kaiser to teach her. Isn’t he her betrothed?”

That has Oliver almost spitting out his drink, choking on it in coughs. “He's her what?”

Chigiri scowls in his direction. “Dude, are you listening at all?”

“If she’s really his betrothed, none of us should be teaching her.” Oliver warns genuinely. “He’ll cut down everyone here, before he lets us touch her.”

“It’s just an excuse,” Isagi waves his hand, pulling out a leather-bound bind of notes. “They’re not actually together.”

“Oh, you actually got that motion to pass. Shit.” Karasu remarks admirably.

“It must be so tiring,” Bachira sighs happily, falling into place next to Isagi, “to have to actually care about what other people think.”

“The optics, Bachira,” Isagi smacks the end of his pen across Bachira’s nose, and he makes an oh! sound in response.

When Kaiser walks in, the room almost goes silent. He’s used to it, of course. Hearing only the way his footfalls come heavy, boots thumping into the stone floor as a drink is placed right in front of him immediately.

The room slowly fills back with noise as he shoulders off his coat, wrapping it around the chair before sitting. But only his table is still strangely silent.

He flits his gaze over the group. Usually, they’re the first to kill the silence in the room, yelling about the game or a duel. He looks at Isagi, specifically, who seems the most nervous. “Something you wanna say to me?”

“Uh…”

Chigiri sighs, killing the tension. “We’re deciding who gets to teach her how to dance.”

Kaiser quirks an eyebrow. “The demigod?”

Chigiri nods, and Kaiser takes a long gulp of his drink, popping it back down and twirling the top of it with his fingers. “I’ll do it.”

“What?” It’s Isagi’s turn to be shocked, sitting up straight.

Kaiser exhales audibly. “None of you could handle her. She could cut you with water the moment you accidentally step on her.”

It’s not an insult, really. They know this too. That this is Kaiser’s brand of protection, to add insult to injury just to keep others out of harm’s way. But they play his game.

“Think we can’t dodge fast enough? A bit demeaning, don’t you think?” Oliver’s grin is wicked, making straight eye contact with Kaiser, who only draws his eyebrows in at his direction.

“You think that god-killing sword is gonna save you?” Karasu asks.

“I don’t have the sword anymore.”

“What?”

It stings more than it should, he thinks. The sword that he thought chose only him, so quickly released from his grasp. But his strength is his own, he holds fast to that. 

Kaiser glances at Karasu. “Those are the terms. She marries me, she gets the sword.”

Ness rests his cheek on his hand. “Man, that sounds like she wins twice.”

Chigiri scoffs at that. “She’s a demigod. Being down here is probably like being in the sewers to her.”

Kaiser stands abruptly, pushing his drink aside, his coat billowing as he wraps it over himself once more.

“Where are you going?” Isagi yells, but he doesn’t answer.

“He gone for real?” Oliver elbows Karasu. “I’m too drunk to tell.”

“Yeah, man. He’s gone”  

“Great.” Oliver slaps a piece down. “I’ll bet 50 bucks right now they get married for real.”

“What the fuck?” Chigiri tilts his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it might give him some reprieve.

Karasu laughs, “Okay, I’ll play. I’ll bet 20 that they try to kill each other.”

“You’re just a hater.”

“Nah, I agree,” Reo leans back in the booth. “Kaiser’s a lot of things, but a loving husband is a bit much.”

“She’s a goddess. He’s literally already betrothed to her.” Oliver takes another swig. “Y’all ain’t gonna marry a goddess if she was given to you? Damn, put me in his place, I’ll do it right now.”

~

Kaiser trains, every morning, from sunrise to noon.

You only know because most of the rooms in the palace outlook to a self-contained field. You see him, often, because of this, even if he doesn’t speak to you. As you walk down the corridor, in your classes with Isagi about the current climate of the nations.

“It is useless for me to learn this,” you tell him. “In a few short millennia, the border of the nations will undoubtedly change. And we will have to relearn it all again. What is the use? Why war at all over something so insignificant? Just have a conversation about it.”

Isagi makes a pointed, bored expression at you for this, and then pretends like you didn’t say anything at all.  

At the end of class today, you press your elbows to the open windowsill.

Kaiser is there, sparring with Ness. Ness is quick, agile, fleet-footed and runs circles around Kaiser so much so that it almost makes it difficult to keep up.  

Kaiser approaches him at bone-breaking momentum, launches strike after hardened strike. He’s shirtless, bandages wrapped around the bottom of his torso, and his body is streaked with sweat. He’s strong, clearly. Broad shoulders clear now from when they were hidden under layers of clothing the first time you met him, the muscles in his arms flexing and relaxing with each step of the friendly duel, hair dipped in saltwater blue.

You know what he looks like, now. You get a sense why Fate brings you here.

He looks like a hero.

The kind that Gods covet, watch from their merry clouds. It’s no wonder that he’s burdened by a prophetic trial, with a face as cutting as his sword, his hair framing his face and flowing. 

He takes one look to the side of him and his eyes find yours immediately. It must be some sort of fighter’s sense, you think. For him to have done it so easily.

You give him the space you think he might be asking for. You turn away.

~

He approaches you one night, just before sunset. Karasu had just finished an etiquette lesson with you, setting away forks and knives. Whatever he sees on Kaiser’s face makes him move quicker. He nods once to Kaiser, and then hastily leaves.

“You’ve been making yourself quite at home here, demigod.” Kaiser traces the lace outline of the tablemat, every ridge under his calloused finger.

“I vowed myself to your kingdom to the end of your life. I’m simply doing what is asked of me.”

“And you’re all ready for the banquet, I’m guessing?” The sentence is almost mocking as he approaches you.

“It’s just a ball, is it not? I’ve been told I’m just to stand there and make pleasantries.”  

Kaiser chuckles, more bared teeth than sweet. “It is, arguably, the worst part of being so-called royalty.”

“You’re taking this much better than I thought you would.”

"To say no to a goddess' proposal would be the greatest blasphemy, no?" 

"From what I've seen, you have not minded sacrilege much at all."

“Marriage means little to me. Disillusioned, perhaps, with the prophecy.” He waves his hand like he speaks of something meaningless. But you see it clearly. Before he had even allowed himself the thought of love, it was taken from him. “Your power is great, your presence ensures the continuation of myself as an heir and successor. Even I can reason with that.”

He's right in front of you now, so close you can feel his body warmth.

“Does it bother me?” He shrugs. “Sure. As far as I’m aware, you are no wife of mine. But a protector of this nation? For that, you are an indispensable ally.”

He looks out the window, towards a coming sunset. Something indescribable on his face, like grief and guilt all in one. He takes a deep breath in and out, inhaling the peace and exhaling the heaviness of his heart, before facing you again. “A war is coming. No one believes me, but I can feel it, as steady as a river’s current. Until then, I’ll make my peace with you.”

You nod. “So be it, your highness.”

That has him stepping back, more incredulous than you’ve ever seen him, body tensed and frowning. Maybe he should’ve expected it, given the way he’s just dismissed you. “Your highness? You hadn’t questioned my lineage before, but now you dare to do so?”

You stare at him blankly. “You are a prince, are you not? Isagi says that’s what princes are called.”

One side of his mouth upturns in relief, and he bursts out a bright laugh. “Is that what they teach you in those lessons Isagi gives? Oh,” a hand runs through the front of his hair, “I thought my own wife-to-be would dare insult me.” 

You scoff. “I have no need for that.” 

“The title ‘your highness’ doesn’t apply to this nation because strength is valued most. I am heir to the throne not because of the blood running through my veins, but because Noa deemed I the strongest — not just in body but in mind, not just in physical strength but in adaptability.” He says it proudly, like fact, like a knowing so deep within him that it turns pride into faith. “A title like that is something used by the Itoshi brothers, let’s say,” he comments airily. “Their throne is carried by a bloodline.” 

He turns on his heel, only looking back when he realizes you don’t follow.

“You don’t know how to dance yet, do you?”

You lean your hip against the table. “I can dance.”

“Come, then. If you’re to be my wife, it’ll be an embarrassment if you don’t at least act like it.”

You follow him to a ballroom – a stunning, wide area with a looping chandelier, curtains that weigh down in arches over each floor-to-ceiling window.

He swoops you from your distraction with a hand around your waist, and the physical contact shocks you so greatly that orbs of water swirl in your hands.

Kaiser only raises an eyebrow at you. “This is a dance, not a duel. Or do the gods do it differently?”

For a man who was so passive to you, he holds you so close that your chest to chest, you can feel each breath he takes against you. When he steps with you, his movements are slow and deliberate, never inefficient. He moves not with fluidity, but with each sure step. Pulls you forward, then pushes you back. Circles you, spins you around.

It’s exactly like when you see him train. Like steps to a kata.

“I thought you said this was not a duel.”

“These are steps to a classic waltz, demigod.”

“You have no fluidity to you.”

Kaiser scoffs. “Should I apologize? With the prophetic curse hanging above me, I haven’t taken a dancing class.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Hm?”

“The prophecy. It doesn’t have to be a curse.”

He stops, separating himself from you, scowling.

“This session is over.”

“Kaiser-,”

“What?” He snaps. “You, of divine nature. You want to tell me how to view my prophecy?”

“I do not say this out of pity, or out of some sort of higher knowing.” You say it with conviction. “As heir to the throne, a throne that is currently being held by Fate itself, maybe I shouldn’t be saying this at all.”

“And yet?”

“To know your fate is to be able to defy it.” And maybe it’s just an effect of your divinity, but it rings like a bell, like truth itself. “Your prophecy may have made a wound, but you are the one who cuts it open. You are a man who wields a sword that cannot, should not be able to be wielded by anyone but the divine. Does that not say something? About you, about your capabilities?”

“And yet you took it from me.” 

The silence that follows is thick with indecision. Kaiser lets the uncomfortableness sit, rejects every heartwarmed statement you make with a roll of his shoulders, like water off a smoothened rock, replaced with only his anger. “I trained for weeks before I could lift that sword out of the riverbank. Yet it is yours, now, simply because you are supposedly its rightful owner.” 

Conflict runs through your face so clearly, he wonders that even if you could lie, whether it would mean anything at all. He watches as your hand reaches into a conjured puddle of water that floats in the air, and out comes the divine sword.

You hold it in your hand with an ease that he has spent months capturing. It strikes envy in him like a branded sear. 

“My role here is technically to secure the sword. I have no need to wield it.” You hold it at the bottom of its handle, directing the top of it to him. “If you swear you won’t lose her, I can set a compromise of sorts.” 

“You think I’d agree to a compromise?” 

You open up your palm, and a bracelet appears. “This will help you keep the sword in a pocket dimension we can both access. If you’re willing to place it there to secure it when you’re not using it, I’ll return her to you until the end of your line.” 

Huh. A safe-keeping place is a more neutral proposition than he had thought you’d come up with. To have her back kills the fight in him, and he accepts begrudgingly, testing the magic in his hands until it becomes natural. 

“For the record, Kaiser, I have not always been worthy of it.”

Something about the way his name slips off your lips has him keening. “Worthy?”

“I stayed true to my course. I was given a title. And then I could wield the sword, presented to me by my queen.”

“Your queen. Heir to the throne.” He laughs bitterly, knowingly. “You’re a princess.”

“Despite your mocking tone, I’ll have you know that title of mine is of the highest regard. I don’t take it nearly as lightly as you do with yours.”

“That’s why you didn’t bow or kneel. You take what’s meant to be yours without a second thought. Not because you’re unknowing, or because of some godly pride, but because you have never been lesser.” He flicks a finger between your eyebrows. “What a spoiled thing you are. Can you even fight?”

Something in Kaiser takes pride in the way you frown more deeply, it’s almost like a pout. It’s almost… 

“Well, I definitely wasn’t sitting idly in the war between Gods.” 

“I’ve never seen you train.” 

“That’s because you’re always on the training grounds.” 

“Oh? You won’t show me?” 

“I’m giving you space. I’m no wife of yours, no?” There’s a sting to it when you say it, having his words thrown back at him. 

“Duel with me. Tomorrow.” He spins you, lets you out of his hold before bringing you back in. 

~

He begins to meet you, day after day. A duel first, and then a dance. The dichotomy would be distasteful to any other, but you of divine blood do not even flinch at his request.

He may be displeased to have you, but his mouth cracked as wide and wicked as a cat’s at the prospect of a fight.

“Go on, then.” He takes a blunt, wooden sword, throwing it in your direction. “Or do you only fight with magic?” He teases. 

You swing the sword, rotating your wrist with ease. “Do you forget yourself, prince? I am half divine, you will surely lose. Are you sure you want to go through with this anyways?” 

His mouth widens, more teeth than smile. “Bring it.” 

You know, the moment you defend against his first strike, that a singular hit from him on the battlefield must be deadly. He is surefooted, his whole weight bears down in every move. He doesn’t let you breathe once, much faster than you would’ve thought with someone of his size and height. 

Kaiser was almost right about one thing, that the divine adds to your magic more than your physical strength. With enough training, in just simple hand-to-hand combat… He might have the potential to beat you. 

But not today. Today, you have him pinned to the ground, makeshift blade to his throat. 

“You’re awfully close,” he gasps out slyly. And it’s in this moment that you notice, too, how right he is about that, how you can feel his heartbeat underneath yours, his chest against yours with each exhale. 

“What?” He grins wide, “afraid you’ll miss?” 

By all the Gods, you want to knock the living daylights out of him. He notices your anger in that hesitation, your conflict between doing what is right and what you want, and flips you over, swapping your positions until his hips are pressed against yours. 

Something about your shell-shocked face makes him stir. 

“First rule of fighting, sweetheart,” he runs a hand through his hair before planting it next to your head, leaning into you close. “Never get distracted by your opponent.”

He’s closer than he was before, admiring the way you look under him, your hair splayed along the ground and the sweet fire of irritation in your eyes. Is the heaving of your chest from your anger towards him, or from something else entirely? 

“When Gods fight, there is not nearly as much prattling.” You grit at him. He smells like the grass of the field and the winter air and the heavy musk of sweat, and when you shove him off, it feels like your hand meets the hard rock of an unruly ocean. 

~

It is during dances that he speaks to you. Not at first, but slowly, like a river that streams into the ocean. You tell him tales about the Gods, about your friends, about wars and petty arguments. And he starts to answer you, more often than not, with every question you might have. 

“I have wondered about something.” 

“Hm?”

“The sheathing. It prevents even me from detecting the sword’s divinity.” 

“Huh, so Nagi really wasn’t lying.” 

“Nagi, who is always with Reo?” 

Kaiser nods. “They say Nagi was once sought upon by a god for his talents, a god who was constantly sending him dreams. But he grew tired of it, so he found a material that prevents even the gods from finding him so he can sleep in peace.” 

The conversation often leads to the prophecy, a bitterness like licorice on his tongue. Even if he skates around the topic, you don’t let him hide from it, cutting straight to the heart of the truth.

“You can live in the cold bitterness you’ve put yourself in, Kaiser,” you tell him, one of these nights. “Or you can live, and maybe even possibly die, warmed by a life you truly felt was worth living. Your own choices. Not because of a prophecy, or because of Noa, or even in spite of me.”

But despite it, he doesn’t move away. Because it is the only time he has you to himself. He sees you, always, with Isagi and Oliver and Karasu and Chigiri. How you have molded into their lives with simplicity, sit with them at meals and have easy conversation despite knowing nothing, in a way that he has never once allowed himself to enjoy. What does it say about Kaiser? That he can't stand your presence but he can't stand your absence even more? That he would rather have a biting argument with you than leave you to your own devices? 

It's during duel and dance that he comes as close as he can to touching you. If he did anymore, it would become something he doesn't have the heart to name without unease settling in his gut.

~

On the day of the banquet, Chigiri sits you down in your vanity, braiding your hair back in his hands.

“The queen of the Gods, her lover, a friend of mine… He used to do this for me too.”

Chigiri silently appreciates that you don’t ask him why it is him that helps you with this. That divinity doesn’t hold the same notions this world does.

“He would-,” you laugh softly to yourself. You’re stunning like this, Chigiri can’t help but notice. A goddess, most casual as can be. “He would say that I was useless at it, actually. You two might’ve been good friends.”

“Me? Friends with a god?” Chigiri finishes the braid, tilting your head in his hands to admire the way the braid crowns around each side.

“Of the Fae, actually. A beautiful man he is. You would fit right in.”

That stops Chigiri, has him taking a sharp intake of breath, smiling at you through the vanity’s reflection. “Thank you, princess. Though you would do good to be more careful during this banquet to compliment anyone.”

You smile softly back. “Ah, yes, my betrothed who will not love me might get jealous. Gods are not so different than people, in this regard.”

“Is that so…”

~

It’s when you meet the Itoshi brothers at the banquet that you begin to understand why Isagi gave you all these lessons.

Where Kaiser is muscle and sword first, more fighter than prince, Sae and Rin are the opposite. They have a grace befitting of royalty. Instead of heavy footfalls that you can hear even in the blanket of snow, they are light-footed, conscious of it in the echoed ballroom.

Though you suspect, from the way Sae grips Kaiser’s forearm as they shake hands, from the way Kaiser regards Sae, that he is somehow just as strong of a fighter. That royalty is an illusion Sae and Rin put on, for peace’s sake.

Something indescribable flits over Sae’s face as you curtsy in front of him, but it’s gone in a moment, replaced with his nonchalance.

“The betrothed of the banquet. We are most pleased to make your acquaintance.” Sae bows his head to you, and Rin follows in his stead.

You smile, something beaming and sweet. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“Would you mind, Kaiser?” Sae’s eyes only leave yours for a glance, to check in at Kaiser’s now furrowed look. “I’d like to take your wife-to-be for a dance.”

Kaiser’s back straightens, a hardened gaze with gritted teeth. But he says nothing. You swear Sae almost grins.

“I’ll return her back to you.” He says it like a favor, and Kaiser is only held back by Karasu’s hand on his shoulder.

“It’s just one dance, Kai,” Kaiser looks at Karasu, then to you, and then back to Sae. He barely nods once.

“Are you sure?” You ask him.

He scowls. “What do I have to be worried about?”

Well, it’s not like you want to anger him further. You let Sae take your hand, leading you to the floor.

“I almost didn't think you were who you said you were, when I saw you,” Sae tells you, breaking the quiet of the dance. 

You lean back so you can see his whole face, your confusion clear. “Your highness?”

“When I had heard of you, they told me that waves flowed off your dress like water itself holds you sacred. Yet here you are, as regular as can be.”

Sae twirls you away from him, then brings you back into his arms. “They say you shook the earth with a single step. Where is all that power you were said to hold?” He holds you close, watching your every reaction with his crystal gaze. “This place. They’ve placated you, tamed you.”

He brings his mouth to your ear, the body warmth of his entire chest seeping into yours. “If you were mine, I would never force you into a box you didn’t belong. I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of Kaiser, even with his god-killing sword.” He spins you again, capturing your waist. “If you were mine, I wouldn’t be afraid to demonstrate your power to the world.”

“Sae.” He looks at you in a way that feels meaningful. You don’t know the pleasantries of this nation or his in-depth, but you know, somehow, that this feels like this is something you should shield from. 

“Oh? No honorifics already? We’re that intimate, are we?”

To fight is one thing, but this is something entirely different. Being able to hurt others with a play instead of a sword, you’re not sure if you can shield others from something like that.

As the song ends, Sae takes your hand, brings it to his mouth to kiss the back of it. “Consider my proposition, princess. Before your marriage solidifies, and becomes something you can’t escape from.”

With his hand on the small of your waist, he brings you back to Kaiser dutifully. Kaiser links his arm with yours immediately, before any of you can spare a goodbye.

“What did he say to you?”

You hum. You get the sense that maybe…

“Nothing of importance,” you tell him instead.

“Hm?” He tilts your chin up to meet you eye to eye. “Is my own betrothed keeping secrets from me?”

“He said I don’t seem all that powerful.”

That makes Kaiser smile, not something sweet but with teeth bared, like a wolf. “He hasn’t seen you in action.” He pulls you in, hand wrapping to the back of your neck, a slow and deep whisper. “Do you want to show them?”

“Weren’t we both told that’s inappropriate? Isagi said the optics could make your allies scared.”

Kaiser rolls his eyes. “Isagi this, optics that. Our country has always been about the brawl and brave. Let the nations fear us, then. I, with my cruelty and a god-killing sword. You, a sorceress second to none. It’s a pretty picture, is it not?”

He straps his sword to his back and brings you to the middle of the room, and as the guests of honor, the crowd gives you both a wide berth. He circles you, just like you practiced. Makes you center stage.

“Go on then, princess.” He lets go of your hand and bows, sweeping his arm out. “Show us who you really are.”

“Kaiser,” you whisper. “We have very clear orders-”

“I make the orders, not follow them. So make your choice, princess. Wasn’t it you who said that it is worth living a life warmed by your own choices? Tell me, then. Do you want to show them? Or do you want to play nice?”

This play, to have ego and pride dive head-first into a situation, is so very human. And yet-

You let water overcast your body from your waist, let it roll off in layers like waves into the floor. Anyone who has had experience with magic can see your ultimate control over it, how the floor isn’t wet at all, how the water was conjured from nothing. Your hair is silken with dampness, framing your face like gloss. Gasps and awes from the audience makes Kaiser grin even wider.

“There we go.” Kaiser reaches behind him to unsheath his blade, and the galaxy within swirls. He spins it in his hand, and it’s almost like he’s never been happier.

In seconds, he strikes at you. Your hands move up instinctively, blocking the blade with a stream of water. The sound it makes, divinity against divinity, is like a low bell. The floor beneath you shakes with the strength of the strike, water dispersing around your feet in cascades to cushion the impact. You hear screams of shock, a glass breaking.

“Kaiser,” you grit, but all he does is widen that wicked, quicksilver grin.

And then he laughs, stepping away and sheathing the blade back. He holds one hand out to you instead.

“Next time, I want a duel in front of everyone. But this time, I guess a dance will suffice.”

You exhale gratefully, taking his hand in yours and retracting your water. “Let us dance, then.”

And with none of a prince’s grace, with movements that feel more fight than dance, he drifts along the floor with you.

~

Isagi collapses into the booth, a palm pressed to his eyebrows. “Our allies thought they were about to fight each other.”

“Can I cash in on my bet now?” Karasu rolls a skewer stick between his fingers. “Because they might’ve almost killed each other.” 

“Nah,” Oliver leans back. “I think that’s just foreplay.” 

Isagi opens his eyes to find Chigiri and Bachira standing before the booth. Chigiri’s not meeting his eyes, his mouth perching to one side in a way that squishes one of his cheeks. 

“What happened?” 

“They’re gone.” 

“Ha?” 

“We had one drink. One.” 

Oliver has the audacity to laugh, hand over his mouth. “Don’t worry, Isagi,” he pats him on the back. “I’m sure they’re just fucking around.” 

In another corner of the hall, royals speak in low tones. 

“We can just take her if you like her,” Shidou tells Sae with the sweetest smile a man like that can muster. “No need to ask poor little Kai-Kai.” 

Sae says nothing, eyeing you quietly as you step out of the hall. 

~

You are sitting at the edge of the ocean, letting the slate-crested waves wash over you, when he finds you. 

“You can dry me in a moment’s notice if I am to sit with you, right?” He says it almost reluctantly, even though he’s here anyways. He’s dropped his off coat somewhere along the way, and there’s something so naked about seeing him in just a shirt. He almost seems softer, without the harsh lines of battle-ready clothing or the fur that drapes around him, relaxed in a way he wasn’t in the banquet hall. 

You smile. “I can keep you dry whilst you're sitting.” 

He relents, then. Allowing the strangeness of sitting on wet sand without getting wet. 

“Was the banquet up to your expectations, then, Kaiser?” 

Expectations. He’s had none of a party like this. Being allowed to dream is a privilege, and privileges were not granted to him.

“You are officially my wife-to-be,” he says instead. “Shouldn’t you call me something a little more intimate?”

You gaze out into the horizon for a moment, and something in your eyes unfocuses, like you’ve gone somewhere else and then returned. “Very well. I shall call you Mihya.”

It strikes a chord in him, like a teaspoon hitting a glass. “Mihya? Where did that come from?”

“The water.”

“She speaks to you?” 

“She says in another life, you are given a nickname like that.”

“Another life…” He lies down in the sand, watches the streaks of sunset in the blueing sky. 

“Ask then, Mihya,” you lean over him slightly, until all he can see is the sky and the way your features soften. “The question we both know is on your mind.”

He almost wants to reach out, hold your cheek in his hand. It’s a foreign feeling to him, so foreign it almost feels like unease – to want to extend a gentleness like that to another person. “Won’t you just tell me?”

You breathe in the sea-salt air, and breathe out a heart-warmed truth. “The prophecy does not hold you captive in another life.”

Kaiser, for once, lets himself dream. Of a different life, where he is unburdened by a prophecy, and burns brightly.

~

“It would seem strange if you weren’t together, with all the other guests in the palace.” That’s what Oliver tells you as he gestures for you to take his arm, leading you to Kaiser’s room. 

It’s both plainer and more furnished than you thought, like someone who isn’t him had chosen the furniture and the color of the walls. But the items in the bookshelves seem well-loved, items taken out and put back haphazardly, scrolls and books placed back half-way. The bathroom door opens with a flood of light.  

“You’re here.” It’s rare to shock Kaiser in a way that doesn’t make him immediately reach for his sword.

You turn to look at him, taking in his half-dressed state. “Were you expecting some other woman?” 

“Oh, so you’re the jealous type?” 

He almost wants to laugh at the clear discomfort on your face. Gods don’t tease, he’s guessing? 

The bed gives way to you as you take your place. “I hear it’s common for princes to take many lovers.” 

The moonlight spills over the bedsheets as the room darkens, and you summon the sword to float right above you, looking into it. He joins you, wanting to see exactly what you’re seeing. 

“It’s not a night sky.” Your voice is so soft in the blanket of night between you both. 

“Hm?” 

“Inside the sword. Your people say it looks like the night sky. It’s not. It’s a galaxy.” 

He reaches his hand out, tracing over the glass along the middle of the weapon, a silent remark for you to continue. 

“At the beginning of all worlds, the first-ever contract was made between the first-ever forces, and with it, this sword was said to be conjured out of the galaxy. And so, a part of the galaxy at the beginning of all worlds was contained in this sword.” 

The stars in the sword move within like they’re responding to your words, borne witness to all the events. But instead of watching them, you turn to him. 

“You have held and wielded a primordial piece of this world. It has allowed you to hold it, granted you its blessing.” 

Blessed. That is not a phrase Kaiser would have ever used to describe himself. But coming from you, he can almost believe it. Almost hope to have a little more than he’s ever had. 

The sword disappears with a movement of his hand, and he rolls to lean over you. Silence drops like a curtain. The only sound he knows is your breath and his. 

During a fight, his feelings can almost be mistaken for adrenaline. But even under the shadow of the moon, with the cushioned silence between you both, the way you cut straight to the truth rings like a silver bell.

He can’t hide from you. Or maybe. Maybe he’s tired of hiding at all.

He is a man who has only known war and battle, was born and bred into it. War-forged, is what they call men like him. His hands know weapons, know how to kill.

He does not know if they know how to love. And yet-

He cups your face, and drinks you in.

He kisses you with caution, like you might melt from his grasp if he held too tightly. Presses his lips against yours slowly. He runs his hand gently over your hairline as he parts from you. 

Is this okay? He wants to ask. But instead, he says: “Tell me what you want.” 

You wrap your arms around his neck, your lips brushing against yours when you answer: “You.” 

And then he kisses you like a man starved, never known by this feeling that gets caught up in his throat with every noise of yours he swallows. 

“Is this… is this what you want?” You try to ask as you part from him for air, but he presses his mouth to the space behind your ear instead, laying kisses down your neck. “Is this a decision that you are making for yourself, by your own hands? That is entirely for you?” 

That makes him stop. But when he looks at you with a surefire gaze… 

He knows it, undoubtedly. That this, for once, is his. 

“There are no lovers,” he tells you between kisses, to your shoulder, down your collarbone, to your breastbone. 

“What?” 

“I take no lovers.” He unclasps your bra, lets the material fall from his hands to cup your supple flesh. “I’ve never been princely, after all.” 

“You- Kai-” 

He runs his thumbs across both your nipples, admires how they perk up at his administrations, flitting his gaze between them and your face as he brings his mouth down over one of them. 

He presses kisses down your body, cups your heat in his hand like he’s begging you to respond, like he’s saying let me have this. The inside of your thighs is soft as cream under his calloused hands. His thumb moves along the outside of your underwear, from your slit up to your clit with his fingers pressing tentatively against the fabric until you’re grabbing at his wrist. 

“You’re so tense,” he teases, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Want me to take care of that for you?” He runs the knuckles of his hand over your clothed slit, bumping into your clit with his thumb until your breathing gets heavy, your hands gripping his shoulders. 

“Kaiser,” you breathe, and he clicks his tongue. 

“That’s not what you call me, baby. Not anymore.” 

“Mihya.” 

“Mm,” he slides his fingers into your panties from the side, a huff of breath leaves him at the wetness he finds. “Good girls get rewarded, you know?” 

Heat coils hot deep in your stomach. He can’t take the restriction, pulling your panties down and revealing your core to the cold air. He lets his slickness pool on his fingers, collects it before bringing it to your clit. It’s like a drug, watching the way your face gives way to pleasure, how your body arches into him. 

“Mihya,” you gasp again, like a chant, a prayer. Is this what the gods feel like, to be asked of? 

“Let me watch,” he says it like a demand but it aches with desperation, a thing he won’t admit outside these four walls. He presses with more confidence now, slides one finger into you, then two. There’s little resistance with the way he’s riled you up, long fingers pressing into you until he reaches something that has you making a broken moan so pretty he can’t help but tilt into it again. 

“I want to see it,” he tells you. This is something he makes happen to you, with his own hands, his own words, his own body that shares its heat with yours. That notion alone runs arousal straight through him. Your panting breath, the way your body shakes with each swipe against your clit. 

“I want to see you fall apart in my arms.” He whispers, and you respond in kind. You always do to him, don’t you? He’s been seen too surely by you, now it’s his turn. Your body tenses entirely, tightly, gripping him as he grants you reprieve. A soft whine leaves your mouth along with something like his name, and the rough pad of his thumb circles over your clit until you crash, coming around his fingers. 

He swipes a thumb over your cheek, allows himself the gentleness that he’s held back for so long with you. 

“One more, okay?”

Your eyes widen. “Mihya,” this time it’s like a warning, but the way you say his name is so breathy it has him pressing a hand over his pants. 

“Yeah, say my name just like that.” He shuffles down until his mouth is pressing to your stomach, just above your mound. Then again to the inside of your knee, trailing up until the inside of your thigh, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin there. 

“You’re-, wait, we just- I just” 

“Mm, and you’re gonna give me one more.” He kisses your clit first, like a promise, and then he laps at your core generously, from the bottom of your slit all the way to your clit, his flat tongue against the whole of you. Every drop of slick from your previous orgasm is taken in by him with each moan he makes against your core. If he had known this feeling was going to enter his life, that it would’ve felt like this, maybe he would’ve readied himself better for it. Instead, he finds himself starving at the table where it’s served. The taste of you on his tongue wraps him in a heady pleasure, but it’s every sound he takes out of you that has him pressing a little more insistently, tongue laving over you. 

“Pl-please,” your words break between gasps, and it has him lapping into your clit with more pressure. 

“I can never say no to you, can I?” he mumbles between your legs. And then he’s flipping you over, hoisting you onto your knees and skimming his hands over your rear and thighs before diving in again. Your face is pressed into the pillow, hands grabbing the sheets. Kaiser almost seems dazed as he moans into your cunt, swollen and wet like a siren’s call, hands wrapped so tightly around your plush thighs that it feels like it might bruise. 

“Let me taste,” he mutters, mouth still lodged into your cunt, like that isn’t what he’s already doing. “Come on baby, give it to me. Let me taste it on my tongue.” 

Your hole clenches and flutters around nothing as another orgasm rocks through you, your breath coming short as you break apart on his tongue with a whine. 

He flips you over again, and the look on his face takes your breath away. Your slick shimmers on his mouth as he trails his tongue over his lips, like he’s addicted, like he can’t get enough. He tilts his head with a grin so cocky that if you weren’t so blissed out you might just punch him. 

“There something you want, pretty?” He leans over you, hand to the bedpost, and how broad and tall he is becomes that much more obvious. You let yourself look, at the way his tattoo drapes over his arm, run your hands over the muscle of his torso down to his v-line. You hear a sharp intake of breath as your hand moves lower, running under his loose sleep pants to the base of his cock. 

He grabs your hand in his, bringing it over your head and circling both your wrists. “Ask.” 

“You-,” your eyes narrow and you huff at him, but it only makes him smile. “Won’t you just-” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“I could cut you down here.” 

He drops his pants, pumping his cock once and then sliding it along your slit. “You could. And then who’ll give you what you want?” 

You want to roll your eyes, but then he has one hand tapping against your clit, the other gripping either side of your cheeks. 

“You begged so pretty for me earlier when I had my mouth on you,” he rasps. “What happened to that?” 

The harsh look you give him under those fluttering lashes of yours makes something stir in his gut, arousal shot through his veins, pupils wide. He plays with you, warm hands against your skin and between your legs, the soft skin of his cock sliding between your thighs until you’re gasping in his hold again, grinning like a battle won. 

“Please, Mihya,” you sigh. 

“Mhmm. Please what?” 

“Please- please fuck me.” 

He gets off on it, watching you yield to him, spreading your legs, dripping your hot slick onto his cock. He presses the head against you, petaled folds opening up to receive him as he slides into you slowly. Just the first few inches is so thick inside of you that your hands wrap around the muscles of his arms, nails digging in. 

“Shh, baby, you can take it,” he hushes your little whines, tracing your hairline with such gentleness it contradicts the way he pulls out of you just slightly only to push in again. 

“You’re- oh,” your body gives into him, even more so when he brings his hand down to tap on your clit, his mouth over your neck, to the side of your mouth, until he’s kissing you and taking in every noise you make. It’s almost a distraction, helps your body to relax so he can press into you deeper. You think you feel every inch as it enters you, all the way until the hilt, until the head is pressing deep inside of you and his hips meet yours.  

He lets out a rough, deep moan against the expanse of your neck, breath coming short as your walls tighten around him. 

“Fuck, baby. You gotta let me move.” Your arms wrap around him tighter, a whimper falling from your lips as he tilts his hips up to plunge into you again. It’s hard and slow and deep and if it wasn’t for his grip on you, you might’ve hit the headboard. But he’s careful about it – more than you might’ve thought he’d be. Pressing your body into the bed as his hips meet yours again and again. 

“It feels so good,” you tell him, and it has him pressing a kiss to your cheek in return. Makes every moan you make that much sweeter, to know it’s out of your pleasure, to know it’s because of him. 

“Good girl. Tell me again.” 

“Feels- you’re so big, so- please, I need-” Your walls can barely clench down onto him with how he feels inside of you. Chest to chest with him, the contact of skin on skin-

“You drive me insane,” he grumbles it into your skin; a confession, exacerbated with each thrust of his hips as he picks up the speed, until he’s slamming into you with a kind of strength that has you seeing constellations behind your eyes. He wants you- needs you to feel the way he feels. Needs to have you lying in his bed, thinking only of him and how he makes you feel. Heat pools in your core until you’re arching your back, and he knows it now – knows it like the back of his hand. 

“Give it to me.” It’s a command, a need, if you listen closely enough. “Come around my cock. Show me.” 

“Mihya, it’s so much, it’s so so much.” It’s treacherous, the way it works through your body, being on the brink. 

His thumb is slick over your clit, pressing just a little more, until your thighs are tightening under his unrelenting body. “Come for me.” 

You chant his name until the words start to become nothing in your mouth, until you’re breathless, until your whole body tenses under him and his hold against you gets that much rougher and your walls clamp down and then your body shakes as you come. You almost scream, only silenced by his lips on yours. He comes quickly after that, his eyes never leaving yours, taking in how you look underneath him as his cock gets more sensitive and paints the inside of your walls. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow until he feels your body start to relax under his. 

You can barely process coming down as he’s kissing you again, deeply and with force, like he’s etching the memory of you into his mind and onto your lips. 

For once, he lets himself recognize – how tiring the emptiness has been, to be devoid of this feeling and instead be filled with the fear that it’ll be turned against him. For once, he lets himself feel – to have something that is wholly his. to know and be known. To give and know you will receive. Not an offering at an altar but a hand in his, not a prayer but a soft word spoken in return. Kaiser does not want something as untouching as approval or attention from the divine. But he does want your waist in his arms, your forehead against his.

“Just like this,” he whispers it, a kiss placed to your forehead. You don’t know what he means, too tired to ask. 

This is exactly what he’s always wanted. Just like this. 

~

Not unlike a parent, Noa notices the closeness of your relationship. In touch, in stolen glances, in longing. A private conversation with him over afternoon tea is not unique, but the heaviness that weighs on him is. 

“As the goddess who cannot lie, I have to ask you.” The hardened look on his face makes you straighten your back, putting down your teacup. “You know, that I have to ask.”

Silence sits between you both like a shoe about to drop. 

Noa yields. “Has he truly been forsaken by all the gods?”

You are strangely silent as you look at him, then away, then back. 

“Answer me, demigod.”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I. Don’t. Know. I have told you before, that I am not a seer, or an oracle. Water holds memory. I can see the past, I can even see other lives parallel to ours, but I cannot see the future. This is the limit of my power.”

“You are of divine nature.” 

“I had said what I said at our first meeting, and that has not changed. As long as I am here, the Gods have not forsaken him. For I have not forsaken him. Is that not enough? How many Gods would travel to your realm, vow themselves to a human kingdom? Even if it is I alone that stands before you, is that not enough?”

Noa sighs, more exasperated than you’ve ever seen a serious man like him. “He deserves more, that boy. For what he has been put through.”

“All greatness comes with a price. All heroes face tragedy. He, no matter how much you may care for him, is not the exception to that.” You tilt your head, like a cat with curiosity. But unlike that sweetness, your words are cutting. “You made him a ruler. You made him a hero. So, stand by that. Or does it make you uncomfortable? To consider the role you, too, have played in his life?”

Noa, of course, has thought about this too. Had he not chosen Kaiser to rule, would he have had the prophecy weighing on him like a second shadow? 

“If the prophecy holds true, you will inevitably leave him.” Noa swallows, hand flat against the table. “He will inevitably be forsaken, even by you.”

“Then why,” you ask, genuinely, “did you ask me to stay?”

~

In the weeks that follow, you learn exactly why. Like Kaiser had predicted, talk of battle comes. 

“We suspect a neighboring nation wishes to wage war with us.” Noa looks out to the slate-blue ocean from the window of the war room. 

“A man who wants control of this whole world,” Karasu huffs. “There’s never a lack of them, is there?”

“He thinks himself a god. Or that’s what Sae has told us.” 

“You’re sure Sae’s information checks out?” 

“Shidou and Otoya like to visit neighboring nations for uh… fun, let’s say,” Chigiri rolls his eyes, then plants his face in his hands. “He said something along the lines of “you don’t wanna know how they found out” and “Shidou sleeps with both men and women, so it’s been cross-checked too.”” 

“And then we asked him about war,” Isagi throws his notes down on the table. “He said, and I quote, ‘I already have more land than I know what to do with. What could another few acres give me? What a hassle.’” 

“The enemy are bold to come for us first.” Kaiser frowns considerably. They are possibly the one nation blasphemous enough that would not blink at the thought of fighting a god. “There’s something we’re not seeing.”

Isagi nods in agreement. “We still don’t know the reason they’re coming here first. It could be the sword, or the goddess.” Isagi frowns. “I told you not to make a scene at the banquet.”

Kaiser gives him a curious look with a smile he fails to hide. “The point of a banquet is to wow the people. The people were wowed, were they not?” 

“It could be, it could not be,” Noa kills the conflict there. “That information would have been made public regardless of the spectacle. It could even simply be the throne itself they seek. An army like ours could parade into the neighboring nations and lay waste, our people are used to much harsher weathers.” 

“Or maybe he means to make a statement,” Karasu shrugs. “If he wants to be a god, maybe he means to punish the disrespect we’ve shown.” 

“What do we actually know?” Chigiri taps the map of this nation splayed across the table.

“We know he wants to take control of this world, and we know his plan includes something from us.” 

“He knows once he controls the world, he has to take care of it, right?” Oliver rests his jaw in his hand. “As in, it’s not just about buying the house, it’s about cleaning it too. The plan – it has to be bigger than this, no?” 

“Won’t happen once we kill him here. So as far as we know, there are three things we have that he could want: the sword, the goddess, the army.” Chigiri holds up his fingers as he counts. 

“So we’ll meet him with all three at the front lines. Fear does not wield us, after all. Only strength.” Kaiser says it like a mantra. You suspect it might be exactly that. 

~

“What a pleasant surprise to see you again so soon, princess.” 

As an ally, Sae arrived on the day of battle without question. He is much different from the first time you saw him, chainmail armor wraps tight and sleek around his body, clearly of a weight underneath his clothing. He stands straighter, shoulders broader, badges clipped to his outer jacket. It’s clear to anyone who looks at him, that it’s almost like he was born into them – meant for them. 

“You’re both on the front lines then?” 

“Idle hands,” Kaiser starts.

“Devil’s workshop.” You finish. You hear a horse galloping, then a voice. 

“There’s something wrong.” The people give a wide berth as Oliver arrives, with a sleek black mare that’s obedient as can be. “The majority of the enemies’ troops are not in front of us.” 

All of you turn to look, but it’s on the front lines that makes it most difficult to tell where the crowd begins and ends. 

“I did a rough head count from the tower. This isn’t the count we had observed just the other day. They’ll die easily, like this, against us. And I don’t mean that from an egotistical standpoint. I think these men are here to die, meant to die. It serves to mean –” 

“This is a distraction.” 

Karasu appears at your side, with an utmost silence only he is capable of. “They’re headed for the main castle, from around the edge of the border.” 

You and Kaiser look to each other with a whole silent conversation, and Sae sighs. 

“Go on, then.” 

You turn to Sae immediately, with a seriousness he doesn’t expect. “You’ll be unprotected.” 

“We chopped liver to you, girl?” Shidou sneers. 

Oliver drops down from his horse. “I’ll take over here.” 

“Your care for me is truly touching, princess,” Sae’s voice lilts touchingly, almost revealing how much he likes it. “But you swore a vow to this kingdom, so go fulfill it.” 

Even in the middle of a war, it gets Kaiser all worked up, his chin jutting as you both run back to the palace. But Sae understands duty, stands by it. It’s what makes him worthy of his own title in his own kingdom. 

Oliver waits until you’re both out of sight before turning to Sae. “Did you really plan to steal her?” 

“Well,” Sae shrugs. “Did you plan on letting her go so easily?” 

~

Your water runs in cascading waves through the whole of the palace, like the ocean itself comes rushing through the walls. It knocks all the soldiers down as you and Kaiser run through, and he picks up any stragglers with ease.  

“The throne room?” Kaiser slams the hilt of his sword into the guy behind him, and he collapses instantly. 

“It is the safest room.” 

“That makes no sense. If you knew anything about our people, you’d know we never hide ourselves there in a battle.” 

“Go anyways,” you tell him, as another man gets thrown off his feet. “Go, Kaiser!” 

He takes one final look at you, at the strength that you hold in your hands, and then he runs. 

The man he finds sitting on the throne has black hair cut blunt to his chin, a white mask over one side of his face. Kaiser unsheathes his sword, pointed straight and true. 

“That throne doesn’t belong to you.” 

“It will. Along with that sword you’re holding.” 

Kaiser chuckles, the kind that has madness interlaced in it. “If you wanted the sword so bad, you could’ve asked for a one-on-one combat duel. I haven’t had a satisfying fight in a long time, I’d be happy to lay the sword as a winning prize.” 

What must be the man’s most elite fighters drop down from the ceiling, crowding in on all sides. 

“Ah, I see,” Kaiser stands straighter, reaching behind him to unsheath his second sword. “It is your capabilities that do not match mine.”

When they come for him, it’s clear to even the heavens that he is exactly as he is fated – a force to be reckoned with. He moves like a spider-spun silken web, capturing each of them blow by blow. His swords cut like butter through them with impressive speed and strength. His breath comes fast and hard when he finishes, sweat dripping down his back. 

“I see now, prince,” the man approaches him, and it’s closer up that he realizes he’s simply in a suit, no armor. “Why they praise you, despite your blasphemy. You, a prince famous for cursing divinity at a whim’s notice, are a powerful ally. Kneel before me, then, and I’ll cease this all – let you join our cause in a war against the gods, in stealing their divinity from them. I’ll even forgive this transgression of bedding one.” 

“Me? Kneel?” The canned laugh that Kaiser lets out echoes. “I kneel to no god, let alone a man who wants to become one.” 

“So be it, then.” 

Kaiser hears something above him. By the gods, what’s with this guy and ceilings? Is that why he wants to fight here? A dust of something shimmers down, he pulls his cloak over himself- 

From the doorway, you throw your water across the room, shielding Kaiser from whatever it may have been. And in the same moment, a poof of shimmer bursts over your own head and tumbles down around you. 

“That’s the problem with you gods, isn’t it? You always think you’re infallible.” 

You cough, falling to one of your knees. Dread fills inside of you, like a faucet you can’t turn off. You can’t move. How is that possible? 

The man taps two fingers to the top of your head, and your world goes dark.

~

When you blink your eyes open, the first thing you’re aware of is the way your vision swims. Your mind feels clouded, stuffed with cotton. You press your palm to your head, and even that feels muted. 

“I’ve made her mine now. She’ll do exactly what I say. Does that make you upset?” Is what you think you hear, through the ringing of your ears. “Let’s see you put that god-killing sword to good use then, shall we?” 

“It’s. Magic.” You spit out the words as your hands press into the ground. Your legs cramp from the way you’re forcing them to stay down. “Mihya. Run, please.” 

“Awh, worried about me?” Kaiser teases as he logs the odds. There is no water that swirls around you, so it begs to reason – you can’t call it. The only weapon you have is a dagger. 

Kaiser tilts his head until his neck cracks. “Have some faith in me, princess. I’m not afraid, even against you.”

He breathes, in and out, until the calmness of battle seeps into him, raises his sword pointed right at you. “I’ll win, even against you.” 

And then he reveals that cocky, surefire smirk. “You should worry more about not dying yourself.” 

When you launch at him, it is without mercy, makes him realize how your kindness seeps into the way you fight. His weapon is bigger, larger, and he uses it to keep you at arm’s length, to wrap around towards the enemy. But he sees his problem almost immediately. Like a puppet on strings, you’re protecting the enemy. 

He knows it, the moment the prophecy solidifies into place in his mind. That feeling of being lost on a path, gone with the reigning down a light. The final puzzle piece in the picture. 

You will die by the hands of the one you love most. So, it truly was this feeling, after all. Love. An aching thing, something so undoing. An open wound that can only be tendered by you. 

For once, the prophecy is not a curse but a guiding starlight. He corners you with strike after strike, until you’re as close as can be to the enemy. And then he approaches you with no defense, lets you strike at him. In the same breath, his sword lands behind you and takes off the enemy’s head. 

None of the fight felt as clear as this moment, when your blade presses into his heart. 

He collapses, right in front of the throne with you on top of him. The throne that should be undoubtedly his, belonging to him as heir. Tears fall from your face before your mind can clear. Like you know, soul to soul, as his lifeform slips through your fingers. He brings his hand to cup your cheek, as he had wanted to do when you laid like this above him in the sand. 

“I did not expect a death so gentle for myself.” 

His smile is so bittersweet that it aches all the way to the bottom of your heart. His hand slips down from your face as you finally come to. 

“You will not die on me.” You gasp out, a statement said with so much conviction that the silver bell of truth rings in return. You call to your water immediately, a stream so fast it cuts into your skin but you don’t care. 

A magic that can only be done once. You take the divine sword from the ground, aim the blade carefully at yourself – your own soul. Only this sword can make a cut like this, with the hand of the divine. You slice your wrist, and instead of blood, pure golden lifeforce pours out. 

You separate your divinity from yourself, and you feed it to him. It will not turn him divine. You are only half-divine yourself, after all. What you can give is not nearly enough to turn a man into a God. But it will hold his soul in this world, let you do an unspeakable magic: an exchange of divine power for life, a process long enough for the water to heal his heart back together again. The hand you lay against his mouth shakes more and more with each second that your golden blood pours into him, but your other hand lays steady as ever over his heart, until you feel it beat once, twice. Hear him spurt out a breath. 

You collapse on top of him before you can see him open his eyes. 

~

“I see the prophecy has been completed.” 

When Kaiser wakes, there’s a split second where he thinks he might’ve just ended up wherever souls go at the end of their line. There’s what must be a full-fledged goddess standing right over him. It’s only your warm body splayed across his chest that tells him otherwise. His hands are lightning quick, sitting up and moving to your neck to check your pulse, only exhaling and relaxing once he feels it. 

Golden threads extend down the sleeves of the goddess’ arms. He’s seen the paintings. Fate itself stands before him. 

“How could you do this?” He makes his disdain clear, lacking any respect one might give to the queen of the gods herself. 

“I am sorry.” She answers immediately, and that makes Kaiser’s eyes widen just slightly. “Your grievances, you may relay them to me, if you wish. There is a bigger picture at play here, bigger than you or the water sorceress or even myself. The threads of fate are not woven selfishly.” 

“You gods up in your clouds play with the lives of mortals. That has always been written in history. But to her? To one of your own?”

“She is more one of mine than most. The heir to the throne of the Gods, I would’ve entrusted her with my life. It’s why she complies with Fate in every life, without complaint.”

“So she lends you her loyalty, and you take advantage of her. And you dare put yourselves above us?” 

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Heavy too, are my hands, that weave the golden threads. You and her are one of many that have suffered by my hand. For that, there is no apology I can give. What I can give, well… Would you like to hear your full prophecy, prince?”

Lone Emperor who covets the throne, You will die by the hands of the one you love most. Forsaken by all the Gods but one, Re-emerge, awaken, as the ruler you are meant to become.

In any other circumstance, he would be eager as ever to finally hear the full prophecy. But his eyes are only on you, your slumbering state as he holds you in his arms. 

“What will become of her?” He asks quietly. 

“She will be a water sorceress, as she had initially been.” 

“She will die, then? Like a human does?”

“All things die, hero.” Hero. That’s what he is now, having been trial-passed. The title burns like bourbon down his throat. “Even the divine dies. But yes, she will die as a human, and be reborn again as the cycle permits.” 

“A life of such simplicity is not befitting of a woman like her.” 

“Who says it would be simple? Besides, she has gone through the trial of the divine once before. Don’t you have faith she could do it again?” 

The trial of the divine. He had not known such a thing prior to you. But if anyone could pass it, it would be you. 

“I will make her my wife. I care little for the words or respect of the gods, even a queen like yourself. But it is my duty to inform you. If she will have me, I will wed her as has been planned.” 

“The prophecy is complete. What happens now is too inconsequential for me to put effort into. However…” she watches you, teartracks streaked down your cheeks. “I’m quite fond of her. I hope for her an easy life.” 

In a blink, her form disappears. 

“Kaiser!” Oliver’s voice echoes through the halls, taking big leaps with Noa to his side, skidding to a halt when he finally finds you both. 

“The goddess-” 

“She lives,” Kaiser cups your head into his chest. “Though she is goddess no more. A trade. Not a fair one by any means.” His thumb traces across your cheek, a state of his so vulnerable it renders Oliver speechless. 

Noa approaches the threshold where Oliver does not dare. He rests his hand on the crown of Kaiser’s head. “Another chance at life is the greatest gift, and she has granted you as such. That is a debt you’ll never be able to repay her for..” 

“I’ll spend the rest of my life trying, then.” 

~

It’s only in the aftermath, that you find out how deep in you truly were.

Kaiser takes a big inhale of the winter air. It’s fresh and cold. And with him, the nation breathed a breath anew, and the trial laid in ashes under his feet.

You’re facing the horizon of the sea when he finds you. 

In the catch of the light, sometimes he swears he sees the divinity that had shimmered off of you before. It’s almost hard to believe, with the ring of water that floats around you, that it had ever left you at all. 

“What are you doing?” His voice is soft, as it always is with you now. 

“Relearning the water.”

“What does it say?”

“That I am still its mistress. Still a sorceress,” the water around you drops into the wet sand. “That its loyalty with me is not dependent on divinity.”

He places a hand to the back of your neck, easing out the tensions there. “But?”

You smile weakly. “I have to strain to hear her now.”

“Guess we can’t do that spectacle again for our wedding.” He cracks a smile, something to ease the ache. “Water holds memory, right?” 

“That, it does.” 

He grabs your hand, pulling you up and towards the waves. You yell for him, but the ocean crashes loudly around you both, and he drags you into the water anyways. Once you’re deep in enough that the waves drape over your knees, he pulls you in close. 

“Let her bear witness, then.” He whispers it against your lips, brushing your hair away from your face. He kisses you, deep and with so much heart you might burst from it. 

A prophecy unfolded, a fate changed, a life saved. 

There’s a part of you that can feel an oncoming future. A sheathing that can block even the eyes of Gods. God-killing weapons that have descended from the heavens themselves. A potion that can cause madness in the minds of the divine. A war between mortals and Gods is coming, you’re sure of it. 

But not in this life. In this life, you are a water sorceress, and he is a trial-passed hero. And like in every life, you find your way back to each other, every time. 

author's note: ohmygod THANK YOU FOR READING PLEASE tell me what you think!!! this is my longest fic ever so i really hope you enjoyed

extended author's note -- know that this is an incredibly realistic note about the perception of love that will take you out of the fantasy lovey-dovey space. it's a disclaimer for the parts of the fic i romanticize and how u should not romanticize them in real life, as well as some notes about kaiser's characterization if you're interested

[summer-oil-inactive]

PLEASE, PLEASE, DON’T TOUCH ME WITH YOUR DIRTY HANDS ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; from the corner of a dim-lit host club, you catch the gaze of a handsome monk.

word count; 12k

contents; suguru geto/m!reader, cult leader!geto x host!reader (<- non-sorcerer), reader is described as considerably smaller than geto, the host club culture in this fic is kind of butchered / twisted to suit my own agenda i’m sorry :’3, friends with benefits, bittersweet hurt/comfort (emphasis on hurt), angst, open ended, very suggestive (constant sexual tension; vague dirty talk; very light nipple play; sex is alluded to and briefly shown both in passing and in present, though the descriptions are vague and no explicit terms are used. basically: sexuality and eroticism are present all throughout the fic, but actual smut is evaded.) reader has implied mental health + self-image issues, geto is in denial and repressed and kind of mean, you both refuse to admit what you really want and suffer more for it. heavy satosugu implications + switching povs. unrequited love (but not really.)

a/n; this is the closest any of u are getting to smut. from ari... this fic is not at all typical of me (both with the suggestive /borderline explicit tone, m!reader and a part of geto’s character i don’t often focus on) but still very much up my own alley of tastes and queer longing; i feel like i was born to write this fic …. in a way. and i’m proud of myself for finishing it!! hopefully it’ll make your heart ache in the most pleasant of ways <3 dedicating it to my lonely soulcrushed gays i hope you look at the sea tomorrow without wishing you could wade right in

spit it out, darling /

quietly exposing a double-layered facade /

so, that’s the kind of person you are.

everything you see before you — belongs to you alone.

golden lights, dim flickers of neon, an elysian field of artificial luminescense. music that thrums under your skin, beats along with your heart, crawls up your windpipe with erratic thump, thumps that have the hair on your nape standing on end. there's alcohol in your system, tobacco clouding your mind, a giddy smile on your face. bright lights, loud music, men's voices clouded in deceit. yes, all of this is yours.

every nerve in your skull dances along to the devil's waltz you're in. excitement, lust, pure adrenaline. sweet, so sweet, you could lap it up from the floor.

"why don't you sing us a song, sweetheart?"

you're tipsier than you should be, when you're still on the clock. you can barely recognize the voice, barely tell if it comes from the handsome bartender or your boss or one of the regulars — it doesn't matter, either. your lips grow into a grin.

"sure, sure."

it's a fever dream, a haze, stumbling up to the stage with blood pumping in your chest. your skin feels hot and cold at once, but it's a good feeling, fuzzy, your head stuffed full of cotton. bliss. your hair is tousled, your tie undone, adam's apple bobbing as you grab onto the mic — as your bleary eyes grow focused on the video screen up above. you feel like a beautiful mess, but your vocal cords remain intact.

the music stops, comes to a halt, changes tune. someone shuffled the playlist and now another song is playing. familiar, a heavy baseline, and —

you start to sing. it comes to you naturally, you scarcely need to look at the lyrics.

golden lights, grinning men, your own voice in your frazzled ears. it comes out with a rasp, quickly peeled away, stripped, silky vowels sifting from the base of your throat. you've yet to lose your touch, a sound so beautiful it stops belonging to you the moment it's left your lips. the world looks mesmerizing, when it's confined to a raunchy indoor sunset; your world. center stage, all eyes on you, greedy, lapping at your exposed skin, the smudges of lipstick on your neck. shining under dusty starlight.

everything feels so possible, from here.

this is — vaguely, partially, at the very least in spirit — why you do this. not for the back-alley rendezvous, rough hands pulling at your flesh, the blooming of hydrangeas on your injured skin. not for the alcohol, or the money. actually, you're lying to yourself, it's all of that combined — but this is where your heart lies.

this is where you spit it out for all to see.

their gazes feel good, on your neck, your chest, your waist and your hands. the attention is fuel. you feel like a spectacle, like someone else entirely, shedding skin, just for a couple minutes. you meet their stares, you're sure you're smiling, gleaming through the fog of it all. the chorus melts on your tongue, as your eyes glide through the lounge. all-seeing.

in the corner of the room, a lone shadow flickers.

(and the beating of your heart halts at a pitfall.)

you sing, despite the interruption. meeting the golden, shimmering gaze, catching his eye. the man is seated at a lone table, no host to entertain him. it's hard to see, from here, with the lights and the haze and the whiskey in your veins, but you can make out his figure — wide, clad in heavy garments — just the barest contours of his face. handsome, though, you can tell, can see it in his gaze and the way he's sitting, comfortable and poised. elegant. a beautiful, beautiful jawline.

lowlidded eyes staring deeply into yours.

the song continues, lyrics rolling off your breath, perfectly timed with your overlapping gazes. for just a moment, something sinks its jaws into you.

darling, vague complaints and fridays

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

you think you catch the hint of a smile, on that shadowed face. the lonesome man raises his glass, brings it to his lips. you hope he’s drinking you in just the same, gulping you down, devouring you.

the moment splits in half. another gaze, another man. you're content, to perform for as long as your lungs will allow — until you hear the first clap of hands after a job well done. when it comes, you can only pant into the mic, savour the strain on your throat. the room is spinning. you think you need to sit down, for a while. everything feels like a blur.

"aghh, my shoulder is killing me…"

slim, pretty hands pass you a glass of water, cool against your heated fingertips. you accept it, swirl it around for a moment, just to hear the satisfying clink of ice cubes colliding. slumped against the headrest of a leather sofa, maroon, blinking sluggishly as if to rouse your mind into a working state.

"shouldn't have tuckered yourself out so early. the night is still young."

"i know, i know," you hiss, digging the heel of your palm into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. it stings, like someone pressed the butt of a cigarette against your naked skin. when you tilt your head back, a thank you on your tongue, the host is already gone, off to entertain a guest. you're pretty sure someone just asked for a champagne bottle to pop. ah, the noise is bound to grate you…

a raspy sigh pushes past your lips, as you empty the glass with one big gulp.

"what a beautiful voice you have."

a different voice. not one of the hosts. when you look up, still keeping the rim of the glass against your lips — you see a sliver of gold.

for a moment, you wonder if it's…

— nope. it's a tooth.

a big, bulky man, clad in a sleazy red suit, lips curled into a similar grin. your eyes glide across his features, tallying the damage; blonde hair, fat biceps, chest hair exposed… a big nose, that's not bad. the gold tooth is certainly a choice. you wonder if he's going for dirty rich, or classy poor. you're half tempted to ask what bank he co-owns with his father.

instead, you smile.

"ah, you flatter me." the glass clinks when you put it down, scooting over to make space, not-so-subtly. you tilt your head, angle your body until you feel the fabric of your undone blouse start to slip down your shoulder. his eyes drink it in, a moth to a flame. "are you here to spend time with me, mister…?”

a part of you wants to laugh, at how successful the pure, youthful flower schtick is to men like him. it's how you make money, though — you lie successfully.

and he takes the bait. "i think i just might be, yes,” he plops down next to you, legs comfortably spread — his elbows finding purchase on the headrest.

"i'll have to make it worth your while, then, won't i?"

a rumbling chuckle. the man fishes a cigar from out of his pocket, hands you the lighter and waits. you need no instruction, leaning forward, flicking your fingers against it until the bottom catches ablaze. he puts it in his mouth, fat and thick, the scent almost overpowering. you've built up a resistance, but you still need a moment to exhale, withholding a cough. maybe that would appeal to him, though…

he keeps it between his lips, exhales through his nose before pulling away to speak. "well, i pay good money for your company. i'd say it's only fair."

a breathy chuckle. "that's true…"

there's a hunger to the way he looks at you. a kind of gaze you've learned to associate with filth, desire. he's still smiling, too wide, that golden tooth gleaming in between the yellowish-whites. smells of gin, underneath the tobacco, and something else. vodka? it's hard to tell. his size advantage is stark, when you're thigh to thigh like this — he looks like he could snap you like a twig. looks like he’d want to. one of his hands slithers around your hip, suddenly, squeezes the flesh and lingers just to feel you shudder. his grin widens when you can't withhold it.

(… ough, you lament. one of the brutes.)

with a muttered sigh, underneath your breath, your lips drag themselves up — it's voluntary, takes effort to push back the urge to run from his grip. a perfect smile, sweet and coy, still leaving much to the imagination. a hint of mystery, intrigue —

a glint in your eye.

no room for mistakes. your shoulder still aches, but it's bearable. you’re just about to part your lips, cozy up to him, say a pair of sultry, well-picked words, when —

”may i have him, for a moment?”

a smooth voice cuts in through the fog.

deep, velvety tones, rubbing against your ear drums. sweet and saccharine, honey dripping down your chin; it sends a shiver down your spine, heat to the back of your neck. he blooms in your mind before you even tilt your head to meet his dark gaze, sharp and low-lidded. you can picture him before you even see him. voices carry weight, they always do, but his is special. you haven't heard anything quite like it.

wine and tequila. oil and water.

two voices speaking, all at once.

a tall man is standing just before you, hands tucked into the long sleeves of his haori, gazing down at your touchy customer. it’s the strange, shadowy figure from before. up close, he looks more like a monk; a gojogesa wrapped around his abdomen.

you were right, of course.

he is handsome. 

with greed, you etch his features into your mind, lap it up. a sharp jaw, nose, well-defined cheekbones… obsidian eyes, with flecks of tinted gold, though you can hardly see them under these dim lights, with their narrow shape. pretty, pretty monolids, crescent moons. his hair is the real kicker, though, silky locks that flow down his back and shoulders, stop around his waist. looks like it’s been pampered, oiled and brushed, how lovely. one of his hands slip out, to dust off his sleeve, and fuuuck, they're —

— a grumble resounds to your left.  

”i have him for the next hour. you can piss off,” spits the wild boar next to you, abandoning your hip to curl possessively around your neck. and uh oh, that doesn’t feel too nice. would he get hissier if you pulled away? ”fuckin’ monk.”

catching tells is a skill that takes honing. observing, attention to detail, a reward for one’s attentiveness. you like to think you’re good, very good —

though you only barely catch the twitch of the monk’s left brow. the way his eyes coil into slits.

a hum buzzes in his throat. 

then he’s leaning forward, one big, beautiful hand coming to rest on your customer's shoulder, like he’s using him as a step stool. bending forward to look you in the eye. two abysses, gazing into you.

swirling gleefully.

his lips curl up into a sly smile. ”i’ll pay you double,” he whispers, for only you to hear. ”what do you say?”

for a moment, your breath stills in the back of your throat. that same halting of your heartbeat as before, enraptured by his gaze, hook line and sinker. because he’s close, you can nearly feel his body heat, almost pick up on his scent, warm and rich.

(and, well —)

”… sounds good.”

he rewards you with a smile. crescent-eyed.

”wonderful.”

(you’ve always been weak to a pretty face.)

the man on your left grows silent. stunned, you think, and — oops, he looks pissed. a booming voice spills out, the smoke from his cigar still fattening the air with toxins, making your eyes water. ”hah? that’s not how this works, you gold digging —”

”leave.”

a flick of his wrist. his robes sway, with the motion, like a curtain being drawn shut. the gesture itself is a command; elegant, there's no need for shouting. the way his voice drops says enough, exudes casual dominance, ripe as golden fruit on heavy branches.

a shiver, a phantom hand counting the vertebrae on your spine.

and, naturally — what you expect is a brawl. a very angry customer, one very injured customer, none of them a blessing upon your paycheck this month. casual dominance is sexy, sure, but not much else — it won't save you from a fist kissing your teeth. and, well, just going by the size of their arms alone —

… the man on your left stands up.

and leaves.

you watch, blinking owlishly as he heads for the exit, steps measured — controlled — as if guided by a puppet string. the thought makes your shoulder itch. the bell rings out, across the lounge, a pleasant chime. he's gone, he actually left. just like that.

one moment of silence, and then a breathy exhale.

"i hope you don't mind," comes a tender voice, softening, woven with silk. "but you seemed a little… uncomfortable."

the stranger takes the now empty seat, but keeps his distance, hands still tucked comfortably inside his sleeves. robes fluttering with the movement, spilling across the leather cushions and draping down to the floor. they look expensive, well made, not cheap cosplay or an elaborate joke — is he actually a monk? at a host club? sounds like the headline for a trashy porno. black hair frames his face, a single silky bang, and you can't even really call it odd because everything about him is already so out of place.

your mind spins with questions. but he's handsome, and he chased away what you're sure was the beginning of a really bad night —

a smile slips onto your lips, cheshire-esque. your eyes crinkled at the edges as you breathe out a chuckle. "no, not at all," you purr. "thank you, kind stranger."

smoothly, you cozy up to him, your thigh ghosting his own, hand about to curl around his bicep — just to feel his build, from under all those layers. he doesn't let you. doesn't say a word, but his brow twitches, a silent tell to back off.

so you do.

(maybe he's one of the look, don't touch types? some kind of power fantasy?)

you don't mind. smile still sweet, your expression doesn't falter. it's fine, this distance is tantalizing in its own right. like he's a painting on the wall, or a holy sculpture — something you'd get in trouble just for smudging with your fingerprint.

the handsome monk remains silent. watches as you fix your blouse, absently, it's in your nature to adjust to the whims of whoever you're servicing. a few buttons are undone, the fabric only covers one of your shoulders. exudes anything but elegance. your fingers curl around the fabric, ready to fish it back up.

that's when he speaks.

"do i not strike you as the promiscuous type?"

it's half a question, half a jest. there's a gleam in his eye when you meet it, something like a silverfish in a pool of dark water. an amused smile on his lips. his voice is light, and you can't help but mirror his expression — something slightly devilish.

"oh, are you?" you grin, tongue swiping against the back of your teeth, tasting the faded cocktails, a spark of syrupy flavours. "i'll leave it as is, then."

your fingers part with the soft linen, reaching instead for the empty glass on the table. putting it to your lips, sipping up what little has melted off the ice cubes, excess. then the clink, and you're turning towards him, smiling with a tilt of your head.

"what would you like to order, handsome?"

a quirk of his brow. "saké," comes his answer, flat.

"classy."

"is it, now?" he doesn't seem impressed. gazing at you with something familiar, but you can't pinpoint it. even though it's right at the tip of your tongue.

no matter, no matter. the sensations of this world have already tainted what remains of your common sense. "and can i get a name, with that order?" you ask, instead, raising yourself up into a standing position; ready to go grab his drink.

"geto," is all he says. smiling, but it's surface level; almost mocking. "just geto."

夏油. summer oil.

you think of autumn, bleeding sunsets. bottles of whiskey poured into a boy's waiting mouth.

(suddenly, you feel like weeping.)

"that'll do, that’ll do.” you give him a wink, before heading for the bar. before you know it, you're pouring the saké into his cup, the scent of fermented rice soothing the sting of tobacco still biting at the back of your throat. old and expensive, your nose picking up a roasted fragrance, fruity undertones.

geto didn't seem intimidated, by the price. you suppose he wasn't joking when he said he'd pay you double.

"how is it?" you ask, maintaining a distance while watching him drink. his eyes are closed, in what you hope is contentment, lips cupping the rim as he sips.

"… good," he hums, appreciatively, swirling the cup in a controlled motion, a gentle vortex. "no, not bad at all. i suppose money really does pay for service…"

another sip. your gaze drinks in his hands, practically dwarfing the cup, thick fingers keeping it safe and steady. would he hold your hips, like that? make sure you stay afloat? or would he drop you to the floor and watch you shatter…?

"are you really a monk, geto-kun?"

"san," he corrects, a cut of his tongue. he's smiling, though. it's hard to tell if he's genuinely bothered by the prefix. "and yes, i am. does that surprise you?"

"a little," you admit, pouring the beverage into your own cup. you watch it fill, swirl around and shimmer, letting out a humoured breath. "i mean, it's not often i get to service a holy man…"

a low noise, almost a snort. eyes of burning cedar flit to your face.

"mm, i see. your usual customers are more of the barbarish kind, are they?" he leans back, keeping eye contact, voice like the weights of a scale, judging. he tuts, quietly, a click of his tongue. "that's not good, you know. men like that don't know how to treat what's fragile."

"fragile?" you laugh, can't help it, teeth gleaming under dim lights.

"yes."

teasing words die on your tongue. something like, maybe i can take more than you think? but no, it's gone, sputtered out somewhere between your gums. because geto says it like he's talking about the weather.

like it's not a challenge; like there’s nothing to prove.

like it's fact.

(you're fragile. you'd break under pressure.)

"… if you say so. anyhow…" you lean forward, a pang of heat flashing against your nape when you catch his lips twitching upwards. "what temple?"

geto breathes out a chuckle, sweet saké on his tongue. "why?" he asks, raising a brow, hand coming to rest against your skin. you remain still, as he drags a thumb against the smudge of lipstick right below your throat. the sudden contact does something to you, makes you pliant, like a kitten being lifted by the scruff. "you don’t strike me as the devout kind. could it be you just want to see me hard at work?"

dark eyes crinkle with mirth — your heartbeat sputters like a firefly crushed under a boot. ah, his voice is like a balm to your ears. honeyed vowels, spinning a sticky web in your mind, just the slightest hint of a rasp underneath. it sneaks into his speech, makes him sound like a sexy dad, and you're screwed, you realize — totally and completely.

"maybe," you say, playing coy. "can't i?"

"i'm not sure how my congregation would feel," he hums, gazing down into his cup again. tapping his fingers against his knee, rhythmic, from forefinger to pinkie. "a little thing like you, hanging off my arm during a sermon…"

another hum, as if he's tasting the thought on his tongue, but you get the feeling he's mostly trying to tease you. a perfectly still smile on his lips.

"i suppose you'd make for good eye candy."

"oh, i’d be honoured to."

this time, his smile feels somewhat genuine, the golden glow of the bar lighting his eyes on fire, makes you think of his name and all its flavours. honey, whiskey, bramble berries eaten under summer shades. he grins, just barely, and your shoulder aches again. pangs of pain, sparks of pleasure. makes you want to lean right in.

makes you crave more.

you drink with him, or more like you watch his measured sips, because for once you don't want your mind completely sullied, want to remain at least slightly lucid, enough to hold a conversation without embarrassing yourself. it pays off. geto is intelligent, well-spoken, an intellectual. absolutely morbid. he stays for an hour, take it or leave it, but it feels like dusk has already bled into dawn by the time he’s gone, everything blurring together until he's all you can see. his pretty lips, the cupid's bow above it. silver tongue peeking out with every syrupy word.

when he stands up, you’re expecting him to ask you to accompany him. tempted to ask yourself. but he tells you of business he must attend to, with graceful poise, as if cutting a firm line between himself and this establishment. him and you. you know that tone, it's like a boyfriend telling you to not be clingy while he's working. a sense of overstepping.

another smile, and then he's leaving. you get the feeling that it falls as soon as his back is turned. call it a gut feeling, but liars know each other like the back of their own hand — and so-called perfect men are always wearing one mask or another.

it doesn't matter, either way. your heart still clenches pitifully, when the bell of the store sings its tune. you watch his back until it's no longer visible.

and then you exhale a sigh. left alone, with a half-full bottle of saké and a strange sensation in your bloodstream, something that pulls and tugs restlessly at the nerves of your brain. muddied, but somehow clear, the room not so blurry anymore.

you feel cold.

(the pain in your shoulder is gone, too.)

fingertips trail along plasticized polystyrene.

cup ramen, stacks of surimi sticks, and a can of beer. you eye the products in your arms, silently counting up the price. it's dark out, the lights of passing cars and the city illuminating the world beyond your local konbini; occasionally, the store's bell will ring, but otherwise it's silent. you're spent. you need this, an unhealthy midnight treat, you deserve it after all the drinks you poured last night.

this world, the real world, is different from the host club. less flashy.

depressing, really.

your feet carry you to the freezer, to eye a bundle of honeydew popsicles. you could eat one on the way back, but by then it'll have melted — you could eat it before slurping up the ramen, but that would make you feel even more like a mess. hair a mess, face a mess, bags under your eyes and a hoodie draped around you, sweatpants and sandals. you can't be bothered to perform on a day off. couldn't be bothered to put on makeup, give the cashier anything more than a vague nod on the way in.

there's no one here to see you like this. no one to see you at all. you're allowed a moment's respite.

"my, my."

…

a voice rings in your ears. you stiffen, standing by the freezer, staring at popsicles and tubs of ice cream; a shiver trailing down your spine. a familiar, familiar voice — honeyed, the slightest hint of a rasp.

and when you look up, you see them. eyes of rusted gold.

sharpened into crescents.

"what a pleasant surprise." he tilts his head, bangs gliding along his skin. "out shopping this late?"

fuck, it's him, it's actually him. of all the people —

"sure am," you exhale, smiling wearily. peering up at him through droopy eyes; fatigue clinging to your voicebank. "are you stalking me, geto-san?"

a chuckle bubbles past his lips. he's still wearing the same robes, eyes gleaming, lips curling up and exposing pure white teeth. "ah, you caught me."

you can't even tell if he's joking. but you breathe out a matching chuckle, as he steps to the side, walks towards another aisle, passing you by. your eyes follow his broad back, trailing after him — ice cream can wait for another day — until you're taking up the empty space at his side. his hand slips from out his sleeve and reaches for a wakaba brand pack of cigarettes, cream-coloured, his fingers flexing as they curl around it. a blink, your lashes fluttering, ravens taking flight from a lamppost outside.

"… you’re a smoker?"

an absent hum. "oh, yes. occasionally."

when geto walks up to the counter, you follow. still carrying your hastily chosen snacks, digging up your wallet from the pocket of your sweatpants, ripping it open with your teeth. you give him a glance while the cashier scans your items, one after the other. "isn't that, like… against buddhist values, or whatever?"

"i'm not buddhist."

beep, beep. you swipe your card, still staring at him out of the corner of your eye.

"… huh."

he clicks his tongue. "i dabble in… a religion of my own making," he adds, smiling. "one could say."

the cashier bows. you return it, gathering your products, turning on your heel to scope out the tables by the windows. not one seat occupied, that's good. you walk towards them, a hum on your tongue.

”sooo… you're a cultist?"

just a joke, to lighten the mood. geto only chuckles, doesn't answer — when you turn your head he's looking at you like you just said something funny.

it shouldn't put you ill at ease.

(you’re fascinated.)

the view from where you plop down to stretch your weary legs is soothing, familiar, twinkling stars dimmed by light pollution and cars whooshing by, blinking street lamps, a river running farther ahead; from the old train station to a faraway clearing of woods. the night sky is vast and wide, the moon hidden behind a cluster of blue clouds. a word sits on the back of your tongue and stays there, heavy like lead, you swallow it while tearing the plastic off your ramen — geto takes a seat besides you, rests his elbows on the table and watches you, chin poised against the heel of his palm. robes hanging off the small chair, meeting the floor. a puddle of ink.

a minute passes. you pour hot water into the cup, crack open the can of beer, exhale when your fingertips meet cool condensation. then you take a swig, throat bobbing gently. geto watches. waits.

"did your business go as expected?" you ask, finally, peeling back the lid of your meal as steam wafts into the air. smells of shrimp and tom yum, the noodles swimming in foam. just about done.

"it did, yes," geto responds, closing his eyes. "did i leave you wanting?"

the bell jingles. a glance in the direction of the entrance tells you it's a group of schoolgirls, out past their bedtime. anxiety swirls in your gut, gnaws at your fragile ribs, little fish nipping at strings of seaweed. they shouldn't be here this late, but what can you do? nothing but stifle it, chew at a surimi stick while breaking apart your chopsticks — the moon peeks out, briefly, paints the city blue.

and, well.

he did, but that doesn't mean he has to say it.

"you wish," you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

”hm… should i be flattered?"

you bring a mouthful of noodles to your lips, slurp them up with fervour. a series of beeps resound behind you, idle schoolgirl chatter having died down into hushed whispers. you can't see them, your back turned, but you could wager a guess as to what, or who, they're whispering about. it makes you chuckle through the bite, which makes geto stare at you.

a quirk of his brow, his upturned lips. he tilts his head, lazily, a wilting bud.

"it's just —" you swallow, failing to stifle a humoured breath. leaning forward, to sip at the beer can, just to feel the burn at the back of your throat. imagining yourself and him, from an outside perspective — a shady, hooded guy eating cheap ramen with a monk. "this probably looks like an intervention."

geto hums. doesn't laugh along.

"it could be."

a spark of body heat, hints of bergamot and incense. he's leaned closer, close enough that everything else feels like a shadow, you're encapsulated in his gaze, hidden by the curtains of his robes and silky hair. it sticks a pin inside your heartbeat. falls to the floor with a clatter. he's close, and he smells good, and you're sleepy.

and his voice ghosts the nape of your neck.

"do you need a cleansing, my dear?"

a deep, rumbling purr against your ear. there's the rasp, the baseline, the moment where your mind shatters on the konbini floor. it echoes, thrums under your skin, makes heat gather in your abdomen. for once, he's being serious, you know what people sound like when they want you to be theirs for the night. when you meet his eyes, it's even more clear.

deep pools of desire.

geto stands up. dusts off his robes with steady hands, gives you crescent eyes and a sly smile before turning on his heel. broth clings to your lips, the taste of beer, you've barely touched the surimi. your limbs feel tied up in knots, strung along by a puppeteer.

and you follow. 

he could be a murderer, for all you know. a serial killer. maybe he'll take you to some shady love hotel, wrap his hands around your neck, say something about sin before twisting with all his might — you think of all the threats you've heard over the years.

but he’s handsome. beautiful, like this, when you’re a little tired, a little too sloppy to act well. a mess, you must look pitiful, but he wants you. he wants you, he's fascinating, looks like an angel when the light hits just right. if it brings his hands upon you, would sinning be so bad? it's too late, you've already stood up, there's no need for a wager when the loss is just as sweet. you follow; follow him outside, to where the stars barely twinkle and crisp air cups your cheeks, follow him until your heartbeat is racing so fast you can scarcely hear his voice.

messy sheets, steady hands, golden eyes.

that’s the first time you sleep with him.

geto is… an odd guy.

a month has passed since your first meeting. a handful of nights spent under covers, or dim lights, at a host club he's become something of a regular at — though it never takes him long to bring you to a different, emptier bar. he waltzes in with his fancy robes, pays no mind to any of the other hosts — you know they're jealous, too bad for them — and calls you over. doesn't even need to speak, the moment your eyes meet his you're already walking his way. he pays well, buys expensive bottles of saké, brings you with him when he's gotten bored of sneering at the other guests. it’s always just a matter of time.

everything about him spells disaster — spells out something like poisonous berries, or rotten cadavers on an open fire when you’re on the verge of starving.

something a little too good to be true.

he's good in bed, for example. very good. if the monk shtick wasn't already so ridiculously out of place, you're sure it would have shocked you even more — how he knows exactly what to do, where to touch, how to explore the crevices of your body like a lock skillfully broken into, solved, elegant twitches of metal before the door knob loosens. geto is weird, probably a cult leader, but god, is he good at sex.

it's been a while since you felt so truly satiated. every part of your body tended to, filled, ruined and stitched back together again; your mind successfully turned off, painted blank, only blissful clouds and cotton left in your skull by the time he's done. when he steps into the dim-lit lounge, you know you'll be sleeping well into the morning. you know you'll get to see the way his biceps flex and twitch, the tattoos on his back and shoulder, paintings of ink, red flowers and white dragons — that you'll get to feel his weight and see into his brown eyes and paw at his chest, plush and fat, gape at the thick set of scars carving an x inbetween them. the body is a temple. you've never truly understood that, not until now.

not until him.

and it's silly. stupid, naive; it's never good to get a crush on someone who's made what he wants from you abundantly clear. your little arrangement is set in stone — no will he won’t he, no second guessing.

but no one has ever treated your messed up body with that kind of reverence.

so, forgive you for having a bit of a crush on the weird, perverted monk guy. forgive you for being deliriously predictable and easy. for being a little enamored by the way he keeps his distance, how your wants fit together so perfectly — bodies pressed together, minds lodged apart. no strings attached, only sweat and sex and chemicals making a mess of your muddled brain. he wants nothing more, you want nothing less. he pays no mind to the pills on your nightstand, you don't ask about the scar.

it's a silent give and take. he's handsome, takes only a little more than he's given every time. you've found you don't really mind. he's not insatiable, just greedy.

and, well. you've always been eager to excel.

(always the type to get caught up in a backdraft.)

"goddd, that fucking shift…"

a wince twists your throat, spills out when you crane your neck and stretch your limbs above your head — waiting for a crack that never comes. try as you may to get the knots out of your joints, the ache remains — your nerves frazzled, wrists bruised from one too many rough grips, fatigue sticking to your bones. geto sits on a couch in the corner, watches as you slump onto the bed, limbs like dead weights.

"… i need a raise."

a breathy chuckle. "do you, now?" he asks, a glint in his eyes like the cityscape outside. this view isn't bad, your hotel room a few stories high, overlooking the empty streets. ”and here i thought my tips would be more than enough to keep you afloat…"

"well, afloat…" you murmur, shutting your eyes for a moment — voice carried by a sleepy rasp. "i'm afloat. but don't i deserve more than that?"

"do you?"

you can practically hear his smile. he loves that, answering a question with another question. you think it's insufferable, and somehow still enough to have heat twisting in your gut. "i do," you groan. "believe me, i do."

geto hums, absentminded. you can hear the turning of paper-thin pages, a newspaper left for guests to flip through. with a sigh, you raise yourself up on your elbows. "and god, that dick… i swear he tried to throw me under the bus today.”

flip, flip. "who?"

"you've seen him… you know, the tacky guy?" weary limbs move across silken sheets, help you into a sitting position, so you can gaze at him properly. black hair, firm facial lines, big, beautiful hands. that's your geto. "cheap dye, piercings? looks like he's got a rich daddy?"

"what kind?"

his wry response pulls a chuckle out your lips. "both, probably." you mutter. "ungrateful little shit…"

finally, geto lifts his gaze. pools of amber, sloshing summer oil, burns on your hands and neck. he meets your eyes with a calm glint in his own, setting the newspaper back on the table in front of him.

"i don't know who you mean," he smiles, and you think he must be lying, trying to avoid work talk — either that, or he really does only pay attention to you. the thought is sweet, intoxicating, too good to be true. ”but i take it he's giving you a hard time?"

a scoff.

"understatement of the century…"

slowly, he uncrosses his legs; lets his sandals meet the carpented floor, and stands up to his full height, before walking over to your place of rest. you watch him, lazily, eyes never parting from the swooshing of his heavy robes, the way that he moves, like he's following a path carved just for him. you've met men who take up space, who do it like it's easy, like it’s their birth right — this is different. his steps are not heavy, loud, nor flashy. he moves quietly, like a serpent, a mesmerizing slithering across the floor. geto stops in front of you, and tilts his head; slips a smile onto his lips. crescented, a half-moon.

”would you like me to take care of him for you?”

(it lights up his expression.)

”… take care?” you echo, blinking sluggishly. ”what, you gonna kill him?”

”would you like me to?”

…

a hum. you stare off into space, for a moment; feeling his gaze weigh you down and split you apart, he doesn't need his hands for that. it's a tantalizing proposition — you can't tell if he's joking, but you know he likes it best that way. you also know your job would be a whole lot easier without a little brat messing up your monthly quota. ”kind of.” it slips from out your lips, a deadpan reply.

and a chuckle rumbles in his throat.

"he really is bothering you." his smile splits itself further, white teeth showing for a second before he laps over them with his teeth. "i suppose i'd be doing you a favour."

you snort, raising a practiced brow, meeting his gaze head on. "what, did you think i was exaggerating? lying? i'd never."

”of course you wouldn’t.” he exhales, a husk to his breath — amusement buzzing behind closed lips. "there'd be no need. you're easy to read, after all."

(ouch.)

the comment has you wanting to laugh, call him a dick, roll your eyes in a show of discontentment. what a callous thing to say to such a dedicated actor.

then again, you haven't been doing a very good job of it, recently.

to geto, you must be nothing more than a fruit wanting to be peeled. he undoes your layers with ease, and it's humiliating — irritating — has warmth blooming under your bones. grime doesn't dissuade his appetite, after all. there's no real need for acting. not when he looks at you just the same regardless. not when you're fairly sure he wouldn't so much as stir, even if you killed someone in front of him; he'd listen to your reasons, your motives, not saying a thing. he'd look into your eyes without flinching.

geto probably knows how empty you are. you don't think he minds; think he might even prefer it. you think you could tell him anything, but you won't.

(you have some pride, after all.)

”i think you’re the only one who can see through me at all," you admit, words coming out softer than you meant them to. a slip of the tongue.

for a moment, you regret your words. avoiding his gaze, though you feel it searing into your skin, the tip of a cigarette burning tender flesh. the hotel room is quiet, the cityscape glitters and gleams, sways softly in a dark night, a shattered mirror world. geto hums.

”keep it that way.”

his voice drops, an edge to it — a jolt down your heartbeat. there it is, the edge of a kitchen knife making itself known. the words make your throat run dry, a few seconds where you can only feel the air leave your lungs, enter, leave again. but you plaster a smile onto your lips and meet his eyes. perhaps a little too cheery to be convincing. ”… yes, sir."

you're being studied. your flesh is being cut into. soon, he'll dig into it with hands and limbs, more than just his eyes — soon, your ribs will split apart to make room for him. and his gaze carries all of this, it's like he's telling you himself. eye to eye communication. his cornea tells you there's nothing you could hide from its all-seeing gaze. you're inclined to believe that; doesn't make any it less terrifying. exhilarating.

geto seems pleased.

when he leans in, you aren’t ready. a stutter building in your throat. close, close, now you can smell the green tea off his breath, dried leaves and boiling water, like the pools in his eyes, rising steam, his breath ghosting your lips. he's going to kiss you.

how rare.

”easy to read," he repeats, voice a quiet whisper, gravelly against your ear. "and easy to trick."

a gasp. a sharp jolt, a spark of pain burning down your spine, your chest — your mind works overtime to catch up to the sudden sensation, lost in his voice and his gaze and his warmth — he just pinched your fucking nipple. the burn blows your eyes open, parts your lips, his thumb and forefinger applying pressure through your thin shirt. it hurts, not letting up.

and geto smiles. light and easy.

”… and sensitive.”

it's a dull remark, like he's still reading from the newspaper, listing off this weekend's weather patterns. heat blooms in your gut. you feel like something small, molded just to fit his hands, waiting to be exposed and split into halves. it's humiliating, to be seen, you're not sure if you want to flee or stay right here — if just the weight of his palms make up for the sting accompanying them.

”… just for you,” you hear yourself speak. a hitch of your breath, yet you force the words out, mustering a smile — sleazy, flimsy, as long as it looks convincing it’s fine. you won't make it easy for him. not today.

but geto smiles. the corners of his eyes crinkle like ginkgo leaves, melted gold, like he knows something you don't. a slow, delighted exhale. "idle flattery won’t save you, this time.” he tuts, and twists, waiting for a jolt. ”not when it’s so obvious.”

a strangled wince claws at your lips, but you swallow it down — inhale, exhale, try to steady your breathing, try not to shiver or pull away from his cruel grip — geto watches your silent endeavors, your attempts at staying afloat. you expect him to laugh.

instead, he cups your chin. tilts it up, up, up, until you're looking into his abyssal eyes, baring your bobbing adam's apple, your vulnerable throat.

he looks admonishing.

"tsk, tsk. whatever shall i do with you?" he clicks his tongue, a chastising purr to his voice. "so careless with your body, but dishonest about what it wants. are you ashamed just to live, darling?”

an involuntary gulp. the question makes your heart constrict, a guilty twist. sends a pang of pain into your veins, a downward tug at your lips, has you falling silent.

a moment where you cannot fully hide the pain in your expression.

(shah mat.)

geto tilts his head, then, silky bangs across soft skin, a flicker of satisfaction in eyes like golden fruit. ripe for plucking. he graces you with a smile, the branches of his lips curling up, up, blooming like a grotesque flower — like he knows exactly what you're thinking. like he knows you, in and out, like he's already seen every ghost in your skull, tasted them on his tongue and taken them down his throat.

there's no scaring him off.

at last, he lets you go — takes a moment to get seated on the edge of the bed, and pats his lap. a heavy hand, a silent cue. you lick at the back of your teeth, savouring the burn his fingers leave behind.

"come here," he croons, as if taking pity on you. ”let me give you some relief.”

he doesn't have to ask you twice.

so you end up beneath him — you always do — his weight bearing down on you, big hands dwarfing your hips, heated pants and the creaks of a worn out mattress echoing in the empty hotel room. a cacophony of filthy noise, skin on skin, bone on bone, you've done it all too many times before. he's so close you wonder if you've morphed together. so close you don't know where he ends and you begin.

geto inhales, heavy, a dark look in his eyes.

"maybe i should just buy you off," he rasps, breath hot against you, sweat dripping down his brow, "keep you at my temple… always within reach."

any ability to speak has left you, at this point, any coherent method of speech. you can't say anything — not, hey, that’s a pretty fucking strange thing to say, or — you would have me entertain a bunch of monks? seriously? not even yes, yes, please, i don’t want anyone else to ever see me like this again. i don’t want to be ruined by anyone but you.

only a breathy whimper makes it past your lips. it makes him chuckle, into the hollow room.

(and he’s gone again, the morning after.)

geto would not consider himself a fickle man.

every action has a consequence. every choice must be weighed, considered, carefully plucked apart.

there is value in the act alone. weight is synonymous with heart, and geto, despite himself, cannot help but cling to his; worn out as it may be, soiled with fingerprints. there is weight behind his every action, care. choice means being human. choice means weight, which means heart, which is all he needs.

all this to say — geto suguru does not bet on losing dogs.

how he ended up in the corner of a dim-lit, shady host club is honestly beyond him. a grotesque sort of happenstance. the air smells of champagne and cologne, handsome hosts and guests chattering at every table in sight. all of them vermin.

what would his family say, if they knew what he was doing? ask if he's come down with a fever, no doubt. he can practically hear their voices — geto-sama, with a bunch of monkeys? willingly? no way. he could barely take the train to osaka last week! they'd be right, that's what grates him — that he's sitting there, and people-watching, still entirely uninterested in choosing his host for the evening. uninterested in drinking. cheery voices, sultry whispers, the popping of bottles and buzz of a karaoke machine. everything is loud, everything sparkling with the mere illusion of glamour.

disgusting. but he stays, only crinkles his nose and soothes his senses with the scent of his own robes, mellow incense. tries not to picture the walls red.

that's when he sees you.

a stumbling, giggling figure, clad in flimsy clothing, reaching for the mic. you're pretty, he can tell even at this distance. but stained, with lipstick and alcohol, a rotten smile on your face — rotten in the sense that it's so obviously hollow. it's only when you part your lips and sing that he is pulled out of his stupor, that his eyes narrow in an attempt to focus on anything else. your voice rings out, like the chime of a bell, clear and bright — the song doesn't match your vocals, doesn't do it justice. you stand on stage, a spectacle, and he cannot bring himself to look away.

(that's how it starts. the beginning of his fixation.)

geto finds himself thinking that he likes the way you look like this. sparkling, glowing, golden rays surrounding you — it creates a crescendo of light, from where he’s sitting, something like a halo, makes you look almost holy. makes him want to laugh, because that couldn't be further from the truth. you're a bug. a bug that gets paid to be of service.

pitiful, he thinks. you're pitiful. you're swaying like a drunk angel.

but your voice carries a longing he finds impossible not to indulge. to gaze at, silently, until your eyes happen to fall across his own, splatter on his brow — a flicker of light, in the middle of a too-small stage. he captures them. keeps them there.

and he swears your smile grows brighter.

(jaws snap against his ribcage. a spider weaves a web of silk.)

darling, vague complaints and fridays. he tastes the lyrics off your tongue, white noise. has already sicked the curse on you, almost on autopilot, call it morbid curiosity. it curls around your shoulder, and yet you do not falter. do not flinch. can you not feel the sting?

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

a smile splits his lips bloody.

everyone else has their eyes on you, follows your swaying, your shimmering skin. he wants to kill them, itches to. leering leeches. but that would surely make you stop singing, so he allows his fingers to twitch without purpose, makes no move to call on another wretched little puppet. listens to you until the song is over, until he can see the pain in your expression. does it hurt, little one? do you finally feel it?

he wonders. but he doesn't ask, even when he has you seated beside him, tipsy, shirt nearly slipping off your shoulder — he pictures your skin smudged, soiled, bite marks and bruises. it does nothing but add to his growing revulsion. his first night with you is over in the blink of an eye; a failure, on his part.

before he leaves the bar, he swipes his thumb across the back of your neck. watches the curse unclench its jaw, unlatch its decaying gums, a sickly purple against your ruined skin. leaves behind sticky saliva, droplets dribbling down your collarbone. filthy. he can scarcely remember why he came, why he stayed. to satisfy his curiosity, his mind supplies, only part-lie. to fill the gap. to see what it's like — men with men, dim-lit glamour, icecubes swirling in glasses half-empty — a useless endeavor. it's cheap, he feels nothing. no real desire. not the burning kind he used to fantasize about, tangled limbs and spit.

… not until you say that.

"you wish," he watches you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

he wonders why that's what makes his patience snap. bug on bug, the thought of something rotten catching you between its teeth. the knowledge that you don't mind — that you want it. filthy, pitiful, he feels sorry for your bones and your skin, at the mercy of your heart, swaying to and fro without a thought. feels sickly at the thought that it exists, that it beats.

that the same bundle of flesh slumbers beneath your ribs as his. heavy, weighty; a bleeding lump of flesh.

so he takes you to bed. out of practice, it’s been a while, but if you notice you're a better actor than he gave you credit for. he feels your heart beat against his own — yes, it's there, right there, squirming around. disgust. exhiliration. a way to pass the time.

that's what you are. what this is. he tells himself, in a soothing voice, that it means nothing; that it's not a betrayal, not if he's just using you.

not if you're just a source of warmth on nights his hands feel cold and need something to tend to.

he’s gentle, the first time you sleep together. not as much the other times, but you need it, don’t you? he can tell. you get this look in your eye. like you enjoy being along for the ride, having all thoughts pushed out of your body. it would not do, for him to leave you unsatisfied — sorcerer or not, ape or human. would not do for his pride, the satisfaction he feels when you bloom in front of him, shatter and curl into yourself like a rhododendron in the precipice of summer.

what you are is a distraction.

(but you're beautiful, when he unmasks you.)

no, geto certainly is not a fickle man. he weighs his options with care; he calculates; he does not bet on losing dogs. your whines are sweet, though, your mind a lid he wants to uncap. it feels good, to be above you. to see you in your entirety, knowing the other men you sleep with don't get the opportunity, don't care to in the first place. wouldn’t want to.

you haven't been loved properly. he can tell.

"please don't go…"

words aren't necessary. your limbs, wrapped around his waist, say enough. the dew at your lashline says enough. you aren't lucid; it's the most primal part of you, clawing its way out. that says enough.

he soothes you before leaving. makes sure you're sound asleep.

you're his, he thinks, watching your poor body seek solace in silky sheets. feels it seek out his touch when he runs a hand over your hip. you're beautiful, and you're his. those other men don't know how to treat you, but he does. he knows what you need. little things like you should be treated like glass, spoiled —

then broken into splinters.

they don't understand. how could they? horny, mindless apes. he should kill them. slaughter them, for having laid a hand on what he owns. what he bought. he should wrangle their corpses for every set of handprints they've left on your delicate wrists.

he should. he will. their time will come.

one last glance, before he leaves for the compound. when you're bathed in moonlight, sick thoughts cloud his mind; when he wraps his gojogesa around heavy robes, and watches you slumber in the king-sized hotel bed. a dangerous indulgence.

it's something in the way you move. maybe he's always sensed it, maybe that's why he wanted you, the thought often eats him alive after you've slept together. something in the way you move, yes — your disposition, the way you carry yourself — like nothing could hurt you, even though it already has, the world has left its mark on you, he can see it in your eyes. try as you may to conceal it. rot knows rot.

even now, he sees it. something in the way you glow under dim lights. when all that surrounds you is gold, blinding white — he can almost delude himself into thinking that your hair is the same. strands of white, like a summer sky — pink lips and a clear voice —

it reminds him of someone.

honestly, suguru… i think you're the only one who understands me at all.

(he crushes the thought before it can shatter him.)

what you are is a distraction. he repeats it, chews it between his teeth until it tastes like nothing at all. a way to spend the time. wish-fulfillment, maybe, at best — there is no room for anything more. no room to think thoughts like if only you weren't what you are, if only you were like him — no room for second guessing or digging himself deeper into the ground.

he's already slipped deeper than he would have liked.

a shake of his head, and the thought is vapour. he scrubs the image of your sleeping body from his mind; reminds himself, dully, of what you are.

he thinks he can go on, like this. just like this.

there is no danger in the web he's weaved you.

”i wanted to be a singer.”

a gentle breeze, clouds covering the sky. you say it so casually, he’d think you were mentioning the weather if it wasn’t for the sadness in your voice.

you fail to keep it out.

bathed in salty air, clouds of smoke, facing the sea with a forlorn gaze — your elbows rest on the railing overlooking it. a cup of bitter coffee stands on the cafe table behind you, abandoned, left to cool. espresso steam blends with roasted nicotine. tobacco stings your eyes, he’s sure; would you blame your glassy eyes on that, were he to point it out? 

(oh, how he wonders.)

”is that so.”

geto lights his own cigarette. one, two flicks of his thumb before orange sparks at his fingertips — he delights in the jolt of his nervous system, the way it burns. delights in the rush of dopamine that follows, when he inhales, feels it flood his lungs and sting his windpipe on the way out. a heavy exhale, his trail of smoke mingling with your own, in the crisp and solemn morning air. he can't tell which is which.

the world is quiet, here. like you’re the only ones awake. hidden under a bleak sky, murky blue, nearly gray. he likes it better when it bursts with colour, but this is just fine. you look pretty when your eyes lack light.

geto flicks the butt of his cigarette, ash crumbling on his thumb. his voice comes out with a rasp, laced with thick smoke, but it doesn’t waver, deep and silky even still. the air smells a little like disease, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. finds he likes the contrast. polluting an air that smells too much of summer. ”well, you certainly have the vocals for it.”

you let out something like a scoff. it lingers, in your throat, drags against the walls of flesh. 

amused. 

when you turn your head to meet his gaze, eyes just slightly red, smile dipped in sardonicism — he thinks you’ve never looked more lovely. not even beneath him, satin sheets spread out like an altar of worship. 

or an altar of sacrifice. 

sweet as the bite of a ripened peach. 

”do i?” you ask, irony tinged on your tongue. wearing a flimsy smile, that seems to fade the longer he looks at it. he watches your cupid’s bow sway, the drag of an arrow. ”you’ve worn them out, you know.”

a breathy exhale. he hides it with his cigarette, takes another drag just to feel the burn at the back of his throat. he smiles, though, can’t help it. 

”… you’ll live.” and he exhales, air rushing to flood his lungs, greedy. the salt burns more than the tobacco. ”you still have time. it’s not too late to try again.”

a sudden, eerie silence.

”… i don’t know about that.”

he thinks he could love you, just like this.

"i think i might be out of time."

there's a sad, sad look in your eyes. it makes you look older than you are, more weary, like a pillar of salt left to face the sea. hair swaying in the air, gently, tousled locks and pursed lips, a painting just for him. you look tired. you look exhausted, broken down.

something about it makes him soften.

"do you feel hopeless?" he chuckles, a breathy noise, it scatters into the open air and then disappears. "you haven't seen the world. in that sense, you might as well be a child."

smoke slithers from the butt of his cigarette. everything is silent. no scoff, no click of tongues or scraping of nails against ceramic cups. nothing fake, about this moment. time is all you have, he wants to add. there's no escaping it. but he hesitates, for a moment too long, taken by the suffering in your gaze — geto wonders what you're thinking about, with such a blank expression. wonders what kind of pain you must be feeling. you look like you could shatter where you stand, just a sheet of broken glass, or a fish out of water — a lost soul, flecked with seafoam and cigarette smoke — a pretty little thing, watching the sea like you’d like to wade right in. like there is nowhere you belong, nowhere on this earth.

nowhere to seek solace.

he could love you, when you look this fragile. could allow himself a moment to taste it on his tongue, dip his toes into the first syllable. just to feel the chill.

(even just for a little while.)

you don’t bite back. neither of you speak. only the dull scraping of ocean waves fills the empty air.

”i love you.”

you are the first to step over that boundary.

it’s whispered into his neck. broken, quiet, more of a shallow breath than a sentence. so small, so quiet he thinks he must have heard you wrong. words get lost on both of you, when blood is pumping in your ears, through your veins, when skin meets skin. you’re too tired to speak properly, speak at all. he’s being hard on you tonight — couldn’t think clearly, only saw one of your other regulars try to cop a feel, and, well —

that doesn’t matter, now.

”i love you…”

— there it is, again. 

the breathiest, most silent little whimper he’s ever heard. 

(geto inhales. curses himself.

a lump forms in his throat.)

you aren’t coherent, you don’t know what you’re saying. he knows that. of course, he knows that. you’re just trying to stay afloat in whatever way you can. just babbling nonsense into his ears like it'll make him go a little easier on you, like you just want his affection —

he thinks he might throw up. 

moonlight flits in through the window blinds, illuminates his back, lotus flowers blooming where ink meets skin on his left shoulder. the dragon curls around his back, coils up in anger, disgust. curses crawling in his stomach, hot with irritation.

this was supposed to be a distraction. he was never planning to keep you, you're no human — certainly no partner. the tremors of his heart mean nothing, it's all chemical, all a masquerade. you are nothing.

once the fun has run its course, he'll kill you.

that's what he's been telling himself. he'll slaughter you, etch the sight of red blood against satin sheets into his memory, taste the excess dripping down your waist — he’ll drink it in and throw it up.

but you love him.

(you love him.)

geto wants to hate you. 

what he hates most of all is that those words disarm him. peel his skin away, leave only the flesh. he can’t help it, though he tries — a futile endeavor —

”you’re okay.”

a tender, tender, whisper, spilling from his parted lips. when did they part? when did making room for you become as natural as breathing?

”you’ll be okay.”

a weak whimper, nestled against his throat. arms go slack around him, your body peeling itself of guarded skin, allowing him to do as he pleases. so good, so pliant.

(his poor, poor boy.)

geto tastes iron, bursting hot and heavy on his tongue. sinks his teeth into his lower lip, as far as they can go, until the sting itself fades away. keeps going until you pass out, softly, silently, tenderly. kisses your neck, shushes your cries. keeps a big palm on the back of your neck the entire time. rocks you to sleep, as if it's muscle memory.

tender, he reminds himself. when someone tells you they love you, you treat them tenderly, suguru. 

(a burning, rotten memory. his mother’s voice.

he feels like dying.)

once all is said and done, he watches you slumber under blue light. dim, it casts a shadow over your features, but he can still see it clear as day; the creases on your face, the lines of your jaw and cheekbones and the way your chest rises and falls.

for once, he doesn't leave.

instead, geto tucks himself behind you, drags forgotten covers over his frame, pulls you against his warm chest, a mother to her newborn — your sniffle-like breaths safe in the boundary between his throat and sternum. he holds you, and closes his eyes. your heartbeats soften, gradually, in tune with his own, clammy skin sticking together. he wants to clean you. wants to give you a bath, scrub the stains away.

you look so very fragile.

he swallows the bile, and keeps his eyes shut. he can allow himself a moment of pretending.

(but this farce will have to end, soon.)

some days, geto doesn’t miss him at all.

some days, hues of cherry pink and bright-sky blue remind him of nothing more than fruit and summer. on even better days, fruit and summer don’t remind him of boys biting into ripe peaches, or napping in the sun, or tickling his ribs while on the back of his bike until they both tumble to the ground.

some days, geto doesn’t linger in the past. 

(most days, it’s all he does.)

you’re lying in bed, on your side, curled up with your knees against your chest. naked and unguarded, a newborn fawn. he thinks of how your legs shake after a particularly rough session. almost cracks a smile, but he's too tired, mind too tangled up in knots; he didn't sleep a wink last night. can only watch you from across the room, in silent contemplation, map your features into his mind. he feels fondness for you, like this, only like this. (especially like this.) when you’re entirely bare. a freshly plowed field, a peeled fruit, ready to be carved into halves, willing to be split. breathing very softly into sheets left dirtied.

the world has yet to wake, outside the window.

in moments like this, he indulges in the thought. not enough to suffocate, just sting. he pretends that your hair is white, like marble flooring, like specks of dust collecting light. pretends you're in another country, another life, with no weight on your shoulders. the thought tastes sweet — tastes like bramberries and sunlight and whiskey, tastes like a breakfast well-served. a life where meaning frames the world.

but that sunlight makes its way through your shut blinds, one way or another. no matter how tightly he closes them. and, in turn, your lashes flutter apart.

geto closes his eyes, and pretends he cannot see their colour. pretends that they’re blue, blue, blue, a blue so staggering it makes the sky look white.

a blue that dyes the whole world monochrome. 

(if it was him; would he be like this? sleeping soundly, satiated, nuzzled into his chest instead of a pillow? would he be as good as you? as willing to be ruined?

would he want to ruin anyone but you?)

”… geto…?”

you sound surprised. voice a broken tune, raspy and high, like splintered glass. he's bewildered that he finds it charming. that it makes him feel anything at all. you raise your hand to rub at your eyes, groaning softly, twitching like you're having trouble just to move your limbs. geto stands by the door, rests his back against the wall, and watches you. isn't sure how long he's stood there and contemplated leaving.

"… you're still here?"

hope. he can practically taste it, off your breath.

a low click of his tongue. he takes a step forward, towards your bedside, sunshine gliding across his skin, his robes. he's fully clad, no sight of scarring or tattoos, the barest of marks you left when you nipped his neck in your sleep. he won't let you see it.

and he towers above you like a scarecrow on a hayfield.

doesn't say a word. only reaches out to grasp your jaw, palm flat against your chin, trails his hand down your neck. two fingers, dragged between your fragile ribs. neither rough nor gentle. you're pliant, there's no fight in you, a lamb making itself soft for the blade of a dagger. you let him explore you, while a frown threatens to break through his pursed lips — thick brows furrowed together. you don't jolt, or yelp. you trust your body with him. silly, stupid, naive.

can't you see what he's made you into?

"... maybe i should cut your heart out," he breathes, surprised by how sincere he sounds, the shadows that covet his voice. "save us both the trouble. hm?"

that makes you scrunch your nose. eyelids too droopy, too weighty to keep themselves up, they just flutter shut again. oh, whatever shall he do with you?

"… my heart…?" a soft sigh, a noise in the back of your throat, like a cat awoken from its nap. you're mumbling, he has trouble hearing you, isn't sure if you're fully lucid or if you think this is a dream. a yawn spills past your lips. "y'can have it…"

… bare. unguarded. heart ripe for plucking.

any man could steal it. rob it from its branches. you don't seem to understand your own appeal, your true appeal; it's aggravating. your ribs are so easy to peel apart. when someone speaks softly to the confines of your heart, they just fall open, all on their own.

so very guarded, yet trusting even still. so, so eager to let the right one in.

”… you remind me of a friend.”

the words have already left his lips. it's too late, now.

sundrops splatter against your nose, the corners of your bottom lip. he could picture them crimson, camellia and spider lily, grows sick at the thought, a macabre twist of his guts, like he just swallowed something terrible. sunshine frames your expression, the way it shifts in the light, shadows passing by and painting your teeth when you speak. pink gums, pink tongue, swollen from abuse. a flicker of knowing, of remembering, when your pupils dilate; coil into slits.

"… friend?" you echo, a breathless mutter. "or boyfriend?"

geto twitches, from the tips of his fingers. still resting just where your ribcage ends.

they leave your skin, his thumb brushing gently against your navel before parting. you're sensitive, there; he knows your body like the back of his own hand, sees the shudder that slithers through you before he feels it.

sometimes, he wonders if you know him just as well.

silence. only quiet, quiet breaths. any answer geto could give stays clogged at the base of his throat, full peaches blocking his windpipe, keeping the words from bubbling up and erupting. fuzzy fruitskin against red flesh. he wants to taste the nectar. wants a lot of things he can never have, not in this life.

hey, suguru. peel it for me.

… huh? what's with the attitude?

"it’s complicated, huh."

geto swallows.

"… i suppose it is," he breathes, eyes straying from your own. deep cedar, bright honey, enclosed in globes of amber, finding solace in your sullied bedsheets. will you clean them? would you keep them as is, if you knew you'd never see him again?

what was he hoping for, all this time?

an exhale. you're smiling, you're sleepy, he wonders if your body is still blissed out enough to save you from the heartache. "am i the rebound?" you ask, a hint of humour, stretching your limbs out like a sleepy feline.

a sigh.

"… essentially."

the soft rustling of sheets. your skin is dyed golden, by the silent sun, illuminated against pure white. an altar, marble flooring, specks of dust and sodium light. you let out a little noise, something like a hum. as if struck over the head. a moment passes, and you still, eyelids falling shut. a chuckle breaks your silent death.

"it hurts that you’re so straightforward." sincerity always brings nothing but pain, he wants to tell you. if you'd never opened your heart to me, you wouldn't be feeling this way. if i had never held it in my palms, perhaps i wouldn't be feeling so empty. this is the price humans pay for loving so callously. "you're a pretty cruel guy. has anyone told you that?"

geto smiles. he closes his eyes, and steps away from you; voice a quiet breath of air.

"just once."

there is nothing to be done about a heart of stone.

geto turns on his heel, and does not look behind him.

he will leave. leave, and leave no trace, leave your home untouched, only purple marks smudged across your nape to prove his greed, to prove he ever sunk his claws into your tender flesh. imprints of teeth on your chest. fingerprints on your hips. marks will remain, and fade with time. soon enough, you'll forget about them. he will make his way past the second street, and think of neither you nor satoru.

he will not think of blue eyes, or summer. he will not think of your eyes, bleary with forgotten dreams, lost potential, speckled with what he knows to be love — a word so heavy he wishes he could spit on it. a word he wishes he did not revere.

he will not think of you, even as he crosses the main street with the fountain you like, glittering under a sun just about to break the world into halves. even as he watches a man play the violin by the train station, listens to the thin strings bend and bow just like your vocal chords under the dim lights of a trashy bar he’d never have gone to if it weren’t for you. he will not think of the way you glow, under those lights.

he will think of nothing, and no one.

"… see you, geto."

(he thinks he’ll be okay.)

[lorelune]

(alpha sae x omega reader // hurt/comfort // WC: ~1.9k // minors dni)

sae wakes up alone.

it's late, early morning, probably. he doesn't bother checking his phone, the relative silence of the cityscape outside tells him enough. your bedroom nearly pitch black, aside from faint light slipping in from under the door of the en suite bathroom.

sae doesn't enjoy waking up alone.

it feels wrong, these days. like he's missing a limb. the other side of your bed is empty and almost cold. the duvet and sheets are pushed down to the foot of the bed in a rumpled pile. your scent is all over the apartment, this room, and especially this bed, but it's still too faint. without you in this bed, it's too faint. it's unnatural for it to be so faint, this later at night— early in the morning, when you should be tucked into his side as you belong.

sae peels himself out of bed enough to sit up, rubbing at his cheeks. he thumbs over the (oh so controversial) claim bite on the base of his throat. the etch of your teeth laid into him forever. it's a romantic gesture, at least you think so. your thinking has rubbed off on him— at least a little.

sae already knows where you are. he's known since the moment he realized you weren't beside him where you'd be.

his nose guides through the dark, padding lightly and carefully across the hard flooring. he pauses in front of the door to the ensuite. your scent, distressed and louder than it should be in sleep, curls out from the room in waves.

the door to the ensuite opens almost silently.

the only light in the room pours off from a little nightlight, plugged in near the sink. it's some round cat-like character you think is very cute but sae thinks is kind of stupid looking, but sae loves you, and would do anything for you, so he loves the nightlight just as much as you do. it's nights like tonight where is very grateful for its slowly morphing rainbow of colors, pouring out over the space, just enough that sae can see you across the room.

'maladaptive omegan behaviors' weren't something sae was very familiar with, prior to seeing you (accidentally), courting you (intentionally) and mating you (very intentionally). he'd maybe heard the term tossed around in passing and on social media, but he never dug further into it. he didn't see himself taking a mate, so it didn't seem worth knowing about, especially since most of his peers were alphas just like him.

when you started letting sae into your nest, he had to learn quickly.

omegas with rough upbringings, whose mothers had difficult or traumatic pregnancies, and those with chronic physical illness often developed these behaviors. dysregulated systems, desperately trying to regulate themselves in the way that were taught— which is to say they were often taught incorrectly or not taught at all. it spawned into lists of behaviors associated with diagnosable criteria that sae could, if asked, probably recite from memory.

low scent production and a lack of scenting instinct. bite risk. inflamed scent glands outside of heat cycles. isolation drive and the subsequent isolation sickness.

the dysregulated trait you struggled the most with, though, was the maladaptive nesting behavior.

you lay in the large bathtub, curled up tightly into a ball, your forehead near your knees. thrown over you are an assortment of unused blankets from the nearby linen closet and towels dragged down from the nearby warming rack. sae knows that some are still probably damp, given you shared a shower before bed. your head is only supported on your folded hands. you look very sad and very small.

sae hates to see you like this.

he knows you can't help it. you've explained to him before, that sometimes— this just happens. you wake up in a cold sweat, panicked, and— you just can't be where you are in that moment. you struggle to describe the specific feeling, what drives you. it frustrates sae, because he needs to understand to help. but he never holds it against you (how could he?) even with what you are able to give him, sae gleans a little more each time you choose to confide in him.

slowly and gently, he reaches out to run a few fingers over your temples. you barely flinch, probably half-awake.

"baby," he says softly. his own voice surprises him on these nights. he never knew it could become so soft and entirely yours.

you're quiet for a moment, before turning into your damp nest. "... hi."

"not feeling so good?"

"'s fine now." your words slur with exhaustion. you've had a big week, you both have, between games, travel, and the media circus you somehow put up with. "go back to bed, sae."

"you know the rules." he scratches along your hairline. "not without you."

there's room in that bathtub for the both of you, if you refuse to leave. otherwise sae will sleep on the bathmat. he doesn't care.

something about the size of the bathroom and the depth of the bathtub makes you less scared. that's hard to emulate on a king-sized bed, no matter how well you make your nest and how long you fuss over it.

you glare at him, a little wet in the eyes, before hiding back in your makeshift nest.

he could, theoretically, reach over the lip of the bathtub and extract you himself. and he could probably hold you tightly enough and long enough that you feel safe, even in your nest that doesn't. he's your alpha, that's his job, one he likes—

but that's also not what he wants to do.

sae does lean over the edge of the bath and press his lips to your hairline before leaving you there.

see, you do this often. often enough that sae has poured through articles and reddit posts between rewatching his own matches to look for ways to help. to ease. it's not— in his nature, this type of helping. if not having you near is like missing a limb, learning to help you with your maladaptive behaviors is like exercising a underused one.

sae found a particular reddit post that seemed promising. a product recommendation that was out of budget for most folks, but sae has too much fucking money, and if his money isn't good for this, then what is it good for?

he knees down beside the bed and pulls out a parcel.

it takes him a moment, two, ten, to wrangle it out of the package. it's a frame of sorts, made of a metal-like, lightweight material. it comes with a set of straps too. the metal pieces come dissembled, and once assembled, become two poles and connecting between them. he deftly secures one pole to each of the posts of your bedframe with the straps, pulling them tight and taut so the poles are flush. the connecting bit spans between the bed posts, high, taller than sae if he were kneeling on the mattress. the frame itself rises over the top half of the bed, and slopes with another set of support poles to the bottom.

over it, sae hangs a sheet, one he's been scenting himself in secret, knowing that this exact event would occur. it drapes down over all sides of the bed, making enclosure, yet airy space. there's a string of LED, no heat lights that came with the frame that he strings along the outside, dappling the inside of the space in warm light.

sae is an alpha, so he doesn't have the same sense for nestmaking as an omega would. he does try, because he loves you, and fluffs up pillows and rearranges things to look more inviting. he only goes to get you when he is certain things are as good as he can get them.

you're sleepier when he fetches you from the bathtub, easier to coax out with the promise of a glass of water and skinship. you don't fight him, even on night's when the need to hide here is more violent and panic-inducing for you. the trust you give sae is implicit and seemingly endless. it is important that he covets it.

presenting you the frame, draped sheet, and cute lights, you blink at the structure.

"... a fort?"

"it's called a nest hide."

"who calls it that?"

"reddit."

you snort and press your nose into his bicep. you're all wrapped around of of his arms, clinging to him. he thinks, if you asked him a few years ago if he would like this kind of thing, he would've said no. deadpanned because he couldn't imagine ever enjoying this much contact with anyone casually. now, however? he craves it with you so much, that he hasn't gone to a single away game alone for god knows how long. his teammates tease sae about how you have him wrapped around you finger, and he doesn't fight them on it. it's true; he is.

you both clamor into bed, your nest, you first and him second, after allowing you to adjust the nest accordingly. it doesn't take you as long as it did earlier in the evening. you lean over the edge of the bed and pick up a forgotten friend, a plush of the same pudgy character as the nightlight. you set it next to fluffed pillows and preen.

your scent has bloomed, stronger than it was, more content. he can tell you're still tired, so tired, and your scent reveals your exhaustion easily.

"c'mere?" you tell him, once you're done, extending a hand to him.

sae takes your hand, he always will.

it's easy then, to settle together under your mutual favorite blanket, a soft knit thing sae's grandmother made for you after sae's claim became public knowledge. she thanked you for 'finally making that boy settle down some' which sae didn't agree with at the time, but now he does. you've domesticated him a bit, and he wouldn't trade that for much at all.

you lay, facing each other, as sae stretches to shut the string lights off. in an instant, you're completely wrapped around each other. your forehead it cushioned against his chest, his arms around your waist, legs tangled. it's so good. far better than a bathtub.

"... thank you, sae," you say, softly. half-spoken into the his bare chest, and half into the still of your shared.

"there's nothing to thank me for." he huffs a little, just enough that you laugh lightly. "i like making sure you're comfortable."

it's as simple as that. it's always been that simple with you, and you make things easy to be simple. it's a privilege, he has come to realize.

"well, you're very comfy." you hum, voice wavering with sleep. "still."

as a final act, before you fall properly and fully asleep until sae deigns to wake you the next morning, you lay a kiss over his claim bite scar. your scents mingle, mix, and roll over the space. you're— so very good at drawing such a fragrance out of him. sun-warm, earthy, all him. it tangles with your own.

he thumbs over your own scar, once he watches you fall asleep, peaceful and as hale as you can be, and safe, and thinks that he'd do far more than built some little safe haven for you, if he could. if he needed to, he'd move the world.

sae lays a kiss on your forehead, nuzzling there, with only quiet night song of the city to witness his most vulnerable affections.

[princess-okkotsu2]

don't know where my heart went, don't tell me you lost it

Veritas Ratio x gn!reader

sfw, but suggestive. in my mind this takes place in the real world--if only because i like headcanoning Ratio as a Berkeley professor. also i wrote this almost immediately after reading a paper on modifying the properties of polymers so that's the topic of their research for this fic. LMAO

length: 2.2k

a/n: um... this is the veritaleks dynamic in my head it maybe be ooc but idrc. this just happened. im sick of it sitting in my drafts. lets never talk about this again. ok bye

The morning after a conference is always incredibly exhausting, for several reasons.

For one, the conference itself of course. Just attending can be, at the best of times, a plethora of information and a delightful learning experience despite the chaos; and at the worst of times, an emotionally taxing and degrading affair as you lick the boots of your fellow academics, praising the work of your colleagues (which is really the work of their peon grad students), offering long-winded thank you’s to academies and foundations swimming comfortably in the proceeds of decades of future student loan debt and federal funds, and watching with disdain as your colleagues add more lines to their painfully long CVs in the name of proving their self-worths, stroking their egos, and keeping their tenure.

The second reason, is that at this particular conference you had to be such a colleague. Having to defend your years of work in a micro-field that perhaps only three other people in the entire world cared about, that’s not an easy thing, either. The barely-stifled yawns and the heads thrown back in various stages of NREM sleep as you talked about the importance of rate constants and how you determined such values for the fluoridation of a ring-polymeric molecule with a surface featuring a high action potential was surely riveting for the two people in the entire room who were awake enough to witness it. Having to pretend to care, for everyone involved, was as taxing for the presenter (you) as it was for the guests, surely.

Typically, reason number three would be the hours of travel. But for you, luckily, yesterday’s particular one was in your hometown, allowing you a glorious respite in your own bed and not some shitty three-star Hilton Embassy Suite in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

So for today’s third reason, well—this has little to do with conferences at all.

Instead, it is a tall, pale, dark-haired Berkley professor with a penchant for testing your patience and (a recent development) an even greater penchant for somehow ending up in your bedroom.

Which is where he is right now, the morning after said conference. That never happens, by the way. He never actually stays the night.

“What are you doing?” You ask him between yawns, lifting yourself up off the mattress and ignoring the wild nest around your head that at one point was your hair. You rub the sleep from your eyes, and vaguely in your periphery catch that your nightstand clock reads 7:22 AM.

“Yoga,” the man, also known as the honorable Dr. Veritas Ratio, quips from the floor. He’s somewhat dressed—if his undershirt and boxers count as ‘somewhat’—and doing some pose on the carpeted ground that you could only describe as forming a sideways question mark. “The cat pose, to be precise,” he adds when he feels your curious eyes on him.

“No, I mean,” you scoff, in an attempt to stifle a chuckle as he, with quite a serious expression upon his brow, curls his back like a cat that had just been thrown into water. “Why?”

“I do yoga every morning, it’s good for the body,” he replies, and you watch as he slowly stretches and furls into another position, holding his upper half with straight arms perpendicular to the floor, and pelvis lowered, bending his spine in the other direction. You hear a crack as he stretches his back, followed by a grunt. The sound is not too different from the sounds you’ve heard him make… at other times… and the sound of it makes you a bit flustered.

“What I mean is,” you enunciate each word slowly, as he redirects his attention to you. “You’ve never stayed ‘till the morning… I guess I just was starting to think you’d never…you know,”

Veritas sits down on the floor, long legs crisscrossed. Something about his amber eyes on you this early in the morning, with his hair all tousled with sleep and him still in his undergarments, has you feeling shy. It’s a sight you’re not used to—one you never really imagined seeing, honestly. You pull up your blanket tighter over your bare chest, looking pointedly at his lips to avoid eye contact as your words die off your tongue.

“I… uh…” he starts, fingers fiddling on his lap. “Have some vacation time. So I’m staying in town a bit longer.”

“Not the first time you’ve been here, surely,” you reply, calling him out on his bluff. “Suddenly interested in sight-seeing?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then?”

“I… wanted to discuss your research with you,” he says. His voice sounds far away, like he’s speaking through the length of a glass jar.

“Is that not what the conference was for? Are you planning on leaving another one of your scathing reviews,” you tilt your head, your voice turning prickly. “I don’t think my self-esteem could tolerate another one.”

Veritas visibly shrinks, wincing at your words. “Nothing of the sort. I meant—over coffee. Or dinner.”

Your eyes turn wide, surprise not even thinly disguised upon your face. “A date? Is that what you’re asking me, Veritas?” You nod your head down, gesturing to the blanket covering your naked body. “Don’t you think this is a bit out of order?”

He can’t help but chuckle at that. “Well, I suppose bickering grad students to professional rivals to this—“ he points to the air between you both— “is rather unconventional… unprofessional, even.”

“So…”

“And being across the country from one another does complicate things…”

You tilt your head, amused. “So despite our rather troubled history with each other and despite such a distance between our lives, you’re thinking of… making this more than just a couple of quick fucks in hotel rooms across the country?”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not so crudely,”

You giggle, the sound barely contained as you bite on your lip. “I never thought I’d see the day Veritas Ratio would succumb to such quizzical things such as human emotions.”

He frowns. “Why must you make everything so difficult?”

“I do not,” you smile. “I simply enjoy teasing you.”

“That I know.”

A beat of silence passes as Veritas, face an uncharacteristic shade of pink, anguishes over the possibility that you’d reject him. You see—despite his life-long dedication to one-upping you and making you feel like an idiot as he easily achieves accolades you could only dream of in a field so small you could name every researcher on one hand—he sees something in you that he’s never seen in anyone else. Always has.

Admittedly, his rivalry with you did start out of a kind of competitiveness that is only birthed from the same kind of feelings that have boys bullying girls on an elementary school playground. A crush.

Veritas Ratio, up until grad school, had never even entertained the concept of romance. Too much of a distraction from his research, he had always said.

And while his distracting crush on you only grew with every year as you orbited around each other (which is inevitable, when you are both two of the few people who happen to be working on the physical properties of organized, polymeric solids, and the rate at which their surfaces are modified at elevated temperatures), he never dared to entertain such a notion. Both because it seemed as if you hated every single molecule that composed the structure of his body, and because you seemingly had taken every chance possible to stay away from him and his astounding level of arrogance. Taking a job across the country, for some reason, had cemented in his mind that you wanted nothing to do with him. Which was fine—less distractions, right?

Except it didn’t work out that way. Every time he saw your name—whether at a conference, in a paper, whispered among his colleagues—it brought back that rather distracting set of thoughts where he began to wonder what exactly you were doing, and if you’d ever thought of him like he always thought of you.

“What’s so different this time?” You ask, voice slicing through the thick fog of his mental torment. “All these years and now you decide to want this,” your pointer finger dances in the air between your chest and his not-so-distant face. “I never pinned you to be the indecisive, wish-washy type of man. Isn’t this why we’re even here? Because this is all you wanted from me?”

He’s not sure exactly what made it click this time. What exactly was different that had him making the decision to make this more than just a physical relationship? Even he knows he’s being rather nonsensical.

Veritas lifts off the floor and sits on the edge of the bed at your side. He’s much closer to you now—eye level, even. An arm crosses over your midsection to hold himself up over you. The amber in his eyes seems to shimmer with a newfound determination as he looks at you with a softened gaze, attention undivided.

“I’ve come to realize I’m fond of you—”

“Fond?” You blink twice. “We’ve been fucking for the last year, I’d hope you’d at least be a little fond of me.”

Veritas’s serious demeanor cracks for a moment, a smile teasing at his lips. “You’re so stubborn—I can’t even finish my words.”

“Not any more stubborn than you are,” you huff playfully. Even though the blush that paints his cheeks a soft pink shows that he’s being vulnerable, your life-long rivalry so hardwired into your body beckons for you to continue to tease him.

“What I meant to tell you,” he leans in, adding under his breath, “before being so rudely interrupted—“

You giggle—can’t help it.

“—is that as of late, I think of you even more often than I think of my research. It is rather troubling. I even began to look forwards to conferences—not for the research, but to see you.”

“Am I really troubling the honorable Veritas Ratio?” He’s close enough that your breaths linger. You feel your heart in your throat but you’re a good an actor as ever. “Distracting him from his research? You’re right, how troubling…”

“Immensely. Will you take responsibility?”

Even with the times you’ve slept together, never has his stare ever been so intense. Desire pools in your stomach; the man you have always abhorred at the surface peels away the facade with only the heat of his gaze. He leans in to kiss you, but you show no such reciprocation. You hesitate.

“How do I know what to believe?” You voice comes out as a whisper, warbling helplessly. “You were so adamant when this started, that it was purely physical—‘biological responses’ and all…”

“I was a fool,” he retorts. Though curt, his words ooze sincerity. “I hope you’ll accept my admission of fault.”

“Perhaps if you tack on an apology for that scathing review, I’ll be inclined to accept,” you reply, backing away an inch as he leans in closer.

“Mm,” he hums, contemplative. “I think matters of the heart and matters of research should be weighed separately from one anothe—“

“You’re a horrid man,” you chuckle, before ultimately leaning in to kiss him, to his surprise. It takes him a moment of processing before he closes his eyes, leaning in to reciprocate. His lips meld against yours perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle. Your blanket that you were so stubbornly holding to your chest, falls flat as Veritas leans into you, slowly pushing you down into your bedding.

“I wondered how long it would take,” you murmured as you pulled apart, laying against your pillow. Veritas’s expression is a mixture of feelings—perhaps if you watched him for long enough, you’d be able to discern them all.

“For…?”

“For you to admit you had feelings for me,” you titter. “I was beginning to doubt you cared at all.”

His face burns as he hovers above you, and you think he will settle for feeling embarassment. Or maybe indignation. “and I was beginning to think you truly despised me.”

After a beat of silence, he adds, "I feared your rejection— I am not entirely unfeeling."

You reach up to his face, palms cradling each side of his jaw. His threaded brows relax, as if he’d never been held before. You wonder.

“I trust that you are not—all these years you’d think I know you better.”

“Then, will you accept my feelings?“

“Prove to me everyday that you are not unfeeling,” you ask of him.

One of his hands comes up to wrap around your wrist. He turns your palm up, and with lashes fluttering closed, presses a kiss to your palm. He lets it linger, his warm breath sweeping over your skin. It’s reverent. Tender.

He straightens your arm, silently kissing a trail up to your neck. It is there, poised just a breadth away from your ear, that he places your hand to his chest. You can feel his heart hammering away at his ribs.

“So fast,” you murmur, entranced.

He says, “It’s proof as any.”

You mirror his motions, bringing his palm to your bare chest, just above your blazing heart. He feels it too, the rapid, heavy thumps beneath the surface. Was there ever a moment where you truly hated Veritas, or was it all a rouse to protect your heart?

You simper,

“Proof, as any.”

[ryebreadgf]

something something the poetry of science etc

[ryebreadgf]

woah